The Stories of the Wild One (continued)

The haze grows darker, like growing storm clouds. They gather in silence. He thinks he should hear thunder . . . something. Then he realizes that he hears nothing . . . No, he hears the pulse of his heart as it labors to beat. All of his agony is now focused there, on his heart as it struggles, drained of blood, constricting tightly around itself. His lungs no longer function—or at least they no longer obey his will to force breath into his body.

Darkness thickens around him, leaving him with only the strangled sounds of his body for company. Pain sears his brain now, his thoughts spiking and then slowly shifting with sharp edges. Bright light sears his vision now, surprising him in the darkness.

The light?

Memories of childhood and stories about death and the light return to him. He tries to remember, but his thoughts and memories skitter away as he tries to keep hold on them.

One final breath. The light envelopes him . . . fades. There is silence. Whether there will also be peace, he does not yet know.

John swallowed, trying to make sense of the words he read. He knew that his father wrote strange stuff, but he had never guessed that it was anything like this. Spaceships and aliens, sure . . . but violent and bloody death scenes?

He stared down at the sheet. A chill spiked down his spine. He knew then what he had found—what he would find, if he searched his father’s files or hard drive.

Shit. Those envelopes . . .

The envelopes that had been at the scene of every suspicious death: they had included stories like these, describing the details of the person’s death before it had even happened.

A blueprint for murder.

Where had he heard that before?

John pondered it for only moment, dismissing it a piece of unimportant trivia. He stared down at the pages in his hand, his fingers unconsciously clutched around the sheets.

Who’s death is this?

He skimmed it again, but saw that no name was specifically mentioned in it. It seemed deliberate, and he wondered whether all of the stories had been done the same way.

Why? He knew who the victims would be.

John tried to understand it.

Didn’t he?

He remembered things he had read, about certain kinds of murderers. It had applied, he recalled, to military training as well: objectifying the enemy so that they were only just that: the enemy. They ceased to be person, to be individuals with hopes and dreams and connections to others.

John felt numb was shock, unable to cast his father in that light. For all the strangeness his father might have exhibited over the years, John had always seen it as harmless. He had seen violence and depravity in his job—signs of which he could not recall his father ever exhibiting.

How did I miss it?

Carefully, he placed the sheets back on the desk. As tempted as he was to conduct the search himself, he knew that it needed to be handled professionally. It was not that he could not manage it, but there was always the chance that the defense could claim that the evidence was tainted if not handled from start to finish by the correct authorities.

Damn it!

He could not believe it. It seemed so unlike his father—so unlike the man who would romp with the neighborhood kids in the front yard, take them on long bicycle rides up toward the historic farm. There was never anything—

They always say it’s the quiet ones . . . but that’s just a myth. Something broke him. But what?

John knew that, during his adolescence, he had put his share of strain on his parents. But his father had still been there for him: calm, rational . . . occasionally stubborn in his own way.

But why this?

It made a certain amount of sense, John realized.

The stories . . . that sounds like him. But . . .

The knot tightened in John’s stomach, sending a wave of vague nausea through him. It made no sense. He did not want to believe. Yet . . . here it was.

People snapped all the time. He knew this.

But . . . not Dad.

As much he wanted to, he could not deny the evidence that lay across the desk, nor nestled within the boxes.

And he’s still out there. Somewhere.

Was he out there, murdering someone even now?

John did not think so. The snippet of the story he had just read seemed unfinished, still a work in a progress. Still, he realized, that did not mean that a box had not been delivered to someone else.

No, John convinced himself with an unexpected certainty. He’s just on the run. His eyes turned toward the curtained window. But where?

Eventually, he knew, his father would need to return to the house.

The Stories of the Wild One (continued)

He waited, listening, trying to decide whether or not he had actually heard something. His subconscious apparently had, judging from his sudden tight grip around the handle of the taser.

Holding as still as he could manage, he stood there, waiting, and tried to listen. Whatever had prompted that unconscious response was not repeated, but it took an effort of actual will to loosen his cramped fingers from their grip on the taser.

“A bit jumpy, eh?” John murmured.

He moved toward the door again, feeling like a character in a bad horror movie. Any moment, he expected some murderous figure to appear in the doorway, wielding a chainsaw or bloody machete.

Get a grip, he warned himself.

This was how accidents happened—sometimes fatal ones, he knew. Officers on edge reacted without thinking, their animal brains overriding their training, wounding family members and fellow officers.

There.

It was a soft, quiet sound. It was so brief, though, that he could not make out what it was or where it had come from. Again, he waited, but after several long seconds it did not happen again. John began to wonder whether he might have imagined it—or, in his hyper-alert state, his subconscious was magnifying the smallest sounds as possible threats.

Taking a long, slow and calming breath, John closed and locked the door. The click of the lock seemed unnaturally loud. He turned back toward his father’s desk and the boxes stacked next to it.

Slowly, he sorted through the short stack of sheets on the desk. Some were bills, a few were receipts, and one seemed to be a story covered with handwritten corrections in bright red ink. He glanced at for only a moment, assuming that it was simply pages from one of his father’s countless manuscripts in progress.

How many of these has he actually ever published?

John felt a mild twinge of guilt that he did not know. His father’s stories, for the most part, had never interested him much. The usual settings and subject matter of starships and ray guns held small appeal for him. This, he assumed, was more of them same.

Even as he dropped it back to the desk, his eyes lingered on the top page for a moment. His subconscious registered something in the words they say there. John forced himself to read it more carefully.

A frigid chill shot through him. He stared down at the page, his gaze no longer focused on the page, but his mind seeing what had been described within its words there. He tried to swallow against rigid lump in his throat.

He screams, impaled by the post. His life blood flows from the wound, but not quickly enough that he will lose consciousness any time soon. Pain radiates from his chest, but he dare not move—any motion increases the agony. He gasps, trying to draw breath. Each inhalation brings more pain. He coughs, liquid thickly filling his lungs. Choking, he reflexively gasps, and agony tears through his chest.

He wants to cry out, to release the agony, but cannot draw enough breath—fears to. The blood begins to cool against his skin, thickening. The sensation makes him want to be ill, but only distantly. He realizes that his life blood continues to leak away.

A haze of gray pulses at the edges of his vision, like the slow lap of waves upon a still lake. It ebbs and flows, slowly, but inexorably. It clouds more of his vision with each beat, but slowly . . . slowly. He realizes that its pace matches the rhythm of his heart, the strangled constriction of his lungs. Both organs struggle in their own agony now, deprived of the vital life fluid they require to function.

The Stories of the Wild One (continued)

Feeling only slightly foolish, John pulled out his taser, aiming it ahead of him as it were a real pistol. Anyone who understood how the weapon worked--and he knew that his father did--would not be fooled, but it might make him hesitate just long enough for John to, if needed, disarm his father and subdue him.

John wondered, for a moment, if his father even knew how to handle a weapon. Sure, while he was growing up, there had been fake machine guns and swords, and even the occasional light saber (some of which his father still apparently owned), but he could not recall his father ever brandishing a real weapon of any kind. If anything, his father deplored violence in almost any form.

Even with those thoughts in mind, John did not let down his guard. The gun held up before him, John reached out and tried the door handle. It resisted at first, tightening his throat with a knot when he thought it was locked, and then turned. John breathed a slow breath of relief, not realizing that he had been holding it.

Slowly, cautiously, he pushed the door open, half-expecting it to be slammed closed in front of him. Although that did not happen, he was deliberate in his movement, listening for any sounds, alert for any motions.

The door swung fully open. The room was empty.

John paused, frowning. It was possible that the door had closed of its own accord, even prompted by his earlier movements within the room. His gut told him otherwise, even though there was no obvious evidence to support that feeling.

John turned slowly, moving in a tight circle until he once again faced the open doorway. He listened.

Nothing.

All he heard was the almost inaudible sound of air moving through the vents. If anyone else remained in the house, they remained silent and unmoving.

"Damn it," he whispered.

He wanted to turn back and search through the boxes on the floor and items on his father's desk, but something in him did not want him to turn his back on the open door.

That's strange, he pondered. He could not imagine his father attacking him from the rear unless provoked or fighting for his life.

*Maybe he is . . .* John considered grimly.

With a small, guilty start, he realized that he could close the door and lock it. If his father tried to enter, he would have plenty of warning in which to defend himself.

He reached for the door handle, and then stopped.

The Stories of the Wild One (continued)

There was no sign of his father. His car remained parked on the driveway, and John could not imagine the older man being able to run out of sight already, even given the time John had spent fighting with the garage door override. Studying the corner to his right, he decided that it was possible that his father might have made it that far and run down the cross street and out of sight.

Sure, John considered sourly. Like a middle-aged man running down the street in broad daylight wouldn’t be noticed.

It was possible, he decided, that it might not be, although not entirely likely. A few months ago, it might have been ignored, or forgotten within a few hours, by any neighbors who had happened to witness it. His father had a good reputation in the neighborhood. Although known for being a little different from most of the other fathers on the block—not caring much for football, for example—he had the neighborhood’s respect. They might not think much of it unless specifically asked.

The recent introduction of what essentially amounted to a virtual neighborhood watch program had made finding out about some things much simpler—but only if they were reported. There was a constant stream of reports of suspicious behavior, but it had become just so much noise—and John wondered whether it was still effective at all. In any case, his father’s presence or activities might go unreported even in that venue if he was recognized, unless he was unknown to someone—or acting in an obviously unusual or threatening manner.

Without turning around, John headed back toward the garage. If his father had fled, he was gone from sight. He had trouble imagining his father crouched, hiding in some bushes somewhere. It just did not seem like his father, but then never did what John believed that he had just discovered about his father.

As John stepped back into the garage, he wondered about his next move.

I should call the police.

That was the right and best thing to do, he knew, but something in his gut rebelled against the idea. It took him only a moment to recognize what it was.

He’s my dad, god damn it!

It felt noble, and stupid, but he needed to do this himself. He would bring his father in—to justice—rather than have him treated like some common criminal and the imaginable happened in the process. The case was just high-profile enough that the officers might be extra cautious when they apprehended him.

But you never know . . .

John walked back into the garage and reset the chain, slapping the door control on his way back into the house.

Once he was back inside it, he paused, taking a deep breath as he considered what to do next. His father might still be inside, hiding somewhere. Certainly, any clues that he might have left behind remained there. John wondered whether he should head back upstairs to his father’s office and search it more fully.

Something nagged at him, tickling his mind. It was a not a warning so much as a mental whisper that he might have forgotten something, that there was some detail he had failed to notice, some action that he was neglecting to take.

Fuck.

He hated it when that happened. Over time, though, he had come to learn to listen that impression. Moving through the house, he made his way slowly, carefully observing everything about its interior, looking for anything that seemed to be out of place or he could not remind being present before. Anything might provide a clue, he knew, to his father’s motives and whereabouts.

At the foot of the stairs, he paused again. Looking around, he checked once more for any signs of his father’s passage, or any clues that he might have missed earlier. Nothing seemed unusual or out of place, so he headed back up the stairs.

Before he reached the top, his hand tightened around the grip of his taser. It took John a moment to realize why. When he did, he heart felt like stone.

The door to his father’s office was closed.

He had not closed before heading down to the garage; he was sure of it. Even if it had somehow swung shut of its own accord, he did not believe that it would have closed completely. He froze, listening for any sounds coming from its interior—or from anywhere on that level of the house.

He heard nothing. If his father was hiding or moving around in the office, the door was muffling the sounds of his movements.

The Stories of the Wild One (continued)

He tugged on the cord, but nothing gave. Pausing for a moment, he tried to remember which way he needed to pull it to disengage the chain.

It’s not like I do this every day, he comforted himself.

John then remembered, through a sudden flash of memory, that it required a forward pull, in the direction of the door. He swore several mumbled words, as he had the least amount of traction and balance moving in that direction. Worried that he might lose his grip otherwise, he went ahead and yanked on the cord. Once again, nothing moved; he began to doubt his memory.

Grunting with the effort, and the sharp pain that shot down his overextended fingers, he tried again. The lock remained in place, and then, with a sudden movement, snapped free.

John stumbled forward, crashing against a low stack of crates. He managed to catch himself before he sprawled completely, but still managed to make plenty of noise. Even as he swore none too softly, he hoped there had been nothing too breakable in any of them.

The handle swung wildly on its cord. John hoped that he had managed to pull it far enough to disengage the lock. If he had not, he was not certain that he repeat the feat.

Moving quickly toward the garage door, he knelt and gripped its bottom edge. Tugging on it, he breathed a deep and audible sigh of relief when it slid easily upward.

He blinked as daylight assaulted him. His eyes had adjusted to the relative dimness of the garage. Now, he blinked away tears as his vision tried to adapt once more. Squinting in the sunlight, he peered down the sidewalk, checking both to his left and right.

The Stories of the Wild One (continued)

He waited, listening, trying to sense whether there was someone else in the space. Dust motes danced like miniature fairies along the streams of daylight around him. None seemed more agitated than other, implying that no one had disturbed them. Still . . .

John stepped further into the garage, trying see beyond the stacks of cardboard boxes and translucent storage crates. Nothing moved among them, but that meant nothing. His weapon ready, he moved into the space between two of their rows.

He spun, causing them to sway, as the door leading to the house closed and clicked. It took a moment for it to register, for that door had often stuck, but the additional sound was unmistakable.

Fuck. He locked me in.

John turned to face the large garage door. The automatic opener would make it difficult to open, but he could manually disengage the system. Peering upward, he tried to determine how easily he could reach the mechanism with the boxes and crates in the way. The bright orange-red handle dangled tauntingly on its cord, just out of easy reach.

He turned. There was another door that led to the outside of the house. Going that way, though, meant that he would also have to unlock the gate that led out to the driveway and street. Staring back at the large door, he realized that neither route was an optimal one, and that he would lose time going either way.

Better than going back through the house, he considered unhappily. But not by much . . .

He opted for the large door, as he was nearer to it. Reaching the smaller one that led to the side yard would mean navigating his way back out through the stacks of storage crates.

Stretching upward, his fingers missed brushing the manual override handle by barely more than an inch. He stretched, balancing himself precariously on his toes, watching his fingertips barely brush the plastic thin handle, while at the same time, knocking it away.John swore silently, and then realized that he might be able to make that work to his advantage. When the handle swung back, he was able to grab it, although tenuously, but enough to get a firm enough grip to wrap his fingers around it. They ached from the tension, but he held on.

The Stories of the Wild One (continued)

He heard something, faint and seeming to come from a distance. He could not make out what the noise was; it sounded almost like a cat scratching at a door to be let out.

Cat?

John tried to remember whether his father had a cat. As far as he could remember, there had not been one in the house since they had been forced to put Calico to sleep.

Mice? Or something else?

The sound did not immediately repeat, although he was certain that he did not imagine having heard it. He once again began moving toward the stairs, continually turning his head back toward the other rooms to check for any signs—sights or sounds—that someone might be in them.

He reached the top of the stairs, preparing to make his way down them, when a new sound echoed through the quiet. It was the sudden, sharp sound of something falling and then stopping abruptly. John was certain that it had come from the garage—or at least the area outside near it.

Before he realized it, he was leaping down the stairs, clearing two of them at a time. He reached the door that led to the garage in moments, throwing it open without hesitation. His taser, raised like a pistol, led his way.

The garage was dark. Not entirely dark, as light filtered in through the small windows mounted near the top of its large door that opened to the driveway. The air contained the same unventilated, musty feel that it was always had, except during rainy weather. If someone had passed through it lately, or been working on there, John could not tell by any change in its ambient aroma.

The Stories of the Wild One (continued)

Two boxes were stacked neatly in a corner. Something about their color and condition told John that they had been delivered recently. The top one was unsealed, its wide transparent slit neatly from end to end. He reached down and opened one flap and then the other one. Light reflected off the clear plastic bags that protected its contents. John leaned closer, unable to clearly see the box’s contents in the odd shadows of the room.

His breath caught and he froze, even before it registered on his consciousness what he saw. Transparent film reflected some of the light back at him, causing John to squint and shift to get a better look. The glossy plastic packages nestled within the box protected items that it took him only a moment to identify: inexpensive gym bags of various colors, exactly like the ones he had seen at each of the murder scenes.

John stared down at them, trying to conjure up any rational reason why his father might have purchased them. He was not much of an athlete. Hardly one at all, John knew, other than for semi-regular trips to the local gym during the week. There was no reason he needed all of these bags just for that . . .

Staring down into the box, John realized that it appeared to be only half-full. Clearly, some of the bags had been removed and—

John froze at a sound coming from somewhere outside the door. Turning slowly, his hand rested ready to draw his taser. He waited, listening, ready to move dart out quickly when the sound was repeated.

For several long moments, nothing happened. John took a slow, deep breath, realizing that he had almost been holding it in.

There!

It was not exactly the same sound, and might have been just another ambient noise from the house, but John moved anyway. He was in the hallway before he realized that he did not know exactly where the noise had come from, other than that it had come from somewhere outside the room. Turning his head slowly, he continued to listen, waiting for another clue as to the source of the noise. Again, several long seconds passed.

The Stories of the Wild One (continued)

He waited, listening. The house was nearly silent except for the sound of the furnace fan. Warm air blew across his face, tickling his nose. He wrinkled it, fighting back a sneeze.

Nothing.

John stood there for several more seconds, and then carefully climbed the next step. And then the next one. He stopped, glancing back down to the lower floor, wondering if his father might have remained down there. There were fewer places to go on that level without going outdoors, but John knew that he had not conducted any kind of real search.

Looking back up, he decided to continue. If his father remained downstairs, it would probably be too late to try to prevent him from leaving. If he was upstairs, John could should trap and detain him there.

His office is up there.

Just about everything his father valued was in his home office.

Even if he manages to escape, John told himself, although finding it difficult to imagine the old man being able to outrun or evade him. I might find some clues up there.

His fingers gripped tight around his taser, John finished his climb up the stairs. He paused at the top, taking a moment to quickly survey the space.

His father’s bedroom door was open. The office door was partially ajar. The door leading to the small bathroom was open. His own bedroom door was closed.

John could find nothing unusual or alarming in any of that. He typically kept his door closed out of habit, chiefly to avoid remarks from his father about its condition. His father typically only closed his office door completely when he needed guaranteed quiet for a call or there were untrusted visitors in the house. His bedroom he rarely closed except at night when he was sleeping or when he was traveling somewhere overnight—something that did not happen very often.

At first, John asked himself where he might try to hide. It took him only a moment to realize that was probably the wrong approach.

How does he think? Where would he think he might be safe?

John turned and looked toward the office door. That was his father sanctuary.

He might think it was safe . . . but he must also know that it’s the first place I’d look.

It would also be the best place to look for any clues, John knew.

Cautiously, he approached the door. With one hand, he eased it open the rest of the way, his other hand ready to pull out his taser.

Empty.

The room was tidy and organized, just as it almost always was. His father kept it that way almost all the time. John could tell when his father was on a particularly hairy deadline, or sick, when the perpetual orderliness began to slip.

John quickly surveyed the contents of the room, skimming over some of the printed sheets on the desk, knowing that it was unlikely that he would understand their contents. Even when they were just stories, he had trouble comprehending them.

The Stories of the Wild One (continued)

His father had never been a violent man, John reflected.

Sure, he yelled once in a while. Usually at me, he recalled with a faint, wry smile.

Even those times had been exceedingly rare. His father had generally been patient and calm, usually resorting to a kind of moody silence rather than explosive outbursts of emotions.

Sure, John remembered. He’d been known to lose his temper . . . but it took a lot for him to do it. A lot.

The ceiling creaked above him. It was so soft that it might have been a natural movement of the beams.

But then again, it might not be.

His father was not a large man, but he had gained some weight over the past few years as he had gotten older. He had never been, that John could imagine, someone who could move throughout a house without being heard.

John climbed the stairs, feeling the knot tighten within his stomach. He paused just as his head cleared the floor, peering across it for any signs of his father’s passage through the thin carpet. Swirled patterns revealed someone’s passage through the hallway, but there was no way to tell how recently. He tried to remember when his father had vacuumed last.

The Stories of the Wild One (continued)

John’s hand went to the taser at his waist, but it hovered there, uncertain. His father was making no threatening moves. He just sat there, looking miserable and lost.

No, John corrected himself. Not lost . . .

His thought trailed off, unable to find the word.

“Dad . . .”

His father looked up at him, meeting his eyes. Beyond the weariness and seeming despair, John could still see the bright spark of the man who had been his father.

“You want to know why.”

John nodded, slowly. His fingers continued to rest on the grip of his taser.

His father nodded slowly in return, his head bobbing as if he were dozing off into sleep.

“Because it had to be done.”

John’s eyes remained on his father, studying his face, his expression, waiting for more. His father’s eyes brightened. At first, John thought they filled with tears. Then, he saw that they shone with madness.

John’s stomach tightened into a hollow knot. His hand dropped to his taser.

“Don’t.”

His father’s single word stopped his hand. Despite all of his experience and training, his father’s voice could still control him. Breaking free of its hold, his fingers tightened around the taser’s grip.

“I don’t said, ‘Don’t’.”

His father did not raise his voice. Yet, John paused in his motion again, only for an instant. But it was long enough. By the time he realized he had, it was too late.

John felt as much as heard something whizz by his forearm. He turned his head to follow the sound, but missed seeing it. Whatever it had been, it clattered to the tile floor in the kitchen beyond the doorway behind him.

Recognizing that the moment danger had passed, John turned back to face his father, his hand firm around the grip of the taser. He froze in surprise, and then his hand dropped away from the weapon once more.

His father was gone.

#

John fought down the immediate urge to chase after his father. He was an old man—well, a lot older than he was—and not in especially good shape.

Where can he go?

There were probably a dozen or more places where his father could hide in the small house. It was just a matter of time before John could search them all.

It made no sense, though.

He must know that I’ll find him.

Moving slowly toward the doorway, he grew even more concerned. His father was behaving irrationally. Not just strange, John realized. Totally irrational.

Alzheimer’s? he wondered.

As far as he knew, his father had not been displaying any of the symptoms. Although, John recognized somewhat guiltily, he had not been around much to actually notice.

Some kind of stroke?

That was an easier answer, he realized—and an easier one to accept. Something had caused his father to snap, but until he found him, he would never be able to figure out what it was.

Walking slowly and quietly, and pausing often, John checked for signs of his father’s passage through the house. His hand never strayed far from the grip of his taser.

The Stories of the Wild One (continued)

John took another gulp of the energy drink, feeling the cool liquid slide like smooth oil down his throat. Taking a deep breath, he buckled himself in and started the car. The report could wait. He could not imagine that he was likely to forget any of the details. His mind still sifting through the events of the evening, he pulled out onto the empty street.

#

 

“Remember when you were young?” his father asked him. “When all you ever wanted was to be Batman?”

John nodded, thinking back to that time. He had been . . . what . . . four years old? But that phase, he remembered, had lasted for a long time—more than two years, if he remembered it correctly—almost an eternity at that age.

“I remember,” John replied softly. He looked toward his father without actually meeting his eyes.

“That was justice,” his father declared. “Justice.” John watched his father take a slow, ragged breath. “Not what passes for law—or decency—these days.”

John opened his mouth to speak, to protest, but found that he did not have the words. He knew what his father meant. When he was younger—not all that many years ago, he realized—he had spent a night in the county jail for the being in the wrong place at the wrong time. His companion, and supposed friend, had walked free in less than an hour, able to afford an expensive lawyer.

It’d been his rock, John remembered. The memory still left a sour taste in his mind. And he left me there to rot.

Luck, and a sympathetic judge, had spared him from a permanent blemish on his criminal record. That was part of why he wanted to become a police officer: to prevent such inequalities from happening whenever he could.

“Dad . . .” John took a deep breath and then turned his eyes to look at his father’s face. “I don’t understand.”

“Justice,” his father whispered again.

John stared at his father, wanting to understand. He felt torn, pulled between the father who, while often different from the other ones around them, had always been there for him, and the man who appeared to have methodically and chillingly killed eight seemingly random people.

The Stories of the Wild One (continued)

The multi-colored strobes of the lights had stopped. The night, it seemed, was returning to normal. John turned back to discover that he was the last one remaining in the office. Just to be certain, he headed back to check the rear section.

The overhead lights had been left on, but the area was otherwise deserted. John checked the rear door to make sure that it was still locked, and then shut off the lights. As the interior of the office space filled once again with darkness, he remembered that he had left his flashlight resting on one of the desks near the front. Moving slowly and cautiously, uncomfortably aware of how the night had gone, he managed to make his way to the front without banging his knees against any of the furniture.

By the time he reached the desk, his eyes had adjusted to the darkness, aided by the remaining light reflected in through the front windows. He retrieved his flashlight and holstered it. Pausing, he turned back toward the interior, wondering whether there was something else he should do. It seemed a shame to leave the place a mess, but it really was not his job to clean it back up.

I’m already way freaking late for my other patrols.

He exited through the front door and turned to lock it, realizing that he should have checked the interior alarm panel first.

I could go back inside . . .

Peering into the darkened depths of the office, he sighed, and then turned the key in the lock. He could try the exterior panel on the side of the building first. Then, if the alarm refused to reset, he would go back inside. Given a choice, he never wanted to enter the office again.

After hooking his keys back on his belt, he pulled his flashlight out again, but relied on the dim illumination provided from the overhead streetlights to guide him back to his car. Opening the alarm panel, he was forced to turn on his flashlight so that he could read the labels on the switches. He blinked in the sudden burst of bright light. When his vision cleared a few moments later, he felt relief when he saw the green glow coming from the trio of indicator lights. The alarm system had reset properly and was, once again, active.

John snapped the access door closed and locked it. Turning, he returned to his car and dropped into its front seat. The emotional numbness he had experienced earlier had now passed, replaced by a deep weariness. He knew its cause: the crash from the adrenaline rush. Although he tried to rally, he had trouble trying to get his muscles to obey him. He finally managed it, though, retrieving a tall can from the center console.

He downed a long swallow from the energy drink. The late autumn night air had kept it cool, the way he preferred it. During the summer, he relied on iced coffee instead. He strongly disliked the heavy, cloying taste the energy beverages acquired when they grew warm.

Settling back into the cushioned seat, he waited for the caffeine surge to kick in, thinking that he should probably jot down some notes before heading off to his next scheduled patrol stop.

That report’s going to suck.

Routine reports were bad enough, but an incident like this one could take a long time to write up. In addition, his e-mail was filled with the corroborating reports from the officers and police investigators.

The Stories of the Wild One (continued)

John shook his head slowly. “No, sir.” He managed to turn his eyes away, but remaining looking at the sergeant’s face. “I . . . just found it.”

He felt tired, weary. He just wanted to go home, crawl into bed, and pray that the past several days had been some kind of weird nightmare.

“You do seem to.”

John thought he saw a hint of puzzlement on the sergeant’s face. He felt a faint ember of hope that the officer might actually be beginning to believe that he had nothing to do with these deaths—even if he could not explain why he kept being present when they were found.

The sergeant checked his tablet and then looked back up. His eye fixed on John’s without quite holding them.

“Until the coroner determines a cause of death,” he said. “It looks like you’re free to go.”

John hesitated. It was not that he did not want to leave . . .

“Is there a problem?”

John’s cheeks burned. He felt foolish, but he had policies to follow.

“I’m not supposed to leave . . .” he faltered, and then regained some of his confidence. “Until the site is secured.”

The sergeant stared at him. He blinked, twice, before he said anything. John braced himself. He felt foolish enough as it was.

After all, how much secure could it be with two squad cars of officers swarming over the place?

Still, he knew, they did not have the keys or alarm codes, so no way they could lock the place back up when they were done with their investigation. They could call his security company when they were finished, but that would just mean that he would have to come back.

Easier just to stay . . .

John could not be certain, but he thought he saw the sergeant’s feature soften for an instant. His eyes brightened almost to a twinkle, but it was gone before John was sure he had seen it.

“Fine,” the sergeant agreed. He sounded, John thought, just slightly less gruff than usual. “Just try to stay out of the way.” Now he did fix his eyes on John’s. “And, for God’s sake, don’t touch anything.”

John’s cheeks grew warm again even as he bristled. He nearly opened his mouth to protest, but managed to hold back his remarks.

I’m not some kind of rookie!

Still, he stepped back into a corner of the office, away from the main flow of activity, while still giving him a good view of it.

After the body had been carried out, the rest of the officers and other investigators began to disperse. Some carried small boxes or translucent bags marked as containing possible evidence. John thought that he spied a small box about the same size and shape as the ones he had seen at the other murder scenes.

I wonder what color gym bag it has this time.

The color choices, as far as he knew, were random. Still, he was a little surprised at that being his first thought.

And at least there weren’t any snakes this time.

The snake, he realized, seemed to have been a one-time thing. The murderer, whoever he—or she, he reminded himself—was, appeared to be choosing a different method of execution each time.

Execution? John paused, startled by the revelation. Something about it rang true. “Is that what it is?” he murmured.

Thinking back over the victims, he had trouble imagining anything that might link them together. There were, from what he knew, as random a collection of people as he could ever imagine.

A loan shark? he wondered, and then dismissed the idea. No, then they’d never get their money.

Often, from what he had learned, while serial killers often had a pattern to the victims they selected, it was often not always clear what it was until later.

John’s looked toward the front of the office at the retreating back of the sergeant.

Maybe he knows something.

That same sense that told him that these murders were some kind of executions now informed him that the police sergeant knew little more than he did.

But he probably does know more.

John watched the older officer become a silhouette as he exited the office onto the parking lot. It was darker beyond the windows now, lit only by the overhead streetlights and the headlights of the squad cars.

The Stories of the Wild One (continued)

John looked down at the officer’s face. Her skin reminded him of expensive milk chocolate. Pulled back into a short ponytail, her dark hair fell barely below her collar. Her espresso brown eyes regarded him coolly.

Her questions were the basic ones—and she made it clear that she was all business. John could not find it within himself to muster up even an attempt at a charming smile. He doubted that it would have made a difference. For a brief moment, John wondered if she might like girls instead, but she did not seem the type.

“Don’t leave,” she instructed him, lowering her tablet. “The sergeant might still want to talk to you.”

“Right.” John answered her flatly.

This earned him a narrow-eyed glare from the female officer before she turned away. Aware, but not watching her, as she headed toward the back of the office, John stepped further out of the way, finding a vacant space near the front windows, watching as the coroner’s team arrived.

John stared out into the night as they worked, having had enough with looking at corpses. He squinted and blinked against the strobing pulses of white, red, blue, and amber lights coming from the small parking lot.

Shit, he thought dully. I can’t believe this is happening. Again.

He felt strangely numb, almost detached. It was not simply fatigue, he knew, but an odd sense of disassociation from the events taking place around him. It was how he thought an out-of-body experience might feel like: being a detached observer of the events without feeling like he was actually a part of them.

The sensation lasted only a few moments, but it still left him with a chilled, hollow feeling. He nearly shivered, but did not know why. It reminded him of the fever chills he had experienced during a particularly bad case of the flu last winter. His father has stayed home from work for most of a week to take care and watch over him.

Dad. John let out a renewed sigh that was focused more inward than it was a heavy breath. How the hell am I going to explain this to him again?

He considered simply not mentioning it, but knew he would not keep the secret long. His father had a way of asking the right questions, almost as if he knew things that there was no way that he should. It was not mystical or anything—just unsettling and, occasionally, awkward.

Hearing footsteps approaching, John looked up, knowing who he would find there. The sergeant stared at him. The officer’s gaze was like steel, his expression nearly unreadable.

“I wasn’t even supposed to be here for another two hours,” John blurted out. “I—”

He stopped, unable to think of anything else to that might explain his presence there—at the scene of yet another death.

“Did you find a box?”

The sergeant nodded twice, breaking his hold on John’s gaze.

“In the back,” he told John. “Near the coffee maker and office supplies.”

“No snake?” John did not like how his voice wavered as he asked that.

For a moment, John thought he saw the faintest glint of amusement in the sergeant’s obsidian pupils.

“No snake.” The older officer glanced toward where the coroner’s team lifted the dead man’s body onto a transport stretcher. “In fact,” he said. “We’re not sure what caused it yet.”

His eyes fixed on John’s again.

“I don’t suppose you have any idea.”

It was not so much a question as a statement. Apparently, the sergeant already knew the answer.

The Stories of the Wild One (continued)

John rose, feeling suddenly light-headed, wondering if he had stood up too quickly. He held himself perfectly still, taking slow and regular breaths. It helped. His hand moved to his radio, and then dropped away. He really did not want to make this call—for several reasons.

With a sigh loud enough to echo softly in the darkness, he reached for his radio and activated it.

“Dispatch,” John said. He heard the uncertain quaver in his voice—and wished it was not there. He swallowed hard against a thick lump in his throat. “I have a ten-fifty-four.”

Only a faint hum of static answered him for a long moment. He began to wonder whether the signal had gotten through when he heard Carole’s voice over the speaker.

“You’re kidding . . . right?”

I wish I was. John sighed again, softer this time, trying to gather some semblance of control. Fuck.

“Negative.”

“You’re serious?” It was as much a question as a statement.

“Yes.” John took a slow, quiet breath. “Just call it in. Please.”

Discordant sounds crackled from the radio speaker. John tapped down the volume, wincing against the sudden burst of noise. A few moments later, Carole’s voice returned.

“Units have responded and are on their way.”

“Copy that.”

“John,” Carole’s voice was flat, even over the speaker. “If this is some kind of joke . . .”

“It isn’t,” he replied tightly. “I fucking wish it was.”

“What the—“

John missed Carole’s next words as a bright barrage of kaleidoscopic light glared in through the front windows. Unconsciously, he stepped away from the body, moving to stand next to a desk to his left. In addition to giving him some distance from the corpse, it also hid his view of it.

A noisy bustle of activity came from the front door of the office. Bright beams from several flashlights sliced through the air, momentarily blinding him. Automatically, he reached for this ID, just in case any of the police officers did not feel that his uniform was sufficient to explain his presence.

Blinking against the floating spots in his vision, John made out four silhouettes moving through the office. One of them passed him. Whether it had seen him, or even given him a glance, John did not know. He remained still, waiting for his vision to clear.

A few moments later, the overhead lights flickered on, causing him to blink and squint again.

“Sergeant,” a voice called out, startling him coming from so close behind him.

John looked up as one of the officers approached. His heart became a lead weight in his chest. He recognized the officer’s now-familiar gait even before he saw the man’s face.

The sergeant stopped less than two paces in front of him. He studied John’s face for only an instant. His own expression betrayed no surprise at finding John there. Slowly, without breaking eye contact with the sergeant, John replaced his ID.

“Officer,” the sergeant called out evenly, addressing one of the uniformed men behind John. “Take this man’s statement. Evans, call for the coroner.”

Two replies of “Yes, Sergeant”, each with a different tenor, came from behind John. The sergeant held John’s gaze firmly for a moment, and then turned and headed for the back area of the office.

The Stories of the Wild One (continued)

Sweeping the beam along the narrow pathway, and then across the raised concrete pavement in front of the building, he found nothing more than additional bits of scattered trash. Slowly, he passed the light across the windows and doors, looking for signs of vandalism or forced entry. Aside from some scratched graffiti etched long ago across two of the windows, John saw nothing else unusual. His hand resting near his baton, John moved closer to the third door.

He found it closed. Shining his light through the tinted window into the office space beyond, the interior appeared dark. A faint glow came from something deep within the office.

Someone probably left a computer on . . .

John tried the door, surprised to find it unlocked. It swung open with a quiet screech of metal against metal.

Shit.

He had reset the alarm. Now, he had at most a minute to locate the inside panel and override it again. John was sure that he run and reach the panel on the side of the building in time, but that would not solve the problem. He still needed to check inside the office.

Playing the beam across the walls of the office, he searched for either a light switch or the alarm panel. Although the latter was more critical, turning on the lights would make it easier for him to find the panel.

“It’ll either be up front here,” John reasoned quietly, pausing with relief until he realized that his flashlight had located the thermostat. “Or in the back.”

He hoped that it was not hidden away in a locked storage closet. It would not be the first time he had run into that kind of setup. There was, he knew, a rear door as well, so he could still head for the outside panel without having to go all the way back through the office.

Assuming it’s not locked.

Some of the business owners, in violation of several state and local safety codes, felt themselves to be more secure if they left those rear exits locked and bolted at all times. Since they never used those doors, the owners often forgot to provide copies of the keys to the security company.

Josh moved quickly through the dark office space, trying to avoid bumping into desks and other office furniture. He stumbled, but caught himself, swearing in hushed tones. Automatically, he swung the flashlight down to get a look at the unseen leg of a chair that had attempted to trip him. He froze for an instant, his breath coming to a stop, when he saw a dark-suited man sprawled across the carpet.

Not again.

That was his first, absurd thought. Then, his training took over and he knelt, reaching down to check for a pulse on the man’s neck. Even before he failed to find one, John knew it was too late. The man’s skin was cool and papery. He considered for a moment turning the man over, just to be sure, but the strong hints of other scents convinced him that what had once been a moderately successful businessman was now definitely a corpse.

The Stories of the Wild One (continued)

He tapped the radio control.

“Los Altos Apartments,” he reported in. “I’m just finishing my circuit.”

That was not entirely true, John knew, but no one would know if he completed it on his way out to wherever they needed him to go.

“Copy that,” the dispatcher replied. “There’s an alarm event at the property at Paxton and Smelt.”

John brought up the map on his tablet. He already knew the property was a small strip mall southeast of his current location. The app reported that he should be get there in about eight minutes.

“Copy that,” he responded back. “I’m en route.”

Shifting the car into gear, he headed for the exit. Heading directly to that intersection would take him out of his way from the three other sites he was scheduled to patrol that night. Going back to them after he dealt with the alarm event would require a somewhat convoluted route back.

Maybe I can tackle them in reverse order . . . ?

He tried to map that out in his head as he drove, although his fingers itched to tap it out on his tablet.

Both hands on the wheel, he cautioned himself.

Although there was almost no traffic at that hour, it was exactly the kind of time when a drunk or overtired driver would do something stupid, such as running through a red light or stop sign, not expecting there to be any other cars on the road in be in their way.

Eleven minutes later, after being forced to wait for two unmetered lights, John arrived at the location. He slowed, surveying the empty parking lot. His hand remained poised over the spotlight control, ready to trap someone in its intense glare if they seemed suspicious. He saw nothing, though. The interior of each of the shops and offices appeared dark. He pulled around to the side of the building, coasting to a stop adjacent to the external alarm panel.

Leaving the car running, he grabbed his flashlight and climbed out of the car. He played the flashlight beam around the area, but it revealed nothing more than scraps of garbage and two large empty glass bottles. Each was a different shape and color. One of them he guessed had held vodka or gin; the darker one had probably contained rum.

Using his key to open the alarm panel, he saw that the alarm on Suite 3 had been triggered. Playing back the building signs in his mind, he tried to remember whether that was the tax office or the small Asian herb store. He reset the alarm, waiting to see whether it went off again, and then closed and relocked the panel.

Returning to the car, he turned it off and removed the keys. Retrieving his baton from the passenger seat, he slid it smoothly into its holster on his belt. He locked the car and headed toward the front of the building, his flashlight aimed out before him.

“Silent Night”

Author’s Note: This was a piece I did for the A Merry Little Apex Christmas Flash Fiction Contest. I didn’t win, so I’ll publish it here for you. Happy, um, holidays.

---

Gerard barreled down the stairs.

I’m first! I’m FIRST!

He reached the landing and skidded to a halt. The tree was dark. Even the lights strung along the mantle were out, resembling a black, tangled vine in the dark.

Gerard’s heart thumped in his chest. He hated the dark. Things lived in the dark, in its shadows.

“Not on Christmas,” he whispered. “Not on Christmas.”

It really was Christmas morning; he was certain of it. Yet, underneath the tree, there was nothing.

“There have to be presents,” he mumbled angrily.

Looking toward the mantle, he saw six stockings hanging there. Gerard approached them. Unlike the others, which remained flat and empty, his clearly bulged with . . . something.

He grinned. “That’s how it should be.”

Gerard grabbed it down, his eager grin changing to a look of confusion when the contents rattled.

He dropped down to sit cross-legged on the floor in a patch of gray-white light and poured out the stocking’s contents. Five small, dark shapes clattered against one another as they tumbled onto the carpet. Each one was about the size of his finger and perhaps twice as wide.

He examined one, turning it slowly beneath his fingers. Its edges felt rough, almost sharp. He stared down at it, recognizing the shard for was it was.

Coal!

He nearly flung it away. In the reflected light, though, from within the black substance, his mother’s face stared back at him.

Gerard began to scream.

The Stories of the Wild One (continued)

It was nearly midnight when his patrol route returned him to the apartment complex from the night before. He drove slowly through the parking lot, seeing nothing unusual. He brought the car to a stop beside the same garbage enclosure where he parked the day before. A startled cat darted across his headlight beams, a quick black and white dappled flash of motion, before disappearing into the shadows of the landscape shrubbery.

John stared up the stairway toward the apartment. It seemed to be dark. At least, no light came from either the small kitchen window, or from the large sliding door that led to a narrow balcony. If lights were on deeper within the apartment, he could not see them.

I probably wouldn’t want to be alone in there either right now, he thought with a vague shiver.

He wondered if she was alone up there, and whether he should check on her.

I could call it in as a welfare check.

He settled back into the seat to think about it, recognizing that he really had no justification to make such a call.

I’ll probably take eight sorts of shit for it too, he knew, thinking of at least one fellow officer would persist in making rude and suggestive remarks about John and the young woman.

She wasn’t that bad looking, he decided.

It had been difficult to tell for sure between the robe and her puffy face and eyes. There had been something about her face, though. Even through the blotchy complexion brought on by fear and crying, it had been oddly familiar, as if he had seen it somewhere before.

Thinking through his collection of friends and acquaintances, he knew that perhaps one or two of them might live somewhere in this part of the city, but he had never visited this apartment complex before the last night. His uncertainty told him that he was probably looking in the wrong place. If he had ever seen her before, it had not been among his friends.

Where then?

“Car Twenty-Seven, what’s your ten-twenty?”

The dispatcher’s voice broke him from his thoughts.