Kay, kids, think you've waited long enough. Here's part one of the last Chapter in Volume One of my masterpiece horror-epic, An Axis Oblique. (Everybody got that?) Hope you enjoy.
For those of you just tuning in, (where the hell have you been?), Chapter's One through Twelve can be found within the index of this very blog. And it's all free, free FREE! I'm just that insane!!!
Sorry you had to see me like that.
–– Thirteen ––
January 28, 8:03
“Over here.” A voice called over the hill. At first he was startled. There wasn’t much difference between a female scream of enthusiasm and one of holy terror. In four years with the Maplewood Police Department, Pete Estes had heard both.
“What is it?” he asked, coming up on her kneeling form. Fiorentine didn’t look up, engrossed in the tiny focal point already inside the small, transparent evidence bag.
“I’m not sure,” she replied, examining it through plastic with her thumb and forefinger. Estes continued to approach, stopping just a few steps behind her.
It was a long shot to begin with. Eighteen year old Susan Laterna had been missing for more than two weeks and just about every other stone had been turned and re-turned. Any other time, they’d have pegged her a runaway. But these times were far stranger than most.
For several weeks, people had been…disappearing all over this once-sleepy town with no apparent rhyme or reason. Not all turned out the same, of course, but an alarming number were as yet unresolved. At least Richard Pollack had a clear enough preference, which in time, led to a pattern. These days, everyone was apparently fair game.
For a split second, she seemed to be grasping at thin air. Estes moved closer, but as she turned to face him, the rounded shape of a single eyeglass lens caught a piece of stray sunlight and its smooth, reflective surface revealed itself like a hidden image in one of those 3-D art posters.
“This could be just the break we’ve been looking for…” she said, apparently serious. Indeed, if it were, he’d eat his hat. Still in the plastic, he gave it a once-over. Items such as this could be found almost anywhere around Newbury Park. People traipsed up and down these vast acres all the time. He’d done so himself on occasion, back in his carefree youth.
“Now all we gotta do is find someone walking around with one lens in his frames,” he remarked dryly. The woman did not react as intended, with a smile or a submissive chuckle. Instead, she reached up and snatched her clue back from him. Estes wasn’t much for sarcasm. This was why.
“You make it sound like a dead end,” she said. “A needle in a haystack, maybe, but one half-decent print and we’re back in business. Anyway, I’m sure Keith will appreciate it on merit.” There was something about her voice when she invoked that man’s name, which made him want to throw up. He might well have done so, too…if not for the ringing cell phone...
“Fiorentine,” she answered, adjusting to her feet––then looked him right in the eye as if to rub something in his nose. “Detective Merrimac, it’s good of you to call, sir.”
“Speak of the devil…” he muttered before turning off…
It wasn’t as though Estes disliked his gruff, charismatic superior; not like some he could name––but wouldn’t. He and the crass lead detective had just barely crossed paths, in fact; not since Mitch Barrett’s tearful funeral. Now there was a real role model.
At the service, he’d tried to engage him on the ice-cold investigation; some faint traces of ash in the lieutenant’s carpet. Both men knew full well Barrett didn’t smoke; (as did everyone, the way he went on about that Nicotine gum).
“Could be a relapse,” the detective dismissed him off-hand––which took care of that.
It wasn’t so much Merrimac, in any case, as her. The way she always looked at him; fawned over him; catered to every whim…but mostly, it was the way she threw herself in his face every time he felt like swaggering onto the scene. ‘Oh, Keith, thank God you’re here. Whatever would we do without you? Touch me, Keith. Fuck me. Do whatever you like with me, Keith. Keith, Keith!’
He stopped himself. Jealously was unbecoming.
“Estes?” He heard her perky voice call his name. “Estes, where did you…?” There it was again. He looked up from the crude shoe print he’d uncovered. “Pete!”
“I’m here!”
Within seconds, she was coming up the incline.
“Why’d you walk away like that?”
“Did I?” He feigned ignorance. “Guess I was eager to get back to the sweep. One good gust of wind, after all, and a perfectly good lead can get buried for all eternity.” Fiorentine looked over his shoulder.
“Guess so.” She did not sound the least bit certain but was clearly anxious to relay some other juicy tidbit. “Merrimac’s en route,” she said, almost giddy. “Who knows? Maybe there’s some kinda connection between my lens and, um…this…”
“Finally decides to grace us, does he?” he snarled, then looked up at her round, saucer eyes. That’s it, he thought angrily. No more snide remarks. Not even to myself…
“What was that?” she asked, still lost in her girlish euphoria.
“Nothing,” he said. And that’s just what he meant.
–––––––––––––––
“How the hell can it be nothing? My son is sick, Dr. Pierce; from a so-called ‘viral infection’ that you diagnosed. And now you’re saying…just what are you saying?”
“Please, Madame, if you’ll just––”
“Goddammit, just tell me what the hell is wrong with my son!”
Randal Pierce took a step back. These were the moments he dreaded. Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned; unless she was a mother––then all bets were off.
The woman eyed him menacingly.
“As I said, Mrs. McAllister, I’ve found nothing wrong; not physically, at any rate…”
“What does that mean?”
“It means I’ve run every test I know, and all indications say your son is in perfect health.” Again, she seemed ready to pounce; to protect her young at any cost, like any good mother––as he’d expected. “Now it’s possible; very much so in fact, this…whatever it is, will indeed run its course, as predicted.” He swallowed, uncomfortable. Here goes nothing… “There is, however, another possibility.”
*
“There’s a private wing at Tempest Medical...” the smug, Doogie Howser reject started in. Mary was about ready to button that goddamn second button on his trendy Polo dress-shirt. “…equipped with the latest MRI technology; the finest physicians and most current research conducted on the pre-adolescent cortex in…well, probably the world. I could arrange for a consultation with Dr. Lucien, the administrator. Perhaps––”
“Wait a minute…are you saying my Patrick needs a shrink?”
“Not at all,” he replied. “I’m simply offering an alternative, which, until now, had not been considered.” Mary stood from her uncomfortable chair and began pacing back and forth. She was troubled by the direction this conversation had taken. “Your son is withdrawn.” He pressed on. “You’ve said so yourself. He sleeps all day, has no appetite, no…social interaction…” The woman remained silent. Facts were facts. “On top of all that, recent family events would be fully expected to…impede the progress of any treatment, be it biological or psychosomatic.” Mary looked up. He had to go hitting her where she lived. “Listen, Mrs. McAllister, I wouldn’t presume to advise you on a matter I frankly know little about. Nor am I qualified to make any kind of psychological diagnosis. I am however, qualified to recommend an evaluation. Not because I think he’s unstable. Just to cover all bases. Doesn’t that sound reasonable?”
*
The woman continued to glare as though he’d just told her he had a room full of bunnies in back he was about to give cancer. “Reasonable…” she repeated. “The word seems to have lost all meaning…” The doctor remained silent. He could almost see the rusty wheels working inside her heavy head, struggling to turn. He waited a minute––then two. His silence would be far more convincing…
“This, um…consultation… How soon do you think you could––?”
“Within the week, I’m sure of it,” he interrupted; perhaps overeager. “Suffice it to say, the sooner we get the ball rolling…”
“That soon?” Her judgment again appeared to waiver. The good doctor braced himself. “I’ll need time to explain it to him, don’t you think?”
“Absolutely. There’s nothing at all to be ashamed or embarrassed about. I think it’s crucial he understand that. If you like, I’d be happy to talk with him. However, I should stress, if we don’t seize the closest opportunity, if for no other reason than to rule this all out, we could have a long wait on our hands…”
“What about money? Things are a little tight right now, I’m not sure––”
“I’m confident we can work something out. There are circumstances whereby consultations such as these, and even subsequent treatment if that becomes necessary, are fully covered by insurance. I’d be happy to look into it.” Now there was nowhere to go.
“He might still improve. You said so yourself, this could all be for nothing.”
Dr. Pierce nodded. “It’s only a precaution. A wise one, at that.”
“Very well.” She conceded. “Make the preliminary arrangements. I’ll, ah, have a talk with him tonight. He’s awfully young to comprehend something like this. I’m having a little trouble myself…” she muttered, underbreath.
“My door is always open. And if you don’t mind my saying, he strikes me as keenly perceptive. I wouldn’t be surprised if he understands a lot more than you think.”
It was several hours before he allowed himself the sweet privilege of self-adulation. What a profound turn of events, indeed. But then, there were no coincidences. He knew he saw something in the boy off the bat; something his loud-mouthed mother could never perceive, let alone comprehend. Yes. From the moment he looked into the glossy, textured eyes of this boy, Patrick McAllister, he knew, intervention had descended.
“Dr. Pierce?” McGrady’s plump receptionist opened the door in mid-knock–– “There’s a Dr. Lucien on line three. Returning your call?”
“Yes, Gretchen, thank you. Would you mind…?” and she graciously took the hint. As soon as he confirmed total privacy, he cleared his parched throat––and hit the flashing button––
“Maurice!” he beamed cautiously. “I’ve got some exciting news.”
–––––––––––––––
“There’s been another murder––” Keith Merrimac sat on the edge of his unmade bed, trying to feel surprised. It seemed as though the words, or others to that effect, had replaced ‘hello’ in the local vernacular.
“What in God’s name is going on?” he wondered aloud. There could be no denying now, if ever there could, that a copycat of some sort was about, out there on the loose.
“That’s supposed to be your job, Detective,” replied Captain Thornhill in his gruff, no-nonsense delivery. “I’ll give this to Davies, seeing as how full a plate you’ve got already. You can hit Newbury Park. Fiorentine’s there with Estes and a team, sweeping for the Laterna girl. A witness just came forward; saw someone matching her description wandering the road side...”
A disturbing flash rattled his sleep-deprived mind. He could picture the image almost perfectly. “Merrimac? Merrimac, are you there?”
Penny for your thoughts…
“Sorry, Captain, I…didn’t get much sleep last night.”
“Try warm milk. Or better yet, lay off the late nights with strange bedfellows. I can’t afford to have you sleep-walking through another shift, you hear?”
“Loud n’ clear,” Keith replied, but was lying. He heard the words, alright; received the order, disguised as ‘advice’––but they were neither loud nor clear.
“Good,” the captain went on, oblivious; (either that or he didn’t care). “Do me a favor and call Fiorentine, give her a heads up.” Oh I’m sure that can be arranged...
“What?”
“I said give her a call. Something wrong with your hearing?”
“Sorry. I thought I heard…nothing. Never mind. Consider me en route.”
* * *
Another beautiful day. Keith found it funny how they seemed to coincide with one of the worst strings of viciousness in recent memory––at least since the last. He wasn’t sure how, but somewhere along the line, he seemed to have stumbled into some sort of blissful groove. He perceived the whole world now on a much deeper level. He reveled in its energy; drank it in at every opportunity. He was still a part of it. At one with it; but at the same time, felt strangely detached; almost…above…
“How’s it going, Sergeant?” The events of the past several weeks had brought on, among other things, one of the most earth-shattering, life altering shifts in his altogether predictable lifestyle...a cell phone. He swore he’d never have one; never even get near one unless absolutely necessary. The times, they were a’changin.
“Detective Merrimac, it’s good of you to call, sir.”
“Don’t mention it. I’ve been eager to try this thing out anyway. How’s everything?”
“Slow, but we may’ve just caught a break. Are you on your way over?”
“As a matter of fact, I am. Thornhill mentioned something about an eye-witness?”
“In a manner of speaking, sir. A motorist just reported seeing someone who matched the girl’s description hitching a ride around Newbury Park.” An image of her, this pretty young thing strolling the roadside in skin tight blue jeans ripped through his mind. It confused him, feeling more like a memory than a conjured-up representation.
“Didn’t know people were still that stupid…” he mumbled.
“It’s more than we’ve gotten anywhere else…seems to be paying off, at any rate. I’ll fill you in when you get here.” Someone ought’a fill you in, you little cock-tease…
The car swerved out of control and Keith slammed on the break. A symphony of horns followed the unexpected maneuver. His car sat idle, halfway over the shoulder–– “Detective Merrimac? Keith, are you alright…?” Keith breathed deeply; in; then out. Who the Hell said that? “Sir, is everything––?”
“I’m fine, Sergeant.” He grabbed the phone and pulled himself swiftly together. “Just a bump in the road. Everything’s…just fine. See you in a few,” and hung up.
There is another part to this chapter but it's so frickin' big, I decided to split it in two for the purposes of this forum. Stay tuned for part two! Plus, got another Simpsons Round-up coming soon! Haza!
D.A.
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