Authors: Grant McKenzie
CHAPTER
25
Big Brother hadn’t felt so exhilarated in years.
When did he regain control, he wondered. When did everything stop sliding through his fingers like molten glass?
He looked at his hands, scrubbed perfectly clean. He could feel hot blood bubbling beneath the skin and knew that with the force of his own will he could make it ooze to the surface until a crimson wash covered his hands.
He began to laugh, a chuckle that built to a snicker, then roared from his mouth in full battle armor, clanking and stomping from his belly, crushing the silence beneath muck-encrusted boots.
It stopped as quickly as it began, leaving his lungs scorched from the strain.
With a nervous twitch he scanned the wooded horizon outside his home, wondering if anyone had heard. The closest neighbor was two miles east; no worries.
He had been away too long, he realized. He missed the smell of morning mist and the sound of grasshoppers as they crunched beneath bare feet.
Alaska had embraced him, but this was home.
For eight years he traveled with one of Alaska’s last nomadic tribes. He learned to live off the land, to dance and scream in celebration of life. He tasted the delicacy of seal’s eye, slicing it open and sucking the sweet, candy-like juice. He teased the caribou-clothed children by dangling raw seal intestines above his head, forcing them to climb on his back and shoulders to snatch the treat.
The Inuit knew how to live.
It didn’t last though. Nothing ever does.
All it took was a mirror to remind him of what he was. In its polished face — the first one he had seen in all those years — he saw his perfect brother staring back. The face screamed at him, flooding his mind with shards of memory.
Sharing his mother’s womb, Big Brother felt every last ounce of goodness, kindness and faith being sucked from his soul. He entered the world a screaming, wrinkle-faced brat. On his heels, Little Brother was a parent’s dream: fair of face, full of grace.
They never saw how weak he was.
One year to the day of his mother’s death, Big Brother escaped to the tundra. He had been content until the mirror — clutched in a trapper’s greedy fingers — reminded him of all that had been stolen, and he knew his days of hiding were over.
The tribe perished at his hand that night. Children screamed and mothers wept as the portable village burned to the ground. He had bathed in hot blood; no longer pure.
Growing up he fought against his nature, failing at every turn, blaming himself.
No more.
Alaska had taught him who he truly was.
The weak needed him.
Fear needed him.
Nightmares needed him.
No one would stop him walking his predestined path.
No one.
Big Brother stepped off the creaking wooden porch and made his way through overgrown quack grass until he reached the vegetable garden. His carrots were starting well this year.
A bony finger stuck out of the ground, just beside a row of peas. There was little flesh left on it, and he was surprised it had remained whole through the winter.
He stomped it back down with the heel of his boot, grinning at the little joke he just made up.
Anything can grow in my garden — anything.
Whistling to himself, he walked back to the house. Little Brother would be calling soon, and he would be angry.
Big Brother sighed.
He hated listening to Little Brother’s lectures, but the roof needed patching this summer and Little Brother was the only one who ever helped out — willingly.
CHAPTER
26
Eric Coleman clutched the blankets tight around his throat as a cold sweat dried on his forehead. The sun had barely lifted its face over the horizon, but already the first rays of light helped ease the strain on his soul.
Eric had rediscovered his fear of the dark. He knew it was childish, but bad things happened when he closed his eyes. Unmentionable things.
Easing out from under the covers, Eric pulled his bruised body from the bed and walked stiffly to the window of his dorm room. The view looked across the lush University of Victoria campus, green and glorious in the morning light. Students scurried around like ants, the morning ritual of coffee and knowledge already in full swing. Eric used to be one of them, but now he could no longer concentrate on his studies.
Instead, he stared at his reflection, hardly recognizing the bandaged and raccoon-eyed face in front of him.
Life had lost all meaning, the joy ripped from his body by some sadistic monster of the dark. If the angel hadn’t appeared when she did, Eric knew he would have died that night. Instead, he had to live with the shame and the pain. The pretty angel had wanted to call the cops and an ambulance, but Eric would have none of it. He couldn’t bear the humiliation. She had let him make that choice.
Now he had another choice to make. A black cloud so thick it blocked all light had descended over him and he saw no way to escape it, no way to ever feel whole again.
A knock on the door intruded upon his morose thoughts. It was followed by a familiar voice.
“Hey, Eric, you awake?”
“Yeah, door’s open.”
His friend, Dobrey, burst into the room, clutching a copy of the daily Times Colonist. He opened it to page three.
“Check this out.” He laid the newspaper on Eric’s rumpled bed. “Remember that strip club we went to across the Strait? Where you broke your nose? One of the strippers got killed and so did the cook. There’s a picture of her, but she’s got clothes on.”
Eric stared at the photo and felt his stomach revolt.
It was his angel.
He barely made it to the washroom in time.
“You okay, Bro?” Dobrey asked through the door.
“I’ve got the stomach flu,” Eric called back weakly. “I won’t be going to class today.”
“Oh, OK. I’m gonna take off then,” Dobrey said quickly, his feet already moving out the door. “You need anything just let me know.”
Eric didn’t answer. Bent over the toilet, he dry heaved until his stomach was raw and every muscle in his body sparked with renewed pain. With tears rolling down his cheeks, he wished with all his might that he had the strength to die.
His angel was dead because of him.
“Fuck!” he screamed. “Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.”
He punched the toilet tank, the pain instantly sweeping up his arm. He wept until his well of tears ran dry. When he finally pulled himself together, Eric mustered his last reservoir of strength and picked up his cell phone. He dialed Ottawa. It rang twice.
“Minister Coleman’s office.”
“Hi Judith, it’s Eric. Is my dad available?”
“Sure, Eric, he’s due in parliament in 20 minutes, but I’ll see if he’s free.”
There was a short pause.
“Eric? You okay?” asked Patrick Coleman, four-time elected Member of Parliament. Rumor on the Hill had it he was being groomed to replace the prime minister.
“Dad?” Eric paused, not knowing if he had the strength.
“What’s up, son? You don’t sound so good.”
“I, I shouldn’t be bothering you. You’ve got parliament and . . .”
“Eric,” Patrick reassured, “My job comes second to you and your mom, you know that. Talk to me. I have all the time you need.”
Eric began to weep again as he struggled to find the words.
“I’m in trouble, dad. People are dead. I don’t know what to do.”
“Tell me everything, son. We’ll fix it. Together.”
Eric told his dad everything.
CHAPTER
27
Cryre Rayne had been idle too long. He realized it the instant the phone rang. Normally, he would have sensed it and opened his eyes, alert and eager. But this time it actually startled him.
“We need you, Cryre,” said a familiar voice. The words actually meant: Vacation is over. Time to come back.
The voice belonged to Roy Bastet, one of the youngest directors presently working for the Federal Bureau of Investigation.
“How long has it been, Roy?” Cryre asked as he glanced across the Queen-size bed — past his fair-haired, smooth-chested lover — to read the faint green numbers of the alarm clock. A crystal vase lay toppled on its side, refracting the light.
“Going on six months. How do you feel?”
“Stiff, bored, happy.”
“Sounds perfect, but listen, we’ve got a situation up in Port Sorrow that’s got the Canadians riled. POTUS received a call directly from their prime minister this morning and the director has ordered us to look into it.”
“What kind of situation?” Cryer asked warily.
“That’s just it. The initial report was a lone sex assault on a young college kid, the son of a fast-rising Canadian politician. But after talking to the sheriff up there, it looks like he’s been trying to handle something bigger that’s blown up in his face.”
“Go on,” Cryer urged.
“So far we’re looking at the possibility of a serial rapist, three murders and the burning of a corpse while it was in police custody. The latest killing was last night. The victim is the county coroner, and from what I’m hearing, she and the sheriff were bumping uglies. The poor bastard sounded close to suicidal. Anyways, he says they don’t have any evidence, but he admits the rapes and murders could be linked.”
“The Canadian is male? Are all the rape victims male?”
“Yep.”
“What’s the sheriff’s name?”
“Marshall, William K. Mean anything?”
“No,” Cryer admitted. “What’s the time frame between attacks?”
“The rapes look to be about a month to six weeks apart. The sheriff says the workforce up there can be quite transient, and none of the victims saw their attacker. But three murders have taken place since this Canadian kid was attacked.”
“Anything different about his case that would ignite a murder spree?”
“The kid claims he was saved by a stripper, and the stripper is one of the murder victims.”
Cryre thought about it.
“The stripper saw his face. The rapist’s.”
“Yeah, that’s what I was thinking, too. And now the bastard’s trying to cover his tracks.”
Cryre’s lover stirred beside him, opened one eye and groaned loudly.
Roy heard it. “Tell Sean, I’m sorry for waking him.”
Sean brought his hand out from under the blankets and extended his middle finger.
“Apology accepted,” Cryre said, gently stroking his partner’s stubbled cheek.
“Good. Now listen. I’ve gone through the channels and filed all the paperwork so you won’t have to deal with any crap.”
“You don’t need to protect me anymore, Roy. It’s a new world. Even the president says they can’t fire my ass over my choice of ass. We’re even, okay?”
“We’ll never be even,” Roy answered plainly. “By the way, Virginia sends her love.”
The girl’s name jabbed a sliver of steel through Cryre’s side, slicing deep into the cavity where a kidney and part of a lung had been brutally carved out. His mind shuddered beneath the memory of insanity-filled eyes and a haunting taunt:
Virginia’s going to die, pig meat. You’re going to watch her die
.
The face was a tattooist’s nightmare: self-injected puddles of dye linked by bone-deep scars. He called himself Picasso, a serial kidnapper who never asked for money. Payment was extracted from the pain and torture of his victims, and their families.
Virginia was four years old. Her crime was to be born the daughter of the FBI’s rising young star.
It was Cryre who found her. Found them.
Picasso was fast and slick and good with a knife. Cryre was brave and stupid and bled like a torn canvas. Picasso could have killed him. Cryre’s gun was empty and the wound had crippled him. Instead, Picasso chose to retreat. Cryre never knew why.
Picasso left his mark on Virginia’s left earlobe, carving the dangling flesh into a misshapen face. Cryre’s scars went deeper.
Roy was still talking. “Are you ready to put a tie on again?”
Cryre shook away the madman’s face, feeling the remains of imaginary spittle still burning on his flesh. “When do I leave?”
“There’s a car downstairs to take you to the airport.”
“How many men?”
“Just you for now, but you can call for help if needed. There’s a full report being faxed to the car.”
Cryre could tell Roy was about to hang up. He stopped him by asking, “How is she?”
He could hear the proud smile grow in Roy’s voice. “She’s doing great. She only has to go to counseling once a week now.”
“That’s great.”
“She misses you,” Roy added. “You’re still her hero.”
“Give her my love,” Cryre replied, his tired eyes suddenly even heavier. “After I catch this one, we’ll get together and barbecue a pizza or something.”
“You know you and Sean are always welcome.”
“Thanks, Roy. I appreciate it.”
“Yeah, yeah, just catch this prick before the Canadians get really angry and start throwing snowballs at us or something?”
Cryre laughed as he hung up the phone.
Sean stirred beside him, one eye blinking open.
“Back to work?”
Cryre nodded.
“You okay?”
“Yeah, I’m feeling good.”
Sean smiled, his teeth a beautifully capped white. As an actor, he had financed the Tom Cruise special with his first bank loan.
“Just don’t leave any more vital organs lying on the ground, okay, babe?”
Cryre grinned and stroked his lover’s face. “I’ll call once I get settled.”
“If I’m here, I’ll answer.”
Both men laughed and kissed before Cryre left the warm bed to dress.