The Stories of the Wild One (continued)

It came free with a little effort. While it did not appear to be heavy, John guessed that it might have been a little too large for the box it came in. As Smith lifted it up, John felt his heart stop. A sudden chill trickled along his spine, like a fever breaking. He did not know why, only that he could not take his eyes from the object hanging from Smith’s hand.

Smith examined it with only mild interest. He was about to place it on the desk when John called out to him.

“Be careful.”

His voice was a hoarse whisper, but some in its urgency got Smith’s attention. The officer looked at John, puzzled, and then back at the small gym bag hanging from his fist.

“Snake.” John whispered.

John could see that Smith was studying him as though he had suddenly gone insane.

“A snake,” John explained, managing to regain some control over his voice. It was still too soft, but it no longer had that raspy quality. “One of them had a snake.”

Smith looked at the bag. His expression openly displayed his skepticism. Still, John saw the slightly spark of doubt in the officer’s eyes. Smith lowered the bag carefully onto the desk’s surface.

“What snake?” He asked John, his eyes continually flicking back in the direction of the bag.

John quickly told him of the woman they had found in the underground parking garage. By the time he finished, feeling slightly out of breath, he blushed slightly, convinced that he had rambled his way through describing the incident, and then he realized that Smith was the first person he had ever shared the entire story with.

Smith looked at him carefully, and then at the bag. He did not seem entirely convinced, but he no longer appeared to found John’s outburst to be quite so unbelievable. John noticed that the officer seemed to be in no hurry to open the bag.

I’m sure as hell not going to do it!

Several long seconds passed. Smith regarded the bag, studied John, and then looked at the bag again. John guessed that the officer was trying to decide whether or not to call it in. John could appreciate the officer’s dilemma: he would look pretty foolish if the bag contained nothing at all harmful or, perhaps even worse yet, turned out to be totally empty. He seemed to reach a decision, but did not seem particularly pleased about it. He gave visible sigh as he reached for his radio.

“Dispatch,” he called in. “We have a ten ninety-one situation here.”

“Ten ninety-one, copy.” A brief pause followed. “What kind of animal is involved?”

Smith glanced at John for an instant. His expression grew tight.

“Not confirmed,” he responded. “Possibly a snake.”

There was a longer pause this time.

“Reptile confirmed,” the dispatcher’s voice returned. “Animal Control has been informed. ETA pending.”

“Copy that.”

Smith reached up and switched off the radio. He regarded silently John for a moment.

“That’s quite a story.”

John noticed that he had moved away from the desk, closer to the cubicle opening.

John shrugged. “Stuff happens.”

Watching Smith, he wondered what the officer had seen during all of his time on duty.

I’ll bet mine doesn’t even begin to compare . . .

“Yes,” he agreed quietly. “It does.”

His eyes took on that distant look and John knew that he was reliving some kind of memory. He came back slowly, seeming to become only suddenly aware of his surroundings.

Smith’s posture straightened and he glanced down the aisle. “We should clear the area,” he told John. “Just in case.”

John smiled without realizing why at first.

We should . . .

“Yes, sir,” he responded sharply, and began to move toward the other cubicles in that section.

It took nearly two hours before someone from Animal Control arrived. By that time, not only was John growing bored and frustrated, but he could tell that Smith was as well. They had each taken a couple of turns to use the restroom and find coffee. The latter, he decided, was something that John would not recommend to a friend—at least not if he wanted them to remain one. He had mentioned the same to Smith, who nodded absently, but remarked that he had had drunk worse.

The Animal Control officer, a large pudgy man with dark, thinning hair, arrived with much noise and, in John’s estimation, carrying far too much equipment.

How much did it take to capture one snake?

The police sergeant at the other scene had taken one out with two carefully aimed bullets from his gun. Glancing at the crowd gathered on the other side of the glass partition, John silently conceded that might not be the best approach here.

“What’s you got here?” the man said, looking around the cubicle space as if he expected a panther to leap down on him from the light fixtures.

John looked toward the bag while Smith pointed to it. The man from Animal Control stared at the bag and then back at Smith.

“You think there’s a snake in there?”

John saw Smith’s face darken. He exchanged a look with John that John could not quite interpret. John’s best guesses were either “You’d better be right about this” or “This guy’s an idiot”.

Smith’s voice was controlled and professional when he spoke. “We have a creditable reason to believe that there may be, yes.”

“What kind of snake?”

Smith glanced over at John, who shrugged sheepishly. He remembered it being brown and kind of a dark red with dark markings that . . . Well, mostly, he remembered it dead. The dark patches might have been its blood, for all he knew.

Or that woman’s.

He realized that he had not really looked at it all that closely once everyone there had been certain that it was dead.

“A poisonous one?” John offered uncertainly.

The Animal Control officer looked at him and blinked. He then turned toward Smith and studied him for a moment. Finally, he turned away, shrugging. John could hear his silent, “Whatever you say . . .”

He opened one of his large cases and removed a small cage. John assumed that it was to put the snake into—if there was one. He found that he had not really considered that option; he had been prepared to just smash its head against the desk until he was sure that it would never slither anywhere again.

Digging into another case, the Animal Control officer slid out a long rod, about the length of his arm, with a curved hook at one end. John thought he had seen one of those before, although he was not sure when or where.

Probably on some nature show . . .

From yet another case, the officer lifted out a heavy wad of what looked vinyl or leather. As John watched, he unrolled it, revealing that it was a pair of thick gloves. When the officer had finished, John say that they were probably long enough to reach up past the man’s elbows.

That makes sense, John realized. If something’s going to try to sink their teeth into you . . .

He wondered whether the material was thick enough. His mind conjured up mental images of snakes with inch-long, razor-sharp fangs. While John had no doubt that such snakes probably existed, he suspected that his imagination was far more frightening than the reality. The Animal Control officer did not seem particularly concerned, at least based on his expression—and the fact that he was humming softly to himself while he completed his preparations.

Of course, John knew. He’s doesn’t really believe us either.

“All right,” the man said, pulling on the gloves. “You might as well step back.”

Holding the hook loosely in one hand, he reached over and tugged carefully on one of the zippers that sealed the top of the bag.

It did not slide open at first. Instead, the bag slid along the desk closer to the Animal Control officer. John almost moved in to assist the officer before realizing what he was doing. The officer let go of the bag for a moment, studied it, and then placed the hooked rod on top of the desk within easy reach. Using both hands, he gripped each of the zippers and pulled them carefully apart, just far enough that he could handle them individually, but not enough to leave a gap sizable enough, at least John believed so, that any kind of sizable snake could squeeze through it.

Letting go of the bag, the ACS officer reached for the hook again and then tugged carefully on one of the zippers. It did not seem to slide smoothly, but he managed to get it to open a few more inches before it seemed to jam again. From where John stood, he stretched forward to try to peer into the interior of the bag.

Even with the overhead light illuminating its interior, the inside of the bag appeared to be black. The ACS officer worked at the other zipper, trying to keep his hands and arms away from the exposed opening. When the bag was opened nearly all the way, he reached down to his belt and withdrew a battered flashlight. John was mildly surprised when it actually worked, its beam shining down into the bag.

The ACS officer aimed the beam at several points within the bag for several seconds. His expression went from one of concentration, to mild puzzlement, and finally to bemused annoyance. He lifted the flashlight away and turned it off, sliding it back into its place at his belt without looking.

Straightening, he glanced at Smith, and then at John, before shaking his head. John thought he saw the man roll his eyes too, but it was difficult to tell for sure with his head moving.

“The only kind of snake in there, gentleman,” he said drily, “is an invisible one.”

He pulled off his gloves and tossed them onto one of the cases, apparently to be rolled up again later.

“The only thing in there is a bunch of papers,” he said, sliding the hook back into its case. “Probably some kid’s homework or something.”

Smith exchanged a look with John. He did not look pleased. He did not look angry, exactly, just not happy.

John swallowed. Guess I don’t blame him.

The ACS officer reached inside and pulled out the thin stack of sheets. He glanced at them for only a moment, holding them out for either Smith or John to take.

“Maybe it’s a paper about a snake,” he said sardonically, almost chortling.

John found that he really did not appreciate the paunchy man’s sense of humor. He reached for the papers, but Smith intercepted them, giving him a quick, reproving glance.

Right, John chided himself silently. Possible evidence.

Smith looked the sheets over quickly, his eyes darted across the pages. He seemed about to toss them back into the bag when he stiffened suddenly, his expression becoming a frozen mask. Without looking toward John, he activated his radio.

“Dispatch,” he said. “We have a possible one-eighty-seven . . .”

John stared at him. A sudden, hollow chill passed through him. At first, he did not understand why. He knew all of the common police codes by heart. He had to search his memory for that one, although it sounded very familiar. About to reach for his phone to check the code reference app he had installed on it, he stopped, his hand falling aware of he recognized it

One-eighty-seven: possible homicide

He looked at the gym bag, remembering the other two that he had seen.

#

The game controller rocked madly in Joel Stimsons’s hands as he maneuvered his character through the collapsing tunnels. Pursued by angry trolls armed with spears, arrows, and other airborne weaponry, he could not slow down long enough to check his route against the map. There was only one correct exit, he knew. Most of the paths either circled back or led to dead ends. Even worse, some of them led to traps that would kill him as surely as the trolls would if they caught up with him.

This was his fifth attempt to complete this level in the game. He was certain that he had it dialed in this time . . . except that he was not sure if the upcoming turn was the right one, or if he had just missed it. An exploding arrow had bounced him several steps ahead and, in the confusion, he had momentarily lost his orientation. Along with it, he had lost sight of some of the key landmarks.

Here! He told himself. This one! Turn right!

With a growing certainty that he was correct, he turned his character toward a branching tunnel to the right, giving himself a momentary respite from the flurry of airborne attacks. Momentary it is, for they were quickly behind him once more. He sped forward, conscious of the amount of damage that his character was taking, but certain that this way led to—

A dark hole appeared in the path only a few yards in front of him. He tried to slow down and stop. But, as the physics were reflected with reasonable accuracy in this game, his character continued to slide forward, unable to prevent its descent into the pit. The character screamed, falling deeper and deeper into the hole and until darkness filled the screen.

RESTART FROM LAST SAVE?

RESTART FROM LAST LEVEL?

QUIT?

Joel swore and tossed the controller onto the table in front of him. It clattered loudly, nearly skidding off onto the floor. He sank back into the cushions of the couch, feeling more than just a little irritated.

“Rach?” he shouted. “I’m hungry. Why isn’t dinner ready yet?”

Although she was in kitchen, he was certain that she sighed unhappily before answering him. He smiled smugly at the thought.

“Twenty more minutes.”

Joel growled something unintelligible. Rachel was a fantastic cook, but she kept preparing these fancy dishes that took too damned long to make. In an even more sour mood now, Joel considered whether he should punish her further for that later that night in bed. It had been a while since he had forced her to—

A buzz at the front door interrupted his scheming. He turned his head toward the kitchen to shout for Rachel to come deal with it, but then changed his mind. He wanted dinner ready more than to try to dominate her further. Pushing himself up from the couch with a heavy breath, he headed for the door.

Opening it, he found no one there. Annoyed, he looked down to find a small package resting next to the doormat. Grumbling, he bent down to pick it up.

Maybe some more stupid rock samples or something for Rachel, he thought. Or, he considered with a sharp prick of jealousy, that guy from California sent her another—

He stopped, seeing that the package was addressed to him. Studying the label for a moment, he tried to remember what he might have ordered recently.

The Stories of the Wild One (continued)

He moved into the short maze of cubicles, relieved that see that they seemed to be unoccupied. They passed one employee, just getting set up for the day, who glanced at them in startled surprise. Her eyes opened wide, but she said nothing. John heard her typing furiously behind them.

Probably telling all of her friends . . .

They stopped at the last cubicle on the left at the end of the row. A portion of it had a panel removed, revealing a window that looked out over the inner courtyard. The world looked less gray than it had when they had left Building 3, but John could tell that it was not heading toward being a bright and sunny day.

In a lot of ways.

He checked the number on the nameplate that hung on the outside of the cubicle. Both the name and the number matched those on the sheet. John let out a soft breath of relief. He stepped aside, letting Smith edge past him into the cubicle.

The work space seemed neat and organized. Papers were stacked neatly in trays. Items pinned to the fabric-covered walls were arranged in straight, orderly patterns. Most were photographs of three different children—two young boys and what appeared to be a pre-teen girl. Also hanging among them were various certificates and awards. There was almost nothing on the desk itself. John had heard of “clean desk” policies, but this seemed a little excessive to him.

A red light blinked steadily on the desk phone. John guessed that mean that she had voice messages waiting. He wondered how long it would be before those people learned that they would never be receiving an answer. Stepping out of Smith’s way, he bumped against the desk chair, causing it to bump against the edge of the work surface.

Behind the chair was a short bookcase with two shelves. It appeared to be filled primarily with reference books, mostly dictionaries and style guides.

Exciting reading, he thought disinterestedly.

Additional books and papers were stacked neatly on top of it as well. Placed on top of these was a small unopened shipping box. John peered at the label, but it was so scuffed from handling that all he could make out was the bar code, the woman’s name, and the building address.

Smith picked up the box and inspected it. John guessed that was only because he had been staring at it so intently. There was nothing remarkable about it. It was just an ordinary cardboard box.

The blond-haired officer turned it over his hands, puzzled over the return address just as John had, and then returned it to its place on top of the bookshelf. Smith then moved back toward the desk and studied the items on its surface without touching any of them. John had no idea what the officer might be looking for, but was unwilling to ask and look foolish.

Smith tried several of the drawers, as well as the overhead cabinet. All of these turned out to be locked. The officer did not seem to be surprised nor bothered by that.

Josh heard movement on the carpet outside the cubicle and peered into the aisle. He expected to find the woman he had seen earlier trying to sneak a look of what he and Smith were doing. Instead, it turned out to be an older woman—in her late thirties, possibly even very early in forties—with long mousy brown hair dappled with subtle streaks of gray. She seemed unaware of his presence until she looked up. Then, startled, her eyes went wide and she froze for an instant, her lightly tanned complexion growing pale.

She moved away suddenly, traveling backward without looking around. She disappeared behind the partition, probably, John guessed, to confer with the other woman on what might be going on.

John turned back toward the inside of the cubicle, surprised to find Smith standing there facing down the aisle. He felt a small stab of disappointment, realizing the unexpected appearance of a uniformed police officer had probably done more to startle the woman than his presence there had. Smith regarded him for a moment and then stepped back into the cubicle space.

Backing out of the way, John found his attention returning to the unopened box again. There was something familiar about it, but he could not quite figure out what it was. It was not as though its size or shape was remarkable in any way. Yet, there was something—

“What’s so fascinating about that box?” Smith interrupted his thoughts. “Did you send it?”

The question startled John the rest of the way out of his strange reverie. He stared at Smith dumbly for a moment before responding.

“No!” he replied, and then, a bit less loudly, “No.”

Smith studied him critically for several seconds before seeming satisfied with John’s answer. John fought the urge to protest aloud again.

He can’t really believe that I have anything to do with this . . .

Walking the short distance over to the bookcase, Smith looked down and studied the package again without touching it. Then, turning only his head, he looked back to John.

“Yet you keep looking at it.”

Josh felt faint, tingling warmth at his cheeks.

“It just looks familiar somehow,” he admitted softly, his voice lacking any of the conviction that he felt.

Smith glanced at the box again.

“It’s just an ordinary box.”

John nearly sighed aloud. “I know.”

“Should we open it then?”

John’s eyes widened with surprise.

Can we do that?

He was not entirely sure what either the laws or regulations were in this case. As far as he knew, it had not been declared a crime scene, so their legally permitted actions were probably quite limited.

Although, John thought to himself, it’s not as though she’s in any condition to care.

Smith picked up the box again, inspecting its exterior as he turned it around in his hands. He frowned as he studied the label again. Then, he placed it on the desktop and removed a pair of scissors from a floral patterned coffee cup that also contained a collection of pens and pencils of various colors. Smith sliced open the line of clear packing tape along the top of the box and then dropped the scissors back into the cup. He glanced over at John, turned back to the package, and pulled open its flaps.

He peered inside incuriously. John leaned forward for a better look, catching only a glimpse of something dim and possibly gray. Smith reached into the box and, with a little effort, withdrew what it contained.

The Stories of the Wild One (continued)

At first, John thought this officer might be, once again, one of the pair that he had encountered at the discovery of the other two deaths. Seeing that he had John’s attention, he opened his notebook and started in without any introduction or preamble. John thought that maybe he had spoken to Smith earlier. His memories of the evening were starting to get a bit jumbled.

“You were the person who found the body?”

John nodded. “Yes, sir.”

“Do you know about what time?”

John thought about that. The security recordings would probably show that, but that would mean calling Benton and asking him to check them. Instead, he performed some quick mental calculations, wishing that he had thought to check his watch at the time.

“Probably around ten forty-five.”

“Around?” The officer sounded irritated.

John’s cheeks prickled with sudden warmth. He shrugged apologetically.

Smith shook his head and entered a note.

“What were you doing in this area?”

John stared at the officer for a moment, slightly dumbfounded.

“I was patrolling it,” he replied, trying to keep his voice even.

“Is this your usual assignment?”

John frowned at the officer. He had already answered some of these questions with two of the other officers.

If he’s hoping to check me in a lie, John wondered. Then he’s in for a disappointment.

“No,” John answered. This seemed to get the officer’s attention. “I rotate assignments, as needed.”

The officer nodded and entered something onto his notebook.

“Did you know the victim?”

Victim? John hesitated for a moment. So they think it might be a murder?

“No.” He was unable to fully keep the annoyance out of his voice. What kind of stupid question is that?

Smith made another note.

“Do you—“

The other officer strode up and handed Smith a sheet of paper.

“We have a positive ID,” Smith’s partner said. “Definitely an employee.”

Smith glanced over the sheet and then nodded.

“Do you want to take at her workspace?”

Smith did not seem particularly enthusiastic. “Sure,” he said, and then turned to John. “I’ll need you to take me there.”

He passed the sheet to John. John read it over. He noted the woman’s name: Leanna Hartford. He did not recognize it, but that did not surprise him. After only two visits here, he would have been surprised if he had remembered anyone’s name.

Well . . . he remembered. There was that brunette with the long hair and the legs to match.

He forced himself back to the present. The printout included the location of the woman’s office. John was pretty certain that he recognized the numbering convention, but checked the map anyway. He nearly groaned aloud with the realization that it was in a building on the opposite side of the main lobby. That meant yet another long trek across the complex.

Either Smith read his expression, or else also knew how far the walk would be.

“We’ll take the car,” he said.

John smiled at him in gratitude and looked toward the propped-open emergency doors. John saw the gray sky, discovering that the sun had started to rise. Employees—and construction crews, he realized—would be arriving soon. He and the officers might have their hands full trying to keep curious workers away from the area. He wondered idly how the company was going to explain it.

Not my problem, he concluded with a faint smile.

He followed Smith as he headed for the doors. They were still yards away when the two EMTs wheeled the stretcher past them. John looked ahead and saw the ambulance back up toward the doors.

“. . . or we can walk,” Smith remarked, and made a smooth turn toward the enclosed stairwell where John had originally entered this section of the building.

The two of them strode together in silence. Smith maintained a fairly quick pace. With his longer legs, John had little trouble trying to keep up.

“How long have you had this job, kid?” Smith asked him, surprising John with both the sudden interest and the break in the silence.

John bristled silently again, but let it pass.

“Almost a year.”

Smith nodded.

“Thinking of heading to the Academy?”

“Yes,” John replied, grinning as he walked.

“Good,” Smith said, sounding genuinely approving of the idea.

That was the last thing he said until they crossed the lobby. John glanced quickly at Benton, still seated behind the desk. Smith kept moving.

John used his badge to gain them access into the next building. Smith paused as the door closed behind them. John became aware of the hushed and subtle noises of people moving through the corridors. He looked around, seeing that he had been right: people were beginning to show up for work. He and Smith gathered quick, but curious glances.

“Where is it?” Smith asked him, seeming oblivious to the attention that there were getting.

John consulted the sheet of paper that he had forgotten he was holding. “Second floor.”

He looked down the walkway for access to a stairway. Ahead, he saw a bank of elevators. He did not want to suggest them, as he was afraid that doing so might make him appear weak in Smith’s eyes. Fortunately, the officer saw them and started walking toward them.

The small clumps of people gathered before two of the doors parted as they approached. The elevator car arrived and Smith entered it without looking around. John followed him inside. Those gathered outside the door seemed content to wait for the next one to arrive, so Smith tapped the button for second floor.

The ride was short, taking only few seconds. John felt a little foolish for taking the elevator for such a short ride, but he justified it to himself that it might have taken them even longer just to find the stairway.

They stepped into the pathway and John checked the signs, trying to make sense of them. The numbering scheme they presented matched the one on the map, but he could not determine which direction he needed to travel in order to reach the office belonging to the dead woman.

“This way,” he told Smith, heading toward the right, hoping that he was correct. Smith followed him without question, which John feel a little better. He was certain that the officer would have corrected him had he been wrong.

Unless he doesn’t have a clue either . . .

They passed three long sets of opaque glass doors. John was relieved to see that the numbers associated with them decreased, as he wanted them to. He paused outside another door. This one had translucent glass, and he could see that it led to another hallway. He swiped his badge over the security panel mounted next to it.

He heard a soft, but shrill beep. The small light indicator light switched from red to green and he heard the metallic sound of the lock disengaging. Pulling open the door, he held it open for Smith. The officer passed him without a word and continued inside. They both waited while John studied the map again.

“Down that way.” John pointed to a branching row of cubicles on their right. “And then the second row on the right, almost at the end.”

I hope.

Smith peered across the bland fabric walls, apparently checking out the route. It took John a moment, and then he realized that Smith was expecting him to lead the way.

The Stories of the Wild One (continued)

He moved slowly through the area, sweeping the floor ahead with his flashlight, occasionally playing it along the scaffolding that lined the construction area that filled either side. John wondered what he was looking for that might be out the ordinary, and whether he would recognize it if he did. Piles of rags and other debris were stacked everywhere. For all he knew, entire shipments of illegal drugs could be hidden beneath them.

Nothing moved. Without the ventilation systems on, there was not even a faint ripple of movement from the dangling tarps. The place felt empty.

Following the inlaid path along the carpet with the beam of his flashlight, John followed it with his eyes, hoping to catch sight of the exit door ahead. He began to wonder if it might have been his imagination, but he felt almost certain that it was not. About thirty yards ahead, the beam illuminated what looked like yet another pile of rags. What made this one unusual was that it trespassed onto the carpeted path.

It’s probably nothing, he told himself.

John decided to check it out anyway. If nothing else, it provided a small distraction during what was turning into a very long and tedious patrol.

He moved toward it, although not in any particular hurry. As he walked, he continued to sweep his flashlight from side to side, checking the shadows for bats, cats, or hidden treasure. He was pleased not to discover the first, ambivalent about the second, and disappointed about the last—had he been taking it seriously. As a result, he was only a few yards away before he realized that it was not yet another pile of construction refuse and rags.

John broke into a run. He came to a quick stop, and then stared down at the woman sprawled across what looked like a very small suitcase. He remained frozen there for several seconds before something within his brain kicked on.

First aid.

Right.

CPR.

Shifting the flashlight to his other hand, John crouched down and reached and touched the woman’s neck, brushing aside her shoulder-length, light-colored hair to reach it. He could not detect a pulse through his fingertips, but could feel how cold the woman’s flesh was. Although he was certain what he would find, he checked for a pulse at her wrist, also failing to find one.

CPR?

He shivered inwardly at the thought. Sure, he had been trained and certified. However, the thought of performing it on someone who was almost certainly already a corpse gave him a serious case of the willies. Placing his flashlight on the floor so that it illuminated her torso and head, he rolled her over enough so that he could see her face. Her eyes were closed. He was grateful for that. He hated it when they stared back at him. During his short career in security to date, he had encountered a very small number of dead bodies.

I seem to be having a run on them right now, though, he considered wryly, rather wishing that he had skipped having those experiences.

Her mouth was wide open. It made him think of a fish gasping for air. Even though he was ready, although perhaps not eager, to attempt mouth-to-mouth resuscitation, he hesitated for a moment. Something about her face and the color of her lips made him pause. Picking up the flashlight, he illuminated her face. Had she been even remotely alive, he was certain that its brightness would have produced a response.

Her lips were dark, even beneath the lipstick. There were beyond blue, he noted, having turned gray. Her complexion was waxen and pale, also gray. John released his hold on her head, watching as it lolled loosely on her shoulders. She had been dead for some time.

All the CPR in the world isn’t going help her . . .

He realized then what he should be doing, even while he considered whether he would be reprimanded for not at least attempting any life-saving measures. He was not required to do it, per company regulations. In fact, all he was strictly required to do was to “observe and report”.

Well, he decided. I’ll observe that she’s dead and report it.

He rose and tapped his earpiece. “Base,” he said, trying to keep his voice steady. “I have a code ten-hundred here.”

There was a lengthy pause before Benton responded. John began to wonder if the old man has gone to the bathroom.

Nah, he thought. He wouldn’t do that. He’d let himself explode before leaving his post unattended.

“Are you sure you’ve got that right?” Benton’s voice finally sounded in his ear. He sounded annoyed.

John did a quick mental check to make sure that he had used the correct; he was certain that he had.

“Yes,” he replied a moment later. “I’m sure.” He took a quick breath, calming himself. “Unless there’s another code for finding a dead body.”

Another long pause followed.

“What did you find?” Benton asked him. John was certain that he heard a faint hint of uncertainty in the older man’s voice. “A rat? Another one of those cats?”

“No,” John interrupted before Benton could expand his list of more desirable possibilities. “A woman,” he said. “About forty, I think,” he glanced down at the case. “I think she’s an employee.”

A long period of silence followed before Benton spoke again. John began to wonder what the older man might be doing. He then guessed that Benton might be checking to security logs to see who had passed through this area during the past few hours.

“I’m calling it in,” Benton finally said. “Remain there.”

“Copy that,” John murmured, just loud to be heard, he hoped, over the microphone.

He stared down at the dead woman, hoping that it would not take long for the emergency teams to get there.

#

John remained off to the side, waiting for yet another round of questions from the two police officers who had arrived on the scene. When neither they nor the paramedics made any attempt to revive the woman, he felt better about his own decision to not try. It was clear, from what he overheard, that the woman had been dead for a few hours even before he found her. No one was discussing a cause of death, however. He guessed that it was probably some kind of heart attack, stroke, or something.

He watched as they lifted the body, already wrapped with a bright yellow shroud, onto the stretcher. In his peripheral vision, he saw one of the police officers approaching him again. This one was about six inches shorter than John, with closely cropped blonde hair. His badge indicated that he went by the rather improbable name of “Smith”. He was carrying a notebook.

The Stories of the Wild One (continued)

John stood before the door, peering through the glass. The interior of the section ahead looked dark.

I guess that makes sense, he considered. Being under construction and all . . .

He removed the badge that Benton had given him from his belt and waved it in front of the security panel. The red status LED blinked to green. John grabbed the door handle and pulled.

The door rattled in its frame, but did not open. John waved the badge again, actually sliding it along the surface of the security panel. The indicator light shifted colors again, but the door still refused to open. Out of mild frustration, he shook the door hard. He heard metal rattle within its frame, but was no more successful in getting it to open.

Sliding the badge into his pocket, John tapped the signal control on the walkie-talkie attached to his belt.

“Base,” he called into it. “I’ve got a problem here.”

His earpiece hissed for a moment and then Benton’s voice crackled from the headset.

“What is it?”

John could imagine the older man’s expression, certain that John was not capable of passing through a simple security door.

“The door’s jammed,” John reported. “The panel responds, but the door doesn’t unlock.”

“Are you sure you’re using the right card?”

John was certain that he had, otherwise the indicator light would not have changed. Still, he removed it from his pocket to check.

“Yes,” he replied, trying not to sound annoyed.

Another pause. And then, “It shows that your card was accepted.”

I know that . . .

“I know,” John replied with forced calmness. “But it’s not working. The door isn’t opening.”

He was not sure why he thought repeating it all would help.

“Try it again.”

There was a momentary pause before Benton’s voice came back over the speaker.

“I already did,” John said. “Three times.”

“Do it again.”

Mumbling under his breath, John waved his card over the panel again. As before, the color of the light changed. He tugged on the handle; the door did not open.

“Still nothing,” he reported, sounding both annoyed and smug.

How stupid does he think I am?

A much longer pause followed before Benton’s voice returned.

“Remain where you are,” he told John. “I’m going to restart the system.”

“All right . . .” John murmured, probably not quite loud enough to be heard.

He waited, glancing at the shadowed space around him. His eyes snapped back to the security panel as its glowing red light went dark. His surroundings seemed to become even quieter than they had been.

“How many systems is he restarting?” John murmured, surprised at how loud his whisper sounded.

The light on the security panel flashed three times and then went dark again. A moment later, it blinked three more times. About five seconds later, the red light returned, emitting a steady crimson glow.

“Try it again now,” Benton’s voice said, startling him slightly.

John waved the badge above the panel. After a moment, the status light switched to green. This time, he heard the metallic sound of the door lock disengaging. He reached out and quickly pulled on the handle, just in case the security system changed its mind again. The door swung open easily.

“That did it,” he informed Benton. “Going inside.”

“Acknowledged.” The faint hiss in his ear piece disappeared.

“Chatty guy,” John remarked with quiet irreverence, and moved toward the next door.

He repeated the same process, fully expecting it to remain locked as the first one originally had. When he swiped his badge past the security panel, though, the door’s lock audibly disengaged. It opened as it was supposed to and then closed itself behind him as John walked through the doorway. Out of curiosity, he turned and tested the door: it remained securely in place, once again locked.

John turned to face the building’s interior again. Although he could see almost none of it, he got the immediate sensation of space. The area was clearly wide open and exposed. Whether that was part of its original design, or due to the construction, John did not know. In his mind’s eye, he saw an area similar to the one where he could overlook the cafeteria. He suspected, though, that mental image did not accurately reflect what surrounded him.

“It’s dark in here,” he said, louder than he had intended to. Or it seemed unexpectedly loud in the dark, open space.

“Do you have your flashlight?”

John nearly stumbled, startled at the unexpected voice in his ear.

Mumbling a vague curse under his breath, equally directed at himself and Benton, John slid his prized flashlight from its holder.

“I’ve got it,” he replied, not bothering to hide his annoyance. This time, he made sure that he turned the radio’s automatic voice activation off.

He turned on the flashlight. An intense white beam pierced the darkness. It showed him small portions of the distant walls, giving him quick glimpses of scaffolding and bare plywood partitions. As that setting was intended to illuminate for a distance, it did not reveal a lot of what lay in his immediate vicinity. He adjusted the beam to a wider setting, dimming the strength of the beam.

Sweeping it across the space around him, he found himself mildly disappointed. It looked pretty much like any other interior construction zone he had ever been in. He saw a lot of bare lengths and scraps of wood. Paint-spattered tarps adorned the floors and covered some of the equipment. A large number of large sealed buckets, containing paints and solvents, were scattered and stacked across the area. Despite that, the air had a dry, dusty smell to it, as if no one had been working in there for a while. John also felt a definite chill, telling him that the heating and cooling systems were probably not turned on in this part of the building. With his flashlight in hand, John journeyed deeper into its interior.

As he moved through it, he realized that it was much larger than he had originally thought.

Or it just seems that way . . .

He knew that the dark and shadows were messing with his perceptions of depth and distance. Playing the beam upward, he saw that the building contained several more levels above the one where he now stood. He hoped that Benton did not intend for him to patrol all of those as well. If so, then John now knew why the older man had cautioned him about returning before midnight.

Passing the flashlight beam across the scaffolding and clearly temporarily rigged supports, he could see no way to access the upper levels. He thought back to the glass alcove through which he had entered this building and realized that the stairway that it enclosed probably could lead him there.

It doesn’t look safe, though . . .

That thought reminded him of something else that Benton had told him.

Damn, he thought. Hard hat area.

John swept his beam around, looking for a rack or crate that contained the spare hard hats for visitors. He did not find one immediately, swearing under his breath at himself for forgetting the older man’s instructions.

He said I could one here . . .

Pointing the beam back in the direction of the door, he wondered if he had missed out there with all of the distraction of the misbehaving automatic door locks. He aimed the flashlight back at the area of the construction zone closest to him, convinced that he should be able to find a safety helmet somewhere there.

Stepping off the carpeted path, he felt the crunch of construction debris and grit beneath his boots. Carefully, he walked among the bits of discarded and stacked materials, looking for a discarded hard hat, one that some worker had just left it where he had been working when his shift ended. He was nearly ready to give up and head back to the door, or to continue on without one, when he spied one perched on the top of a saw platform.

He picked it up to inspect it, to make sure that it was not damaged, that being the reason it had been left behind. It was covered with fine grit and dust. John wiped it off gingerly, enough so that he could see its surface, but found no cracks or other defects. Turning it over in his hands, he judged that it probably would fit and lowered it onto his head.

It was just slightly too large, but he did not feel like making the effort to adjust. He also disliked the idea of having to handle it again. He could already feel the grit that it contained settling into his hair. With a sigh, he lifted his flashlight and made his way back to the carpeted pathway. He was relieved when he got there, grateful for a nice, even floor beneath his feet.

Narrowing the beam slightly, he aimed it ahead, searching for the door at the opposite end. For an instant, a bright starburst reflected back at him. He guessed that it was glass from the door, but he failed to recreate the exact angle in order to achieve the same effect again so that he could confirm it.

The Stories of the Wild One (continued)

He slipped the flashlight back into its holster, reassured to have its comfortable weight back at his side. Eyeing the security station, he discovered that only a single seat sat behind it—the one currently occupied by the older guard.

Nice.

Turning, he surveyed the lobby. About a dozen or so chairs were situated in various locations throughout it, sometimes clumped in groups of three or four. Most of them looked nicely padded and very comfortable. He could sit in one of those, he supposed, but it would not look very professional.

Assuming that anyone ever shows up . . .

“Don’t get comfortable, son,” the older guard said from behind him.

Josh stiffened for a moment with the momentary shock that the old man had seemed to be reading his thoughts. He turned slowly back to face the security desk.

The older guard was writing on some on the desktop. He straightened, allowing Josh for the first time to be able to read that the last name on his badge read “Benton”.

“Go patrol Building 3” he told John, holding out a printed map. “It’s under a lot of construction.”

He settled back into the chair.

“It’s a hard-hat area,” he went on. “You can get one at the site there,” he instructed John. “Wear it.” He nodded in the direction of John’s belt. “And you’ll need that.”

John’s eyes turned toward his flashlight.

“No one’s supposed to be in there,” Benton said.

John looked down at the map in his hand, trying to make sense of it.

“Fastest way there is through the main spine,” Benton told him.

It took John a moment to recognize that “spine” meant one of the three main enclosed bridge ways. He peered at what seemed to be a random collection of numbers dotted across the map before identifying Building 3 and then traced back to the main lobby to find the path that Benton had suggested. He was less than thrilled to see that Building 3 was almost the furthest location from where he stood now.

“Better get moving,” Benton prodded him gruffly. “We need to hit the data center before midnight.”

John glanced up at the clock mounted on the wall behind the security station.

It was not even ten-thirty yet. Although his destination was some distance way, John found it difficult to imagine that he would not return well before midnight. Looking down at the map as he walked, he tried to locate the data center, certain that it would be the furthest point in the complex from Building 3.

He turned right at the first corner and then continued toward the next main juncture. He glanced down at the map several times, reassuring himself that he had, in fact, gone the right way. It was much further that it seemed on the map.

These damned things are never to scale.

He finally reached the intersection and stopped. Checking the map again, he compared them to the signs posted on the wall. He was in the right place. According to both the signs and the map, he needed to follow the corridor on the right. It would take him through the middle of Building 2, leading him to the next main bridge way.

Spine, he reminded himself. Then, a moment later: . . . whatever.

He crossed the suspended corridor, glancing through the windows that ran from floor to ceiling on either side. Yellow-white streetlights dotted the night, casting small pools of brightness on the street below. He paused, half expecting a vehicle to appear out of the darkness. None did, and he continued on.

He remained on the upper level as he entered the building. It really made no difference, as the first and second levels converged at the glass stairwell that also led into the next building. He liked the view from this floor, as it often overlooked wide expanses of the bottom level. Below him now was the second of the complex’s three cafeterias. Dark discs marked the floor like enormous polka dots. John knew these were the large circular tables where the employees sat and ate, or held impromptu meetings.

Continuing on, he entered a row of glass-walled offices and conference rooms. From the latter, he occasionally saw the faint blue glow coming from the power button on the large monitors mounted on their walls. He then passed through a section of uniform cubicles, and then through set of offices. It was not dark here, but the lighting had been reduced to only a few overhead banks, and those had been dimmed. The space did not feel eerie or threatening; it just felt empty.

He left that area and entered one that seemed more open, similar to the space near the cafeteria. The air felt different here. It seemed stale and dry. John rubbed absently at his hands, noticing that it also seemed colder here. When he saw the sheets of frosted plastic hanging down from the levels above, he remembered that the old man—Benton, he corrected himself—had told him that this area was under construction. He saw the door that led to the glass-enclosed stairwell ahead. He did not need the stairs, as he was just using the alcove to pass into the next building.

The Stories of the Wild One (continued)

The interior of space is filled with shadows; she can make out few, if any, of its details more than a few yards away on either side. She wishes she had flashlight, but also thinks that she might look pretty foolish with one.

Again, she wonders whether it is safe to cross this corridor. She turns and checks the glass pane of the door. There is no warning sign posted there—only a corporate flyer about an internal promotional event from two days earlier. Straightening with self-imposed confidence, she moves forward.

The door closes and locks behind her with an audible click. Unlike before, this time the sound disappears quickly within the vast, dark space. For some reason, she turns to check the door. She discovers that there is no security panel on this side. Feeling a sudden, sharp knot in her stomach, she realizes that she is committed now.

Staring into the dark span ahead, she pauses, coming to the conclusion that the time for persistence might be past. If the exit ahead is blocked, then she will be trapped within this space. Angry with her own sense of defeat, she reaches into her bag and removes her phone. The small glow radiating from its screen is an unexpected comfort. She scrolls quickly through the numbers, certain that she had program the number for security into the device. She locates it and presses the Call button.

A few moments later, the call fails. She checks the display: No Signal. She swears, although whether at the device, the cellular company, the building, or herself, she is not certain. She slips the phone into her pocket, grabs the extended handle of her case and marches forward.

She is nearly at what she believes is the halfway point when she realizes that she can no longer see the exit door ahead. Stopping, she turns and cannot locate the one that she had just passed through. Around her, there is barely enough light to see, but everything is vague shapes and shadows. Whatever little illumination there is seems to come from nowhere, and everywhere. She cannot pinpoint its specific sources and finally assumes that it reflected from somewhere outside the building.

More out of concern for her safety, than from any sense of fear, she pulls the phone from her pocket. She activates its display, solely for the small amount of illumination that it provides.

Better than nothing . . .

She slides it in her palm for a better grip. It slips from her fingers, clattering onto the floor somewhere to her left. She sees it bounce twice and then its display goes dark. Stepping toward, she hears something crunch beneath her shoe. She stops, wondering what it was, and recognizing how dangerous it might to roam off the walkway in the dark, even if she is certain that her phone is only a yard or so away.

That moment of being startled has disoriented her. She realizes that she can no longer be sure exactly where the phone has fallen. Looking ahead again, she still cannot see the far exit door. Looking down, she believes that she can see the faint gray strip of carpet that lines the corridor. If she stays on it, she believes, she should reach the next door.

She begins moving forward again, slowly. Although she looks down almost the entire time, it is difficult to see the carpeted path. She is beginning to breathe hard again. She wonders at this, for she is neither moving all that quickly, nor does the path incline upward. If anything, it has a slight downward slant. Still, she continues on.

Her breathing does not come any easier as she moves along the path, deeper into the darkness. The back of her throat begins to feel raw from forcing dry, dust-laden air through it. She feels it in her nasal passages as well. It is not like a building sneeze, but a sensation of almost painful dryness. Her chest feels tight. Within it, her heart beats harder, faster.

The air is heavy with construction residue. She recognizes now the tang that has been stinging her nostrils. Countless solvents and other chemicals have been in use here, none of them healthy of a human being without protection to inhale for any length of time.

There’s no circulation in here, she realizes. They only run it during the day.

She has trouble putting her thoughts together. They seemed to make sense, but she is not certain that they really did. She grasps for focus, trying to stave off the lightheaded sensation that makes her thoughts want to float free.

Damn.

She pants out the word as if she had spoken it aloud. She is not sure that she could have. It takes an effort to breathe even that much.

She stumbles, gripping the extended handle of her case for support. It holds her upright for an instant. Then, its wheels glide it backward. She tumbles on top of it, her legs no longer able to support her. It impacts her below her rib cage, paralyzing her diaphragm. She gasps for breath, willing her lungs to function.

In the moment just before she surrenders to terror, she is able to breathe again. She pants, deeply, drawing in more and more of the poisonous vapors around her. Lifting her head, she looks in the direction of the door. She still cannot see it. Turning her head, she realizes that she is no longer sure at all in which direction she was heading.

She looks down, trying to find the gray path provided by the carpeting. It is difficult for her to focus on it, for dark patches float across her vision. She tries to breathe more slowly, telling herself that she was hyperventilating. It helps. For a moment.

Darkness swims before her eyes. She feels like she is spinning. But is sure—almost sure—that she is not moving.

Phone.

She forgets that she no longer has it. She reaches for it, scrabbling on the floor in front of her in order to reach it. Her fingers brush against carpet fibers and grit. Even those sensations, though, vanish from her awareness an instant later. Her throat spasms, blocking her airway. She is unable to draw in the air that it needs—that she needs.

Her consciousness fades slowly, slowly enough that she can follow its progression. Blackness fills her sight. The sensations of her body—the toppled case pressing hard against her stomach, her abraded fingertips against the carpet—become distant. She struggles to hold onto her mind, to construct coherent and lasting thoughts.

Not.

Fair.

Any words that come after those are lost.

The last light within in her mind fades to darkness. Oblivion consumes her.

#

“Sorry, John,” George, his shift supervisor told him. “The head office makes these assignments, not me.” He gave John a sympathetic, but serious look. “Part of the problem with being the new kid on the block, kid,” he told John. “You get sent where and when they need you until a regular shift opens up.”

John opened his mouth to protest, but thought better of it. He knew that there was not anything that George could do about it, at least not this far into the shift. He sighed, trying only a little to hide it.

“Where is this place?”

George looked down at the display. “Looks like somewhere on the northeast side,” he said. He looked back up at John with a mischievous smile. “You don’t have a GPS?”

John just stared back at him, not feeling like playing along. “I just wanted to know.”

“Sure,” George agreed, turning away. “Make sure you log in.”

John nodded without replying aloud.

He turned and headed back to his car, less than excited about the at least half-hour drive to patrol site. He was grateful that this was neither the morning nor evening shift. Getting to the other side of the city at those times could easily take over an hour. He could recall occasions when he had sat in traffic listening to his dispatcher pass on messages from the site demanding to know where their relief security officer was. More than once, John had just turned the radio off, as there was absolutely nothing that he could do to make the traffic move any more quickly.

Of course, there was that one time when they cancelled my shift by the time I got there . . .

A fatal accident had closed his side of freeway for nearly two hours. The dispatcher had tried to reach him a little over to let him know that he should just turn around and come back.

As if I could have . . .

With the traffic literally stopped, there was not even an opportunity to pull off at the nearest off-ramp, for no one was moving. In the lack of any truly accurate information as to what was happening and when the road might be re-opened. Three updates had been broadcast, each one prolonging their stationary existence by nearly an hour each time. From what John could tell, everyone had apparently decided to just remain where they were.

He pulled onto the expressway, relieved to see only a handful of cars on the road. On a weekday night, he would have been surprised to see very many more. Still, he was careful to follow the speed limit, knowing any of the headlights behind him could belong to a highway patrolman.

The drive to the site was uneventful. The only incident he found even remotely noteworthy was when a dark-colored European sports car dashed past him easily going at least ninety miles an hour. He watched its taillights vanish into the night ahead, feeling just a little envious.

I guess if you can afford one of those, you don’t care about speeding tickets . . . or insurance.

The reminder of the latter made him check his own speedometer. He eased off the gas pedal slightly, moving more into the safety range.

They can catch me . . .

One of the driving school sessions that he had been required to attend had been taught by a retired highway patrol officer. One of the students there had asked why he had been ticketed when other drivers had clearly been going much faster than he was.

“Because we could catch you,” the officer had replied with only the slightest trace of humor.

John could tell that the student had been unhappy with the answer, but also clearly sobered by it. It was a revelation for John as well. It took some of the excitement out of it knowing that he would be the one taking the fall if he happened to be in the slowest of the speeding vehicles. It made him wish once again that he had a sportier car, and then remembered what his father had shown him his insurance payments were going to be as it was.

He arrived at the site, a large office complex of four enormous interlinked buildings. He seemed to take forever to travel along the outer perimeter road to where the main lobby was located. For than once, he was convinced that he had passed it somehow in the dark. Only the continued increase in the numbers that designated the various parking lots and parking structure entrances reassured him that he had not.

When he finally reached the main entrance, he discovered that it was very clearly marked.

Don’t want visitors getting lost, right?

He pulled into a space in the front visitor lot and turned off the car.

One perk of working graveyard, he thought with a smile.

He had only worked at this site on two other occasions: once during the regular day shift and the second filling in for an officer who had called out sick midway through his shift. Both of those times, he had been informed, rather rudely John thought, that would need to use one of the regular parking structures. Both times, they were packed, and he found himself walking nearly half the length of the complex to get back to the lobby area.

Grabbing his cap and pad from the passenger seat, he exited the car and then locked it, pausing until he heard the reassuring chirp of the alarm system being activated. Donning his cap as he walked, he strode the cobblestoned path to the main entrance.

The guard on duty looked up as he walked through the double sliding doors. He was older man, probably somewhere around in his fifties. He scowled at John as he entered, scrutinizing the badge that John proffered for inspection. John waited, trying not to let his annoyance and impatience show as the older man called the main office to verify his identity. From the older man’s expression, he seemed less than pleased to learn that John was, in fact, authorized to be there.

It’s going to be a long night . . .

The older man handed John back his badge, dropping it into his open palm as if it were tainted specimen slide.

Maybe next time I will lick it first, he mused, managing to suppress a smile at the notion. The thought of actually doing it, however, disgusted him. I know where that badge has been . . .

“You got a flashlight?” the older man asked with gruff suspicion, as if expecting John to have arrived unprepared.

As Josh slid the long-handled light from his belt, he fought back a gratified smile. Then, he decided let his grin show. Holding up the flashlight, he displayed it proudly for the older guard’s inspection. It was one of his prized possessions. It was a professional-grade, tactical model. Well-balanced, it also had enough heft that it could be used as an extra truncheon, if needed. Its beam was much brighter than the standard-issue models, and its spread could be adjusted within a far wider range. Although the security company provided him with a basic one as part of his standard equipment, he had purchased this one with his own money.

The older guard grunted indifferently, but John could see in his eyes that he was impressed. For a moment, John considered allowing the older man to look it over, but decided to wait until the man actually asked to see it. John gave himself even odds that it would happen before the shift was over.

Reaching into a drawer behind the security desk, the older man pulled out an access card and held it out toward John.

“You’ll need this,” he told John. “And don’t lose it. They don’t like it when you lose it.”

John guessed that “they” were however ran the company—or at least whoever hired the security company.

“I won’t,” he promised, keeping several more flippant responses to himself as he clipped it onto his belt.

“See that you don’t.”

John studied the older man for a moment, wondering how long he had worked here and whether he had, during all that time, ever lost a badge. John was willing to bet that he had.

The Stories of the Wild One (continued)

Arrogance is not a crime, he tells himself. But it should be.

He knows this is an extreme response. Yet, he cannot look upon this name and image without experiencing a crashing wave of fury. He understood the desire for power—he even understood the beneficial uses of power. What he could not abide was the abuse of power. He recognized that everyone possessed dark spots in their souls, and that power had the potential to corrupt, but they had free will—the free will to choose how they used the power that they possessed.

The printer stops humming and he reaches down and removes the papers from the tray. They are still warm. He stacks them neatly and slides a paper clip over the top left edge. He ponders the large box containing the bag, trying to determine the appropriate color to use. Sometimes it comes to him, sometimes not. It is, he realizes, an ultimately meaningless decision, but he relishes the moment of decision nonetheless.

He selects one with yellow panels and white trim. He does not know what why this is the correct choice, at least not consciously, but it feels right. He removes the merchandising tags from the outside the bag and then opens it. Reaching inside, he pulls out the crumpled kraft paper used to help the bag somewhat keep its shape during shipping. He removes those with the neat stack of printed sheets and pulls the zippers closed. He looks around, frowning when he cannot locate the shipping box, and then remembers that it is still stacked, unassembled, with the other ten of them.

It takes him only a few minutes to unfold and assembled the box. He slides the bag inside. It fits perfectly, of course. Sealing it closed with clear packing tape, he sets it aside and prepares the label. As with the first two packages, and will be for the remaining ones, this is perhaps one of the trickiest parts of the plan. Still, he feels up to the challenge, having carefully thought through this from the beginning.

With the label completed, he sets the package aside.

#

Leanna Hartford walks through the vacant corridors, aware that they were empty, but giving the fact no real attention. She has worked much later than is usual for her, so is not surprised to find that most the cubicles and hallways are unoccupied. She approaches the door, absently waving her badge at the security panel, and then nearly runs hard into it when it fails to unlock and open.

Frowning, she waves her badge over the panel again. The indicator light blinks from red to green, but she does not hear the locking mechanism disengage. Releasing her grip on the raised handle of her rolling briefcase, she tugs at the door handle. It does not open. She tries her badge again with the same result.

Cursing under her breath, she turns around, surveying the other interior doors. This is the one she almost always uses. She is not certain where the other exit routes are on this side of the building. She tugs angrily at the handle of her briefcase, and then turns and heads toward the main corridor that runs along the inner perimeter of the building complex. There will be maps mounted along the walls there, and they should show alternate routes and exits to the parking garage that she wants. With that, though, she tries to remember exactly where she had parked her car. She had not taken notice of it, as she picked in nearly the same location every day. This time, though, as she will be coming at it from an unaccustomed direction.

Light filters down on her as she passes through the glass-lined corridors. It is nearly dark outside, but the interior lighting refracts outward, giving the world a gray, murky look. She makes her way up the incline of the passageway, and then stops when she reaches T-shaped intersection at its end. Glancing both left and right down the lengths of the connecting corridor, she sees no one else. She might have caught a brief glimpse of someone exiting through one of the security turnstiles, but she is not certain.

Studying the map, she sees that there were two possible routes to the parking garage she wants. She sees two additional exits marked along each route, all of these closer to her, but they are all locked down this late in the evening. One of the routes, although it was not marked on the map, she knows is under construction. The company is reconfiguring the space in an attempt to pack more employees in the same number of square feet. She had not given it any consideration before, as it did not impact her in any real way. In fact, she had rather thought that the employees who had complained about it should find something more productive to do with their time—such as focusing more on keeping their jobs. Now, though, it served as a major inconvenience.

Crafting the message that she plans send to Facilities in her mind, she heads down the corridor to the nearest accessible exit. The corridor continues to slope slightly upward, adding to her growing fatigue from the long day. Along the way, she passes a maintenance employee pushing a large wheeled garbage cart without acknowledging them. She continues onward, relieved when she spots the security turnstile.

Letting her case coast to a stop behind her, she waves her badge in front of the panel. The glowing indicator flashes from red to green. She reaches out to push the turnstile blades. It does not budget. She pushes harder, knowing that sometimes it takes a little momentum to get it moving, but it remains locked in place. She tries her badge again, with the same results.

Her considerable annoyance rises toward full-blown anger. The other accessible door is an entire building over from where she is now. In addition, she realizes that she will need to walk the length of two buildings across the parking garage in order to reach where her car is parked. Out of frustrated desperation, she tries both her badge and the gate again without success. She resists the urge to slam her hand against the turnstile blades, but just barely. Turning and dragging her case behind her, she continues along the perimeter corridor to the next door.

It is fully dark outside the windows now. She cannot see more than few feet out into the night. Small yellow-white lights dotted the outside of the building at regular intervals, but they provide little visibility outside their immediate vicinity. She pays little attention to them, focused on her goal—and trying not to think about how tired she is and how her feet are really beginning to hurt.

Reaching the second security gate takes her much longer than she anticipated. She begins to wonder whether she read the map wrong, or if perhaps the map itself did not reflect the current configuration of the buildings.

“Wouldn’t surprise me,” she grumbles aloud.

She nearly considers turning around and heading back, stopping to use of the internal lines mounted along the walls to call Security and ask them to escort her out.

Should have thought of that in the first place, she chastises herself. They could have opened those damn gates for me.

Just before she decides to turn around, she spies the translucent spines of the security turnstile. She quickens her pace slightly, and then realizes how slowly she had been moving. She can see it ahead and forces herself to finish the small ascent to it.

Why does every damned hallway here go uphill?

Breathing harder now, she pauses at the gate for a moment to gather her breath before reaching for her badge. She is definitely upset now, but too winded to feel truly angry. Still, she waves her card savagely before the security plate, blowing out a loud breath when the light switches from red to green. She grips the edge of one of the turnstile blades and shoves it, hard. There is a sound, but it is one from the locking mechanism holding tight as she presses against it.

She snarls, releasing her grip on the handle of her case. Pressing her card flat against the scanner, she pushes at the same time at the turnstile. She stares at the indicator light: green. Her card has been accepted, but the gate refuses to move.

Stepping back from the gate, she breathes hard with unfettered anger.

Don’t tell me they lock all the gates now!

She wants to scream. If that is so, then the only available exit is through the main lobby—all the way across the complex from where she stands now.

Gripping the gate, she shakes it hard, hearing its mechanisms rattle. She knows that will do her no good, nor does it help ease her frustration. To make it worse, she sees the telephone resting on the security desk within the alcove between her and the outer door to the parking garage. It seems to taunt her with its very presence.

Swearing aloud this time, not caring whether anyone is around to hear her. Or, perhaps, hoping that someone might be, for they might be able let her out of this rat maze of a building.

Grunting with unreleased frustration, she realizes what she must do next. Her only option remaining is to take the alternate route that passes through the construction zone. To say that she is less than thrilled by the idea would be an understatement.

At least it’ll take me near the lobby, she realizes, should she be unable to leave the building through the other exit as well.

She checks her watch, suddenly aware of how much time this has taken her so far. It makes her feel more tired than furious, but anger simmers just below that surface.

Beginning the trek back, she realizes just how much all of the corridors look alike. They all have the same base of dull gray carpeting. The walls of each building are supposed to be painted a different color, but they are all done with such muted hues, that they blur into one another without remaining in one’s memory. During the day, she realizes, when the outside world is visible, it probably provides landmarks to help identify each building and each section. At night, there is nothing but an even blanket of darkness.

At least I seem to be going downhill this time, she realized, belatedly wishing that she had taken this route the first time.

The interior also seems darker now as well. She recognizes that it is likely due to there being fewer lights being used in the areas under construction at night. She hopes that at least some of them are operating. That could be bad, she realizes, for if there is no power for lights, there might not be any for the doors and their security systems.

She enters a wide area that used to overlook a warehouse floor. Now, enormous sheets of translucent plastic hang from the rafters, dividing the space into work zones, she guesses.

The glass doors at the end of the walkway allow her to pass through. She is surprised at how relieved she is by that.

At least some of them are working . . .

It does increase her confidence that the ones leading to the parking garages at this end of the complex might actually let her through. To her right within the enclosure is a set of stairs. A small flight of them lead downward, toward the area where the factory operations had once been. Above them are steps that lead to the upper levels of the building. Ahead of her is another glass door, also secured by a security access panel. She waves her badge before it. She hears the door unlock.

Almost hurriedly, she pushes her way through it, as if afraid that it might change her mind, locking her within the tall glass alcove. The door closes and locks behind her. The sound is loud in the empty hallway, echoing sharply against the bare panels of plywood and metal. She moves quickly down the corridor, her eyes on the next door ahead.

The space is open and dark. Only a handful of small, widely spaced banks of emergency lighting illuminate the area. She wonders whether she should even be there at all, particularly at night.

There wasn’t a sign . . .

She continues moving quickly, careful of the chunks of lumber and other debris that litter the floor. Her bag catches on something as she drags it behind her. When she turns to pull it free, her shoe collides with something, knocking the unseen object into the darkness. Her bag freed, she walks on until she reaches the next door.

This door, like nearly all of the others within this complex, is also locked. The small red indicator on the security is a bright point of light. She looks beyond the door into the corridor beyond. It appears to be dark, or at least even less illuminated than the space she just traveled through. She swipes her badge tests the door, hoping that its glass is tinted. The door opens.

She pauses in the doorway, peering into the dimly lit space beyond it. There appear to be few lights within the space, but some light trickles in through the immense windows. She believes that she can see the door at the far end. The interior of space is filled with shadows; she can make out few, if any, of its details.

The Stories of the Wild One (continued)

“Interesting,” Saxon murmured, finding it genuinely so. “Do they know what caused it then?”

“I don’t know,” John replied irritably, reaching for the slide of toast that had just popped up. “I think the sergeant had an idea,” Josh said. “But he didn’t tell me,” he munched thoughtfully. “I think it might have had something to do with that paper he found in the bag.”

He paused for moment, chewing slowly.

“You know,” he said, waving the half-eaten slice of bread in front of him. “There were some papers in the bag in that lady’s car too,” he said. “I just thought they were just her kid’s homework or something.”

He wiped the crumbs off his hands by rubbing them along the front of his shirt.

“I’m going to bed,” he announced. “I’m wiped.”

“Good night,” Saxon offered as his son turned and left the kitchen.

His son said nothing in return, which was not unusual. Saxon watched in silence as his son’s lanky form disappeared into the shadows of the hallway. He heard the sound of John’s door latching closed and turned his attention once more to his breakfast. That is, to his reconstruction of it, as John had eaten nearly half of what he had already prepared once.

He did remember John mentioning part about the snake before, although it had apparently happened only a few days earlier. On nights when his son worked the graveyard shift, though, they rarely saw each one another. When they did, it was usually only a few minutes of brief conversation before John collapsed into bed. This morning was fairly typical, although on most nights John’s night shift patrols were far less eventful.

Saxon pondered what he had heard. A woman was dead; a snake apparently involved in her death. A man had died under suspicious circumstances, ones apparently not involving a snake. Common in both deaths was a gym bag of unspecified description.

So apparently not very memorable in its appearance, Saxon thought.

As far as he was concerned, one gym bag pretty much looked like any other, with the possible exception of it sporting a different athletic team or merchandising logo. Both bags had apparently also contained several sheets of paper. John had apparently not been given a chance to see what they contained.

Saxon mused over these observations as he spread margarine on the freshly toasted bread. Then, picking up the plate and his mug of coffee, he headed back to his computer to see what other news there might be.

#

He checks the public police records and published obituaries. It requires more effort than he would have thought, but he finds what he seeks. Seeing the disorganized state of the local police reports, he begins to believe that he might complete his “project” before he is forced to relocate because they have managed to correlate the evidence enough to suggest his involvement. For now, though, he feels safe.

Two deaths. Any traits in common between them, he knows, will likely be dismissed as coincidence—certainly not enough to warrant any kind of immediate deeper analysis. Even so, he reviews his plan for the next one.

Carefully, he mentally walks through the dependencies and the steps. There are, of course, points during its execution—he smirks silently at the term—where the risk of failure or detection could become too great. He is ready, should it become necessary at those pivotal points, to abandon the plan and try again another time. Doing so might require, he knows, an entirely new plan.

He makes one small adjustment to the timing of one step, but he finds no new flaws in his plan. Satisfied, saves it and begins to print it out. While he waits, he brings up his list once more and studies it.

The Stories of the Wild One (continued)

“You’re late.”

Saxon Reade glanced at the clock on the kitchen wall and then back at his son. His son looked tired. He pulled off his dark uniform cap and run a hand across his closely trimmed scalp.

“I got stuck up on the Hill,” he said, casually snatching a slice of toast from his father’s plate.

Saxon felt a sudden hollow lump at the pit of his stomach. “What were you doing up there?”

“Gate guard called in sick,” he replied around a mouthful of toast. “They needed someone, so I took the extra shift.”

He swallowed the last bite of toast and reached for another slice. Saxon tried to pull the plate away, but his son was fast and, at six-foot-two, had a much longer reach then he did. John gave him a cock smile and Saxon resisted the urge to playfully dump the crumbs on his son’s head.

“Some guy died,” Josh said, munching a bit more slowly on the second slide. “And then they got all weird about it.”

“What do you mean?” Saxon asked, dropping two fresh slices of bread into the toaster. He paused a moment and then added two more.

“I don’t know,” John shrugged, clearly puzzled. “They wouldn’t tell me anything.”

He leaned against the refrigerator, wiping the crumbs from his hands, and then crossed his arms.

“I mean,” he went on. “I knew the guy was dead,” he explained. “But then they started bagging and tagging the bottle, the container, the empty box—even the gym bag!”

“Oh?”

“Yeah,” John said, responding to a question that Saxon had not realized he had asked aloud. “It was just like the one in the car of that lady from a few days ago who got off’ed by that snake.”

John toyed with his hat, stalling until the next batch of toast was ready.

“Not the same color,” he amended casually. “But the same type.”

Saxon nodded his understanding. “Were they both killed by snakes?”

John shook his head. “The sergeant said ‘No’”, he replied. “He said there were no puncture wounds or something.”

The Stories of the Wild One (continued)

“I don’t know,” she said replied in a hushed voice. “I need to think about it.”

Samantha studied her skeptically, but said nothing.

The names of people he had ever mentioned with anger came to her mind; she could even put faces with some of them. She could not decide which of them he might truly want to harm. The list was not long, but for many of them she did not know the details of how they had wrong him, so it was difficult for her to determine which of them might be most at risk. She realized then what her other problem was.

It was true that she had long been concerned that, some day, he might finally succumb to his buried rage. Over the years, she had worried over it more than once. Yet, during all that time, he always managed to remain poised at the precipice of such madness, without ever passing over its edge.

Until now.

She had no proof. She had chatted with him less than forty hours before Samantha had received his message. Nothing in his behavior had seemed any different than most other days.

What did I miss?

“I don’t know,” Samantha replied quietly. Her voice startled Sabrina, who had not realized that she had spoken the question aloud. “I’ve been wondering the same thing.”

“He didn’t say anything during his session?”

“No,” Samantha said. “Nothing I can . . .” she trailed off, clearly remembering something. “Just a sec, Bree,” she said. “Let me check something.”

The screen went gray, but Sabrina could hear Samantha’s fingers on the keyboard on the other end. A few moments later, her face reappeared. Her expression was grim and stricken. The knot in Sabrina’s stomach tightened further.

“What is it?”

“He ordered them the same day,” she said. “About an hour after our session,” she explained. “I checked the receipt.”

Sabrina stared at Samantha, trying to think of something reassuring she could say. It was clear that Samantha was blaming herself, and heaping on additional helpings of blame that she must have missed important clues that she should have seen. Even while wanting to be sympathetic, a part of her wanted to scream, to rip into Samantha for not noticing at the time whatever it was that had triggered him.

“He must have said something,” she insisted, trying hard not to allow her to frustration to show in her voice. Samantha, she could tell, was not fooled.

“No,” Samantha repeated, shaking her head. “Nothing,” she said. “It was a normal session.”

This statement earned her a dubious look from Sabrina. She returned it with a mildly annoyed one of her own.

“You know what I mean.” She looked away from the screen, apparently playing the coaching session back in her mind. “The topic didn’t even come up,” she said. “Not even remotely.”

What did you talk about then?

Sabrina knew that she could not ask. Samantha might have answered her, but she did not want to put her friend in that kind of position unless it truly was a matter of life or death.

How do I know it isn’t?

“It had nothing to do with this,” Samantha insisted. “Honest.”

Sabrina stared back at her, studying Samantha’s expression. Something in her body language told Sabrina that she was holding something back—not lying, exactly, but not revealing some troublesome piece of information. Sabrina wanted to demand that Samantha to tell her, even going so far that her mouth nearly formed the words, but she stopped herself just short of actually speaking them aloud.

“What do we do then?” she finally asked.

“Pray to the Goddess?”

Sabrina could tell that her friend was serious. Unfortunately, she had no better solution to offer.

#

John walked through the open front door, having completed another quick patrol around the perimeter of the house. On this trip he had discovered nothing new since the previous one—except for several additional sets of boot prints angled across the lawn. He paused in the doorway, startled to discover two uniformed police officers standing in the middle of the living room. They had not been there when he had left.

His startlement turned into surprise when he realized that he recognized both of them. Had they arrived separately, he might not have made the connection as quickly, if at all. They were the same two officers who had responded to that grisly call at the corporate complex just over the hill.

The two officers were conversing quietly, with seemingly casual unconcern with what had happened within the home. They both turned their heads at the sound of heavy footfalls descending the stairs. A tall figure in a dark EMT jumpsuit came into view. He was lean, but clearly fit, with lightly tanned skin.

“What’s the story, Jerry?” the police sergeant asked.

The EMT, apparently named Jerry, paused at the bottom of the stairs. He adjusted his grip on the two large equipment cases that he carried.

“There was nothing we could for him,” Jerry reported. “He’s been dead for hours.”

John had not gone upstairs, so he had to picture the scene in his mind. In reality, he realized, it was probably far less grisly than what he imagined. He stepped further into the living room, stopping to stand next to an expensive looking coffee table.

“Looks like maybe a stroke or aneurysm,” Jerry said. “Some kind of hemorrhage.”

The sergeant frowned. “Hemorrhage?”

Jerry nodded. “That’s what it looks like,” he said. “The coroner’ll have to figure what caused it.”

“Hemorrhage,” the sergeant repeated in flat, quiet tone. “Aneurysm.”

Randall, the younger officer, looked toward the sergeant expectantly, awaiting an explanation. John realized then why it sounded familiar. Those were the same words the sergeant had used when they had discovered the dead woman in the parking garage.

“Did you check the room for snakes?” the sergeant asked.

Jerry stared back at the older officer, his eyebrows rising skeptically.

“You’re kidding,” he said. “Right?”

The sergeant stared back, fixing his gaze on the EMT’s.

John watched as a faint shudder rippled through the EMT’s body as Jerry realized that he might have just spent time in the same room as a venomous serpent.

“You’re not.”

“I’m not,” the sergeant agreed.

Jerry looked toward the upper level of the house. “Well, I’m not going back up there.”

“I’ll call Animal Control,” Randall volunteered.

The sergeant turned toward his young partner with a look that bordered on disdain.

“Just hold on,” he told Randall.

Drawing his baton, he strode past a bemused Jerry and headed up the stairs.

Jerry shook his head and then continued on out the front door. John stood awkwardly, uncertain of what to do, and lacking anything that sounded intelligent to say.

“You sure get around, kid,” Randall remarked, his eyes surveying John in his security uniform.

For some reason, the young police officer’s gaze made him uneasy. He felt like he was being inspected like a slab of meat. He began to wonder then which side of the street Randall swung on. The thought that he might be being judged in that fashion made his skin want to crawl.

He was saved from considering that further by the sergeant’s return down the staircase.

“That was quick,” Randall said, looking slightly smug.

The sergeant ignored his expression. “Not a snake,” he reported grimly. “No puncture wounds.”

“So it was like Jerry said,” Randall said.

The lines tightened around the sergeant’s mouth. “Yeah,” he agreed, clearly skeptical. “Maybe.”

He paused there, at the bottom of the stairs, almost in exactly the same place where Jerry had stood.

“I still want a toxicology report,” he told Randall.

The young officer nodded. “Sure thing. I’ll let them know.”

The sergeant nodded, apparently satisfied with the response. His eyes turned now toward the front door, and then he slowly surveyed the room, his gaze sweeping steadily across the scene.

“Any idea what was in the box?” he asked.

It took John a moment to realize what the sergeant was referring to. Sitting on the coffee table next to him was a small cardboard box. Leaning over slightly, he peered inside it. It appeared to be empty.

“This, I guess,” John said, picking up a short, wide cylinder made of some kind of dark material.

It was plain, except for a raised logo about halfway down its length.

“Looks like booze,” Randall offered, grinning slightly.

The sergeant turned his gaze toward Randall and his smile faded like a sudden sunset. He then turned to John, his eyes on the cylinder. Feeling the warm flush of embarrassment, John passed it over. The sergeant took it without a word and rotated it in his hands, examining its exterior. He then looked inside it and then, apparently done with his inspection of it, placed it back down on the table.

Lifting his head, he looked toward the far corner of the room. There, John saw a small custom-installed wet bar that he had noticed earlier. The sergeant strode over to it and stood behind the bar counter. He looked oddly out of place there. John suspected that it was not just from the uniform he wore. While he could imagine the sergeant seated on the other side of the bar (off-duty, of course), John could not picture him serving drinks from behind it.

He moved in closer to the bar, trailed closely by Randall. The sergeant stood there, his hands resting lightly at his sides on his belt, looking over the contents of the bar. He reached down and lifted a glass from the small sink. Water dripped from it, having apparently recently been rinsed off. The sergeant lifted it toward his nose and took a cautious sniff. John thought he was going to return it to the sink. Instead, he frowned, studying the bottles arranged along the wall on one section of the bar.

He frowned. “Randall,” he said. “Give me a bag.”

Randall seemed startled by the request. He recovered quickly and then reached into a pouch on his belt. He withdrew a neatly folded clear plastic bag. He unfolded it and then held one edge of it open for the sergeant. The older officer carefully dropped the glass into the bag.

“Tag it,” he told Randall, and returned to his inspection of the bar’s contents.

Several moments passed. John and Randall exchanged a few glances, but neither of them said a word. The sergeant continued to look over the bottle and bar tools, looking for exactly what, John could not guess. Finally, he left one of the bottles away from the others. It was very elegantly designed, but the sergeant seemed more interested in what was on its label.

John leaned closer, trying to see what had drawn the sergeant’s attention. He saw then that the label had the same emblem that he had noticed embossed on the cylinder. The sergeant’s expression did not change, but Randall whistled appreciatively.

“Good stuff,” he murmured.

John looked toward him questioningly. Randall grinned.

“Top-grade tequila,” he explained. “Probably costs more than you make in a month.”

John’s cheeks tingled. He had been assigned to this particular patrol enough times that the novelty of the relative wealth of the neighborhood’s residents had diminished considerably. Looking around the interior of the home, as if he were seeing it for the first time, brought that feeling back anew.

The sergeant studied the bottle, cradling it carefully, and then placed it very gently onto the polished bar top.

“What’s that?” he asked, looking toward the coffee table again.

John looked down, seeing the cylinder again and then the empty box that it had supposed arrived in. He then noticed another item that he had not paid attention to before. It was a small gym bag, probably large enough to have held the cylinder. John glanced at the box, trying to judge whether or not the bag might have fit inside it.

Or they might not be connected at all.

Something in his gut told him otherwise. A moment later, he realized why. Except for being a different combination of colors, it looked like the one they had found inside the car that had contained the snake.

Randall moved closer to it, his hand coming down to rest on his weapon, and peered inside. A moment later, John saw Randall’s body relax.

“It’s empty,” he announced. “Except for some papers,” he added, trying to sound casual.

John was not fooled. He knew that just a few moments earlier, the young officer had been terrified. John tried not to think about how he might have reacted had a snake leapt from the bag.

Something niggled at the back of his mind.

Except for some papers?

He remembered then. There had been a small stack of papers inside the other bag as well. At the time, he had assumed that it was probably homework belonging to one of the dead woman’s kids. Now, though, the unlikely coincidence that both bags would contain the same thing caused him to question that supposition.

The sergeant appeared to be thinking along the same lines.

“Papers?” he asked. “What kind?”

“I don’t know,” Randall shrugged, peering into the bag once more. “White ones,” he reported. “With writing.”

John was suddenly grateful that the sergeant’s hard stare was not directed at him. Randall seemed unaware of it at first. When he looked up, though, his expression froze. Sheepishly, he reached into the bag and withdrew the sheets of paper. He glanced at them for an instant, and then handed them to the sergeant.

The sergeant looked them over and then began reading them in detail. His expression was nearly unreadable, but John saw his lips thin into a tight line.

“Call this in,” he told Randall, his voice drawn tight. “Now.”

The Stories of the Wild One (continued)

“Now what?”

Sabrina stared at Samantha, worried about her beaten expression.

“I don’t know,” she finally answered, sounding as weary as Sabrina felt.

“We need to do . . . something,” Sabrina protested, resisting the urge to pound her fists against the desktop.

“I know,” Samantha agreed, breathing a quiet sigh. “I know.”

Resting her head in her hands, she stared downward, away from the screen. After several seconds, she looked back up at Sabrina.

“Do you even know where to begin?”

“What do you mean?”

Samantha looked tired, but desperately trying to rally herself. “If he were going to go after someone,” she said. “Do you have any clue who they might be?”

Sabrina sank slowly back into her chair, thinking about that, trying to put names to all of the times when he might have expressed outrage or anger toward someone

This should not be that hard, she thought.

It had, in fact, been rare for him to express any of those kinds of emotions. He tended to keep them under extremely tight control. Not Vulcan-like, she acknowledged, but still to a degree that she seldom witnessed among any of her other acquaintances.