Prelude Read online

  The manager laughed him out of the back room that smelt of refined liquor. “Get out of here, Chubs.” While they waved in a bald two-tonner with arms seemingly the size of tree trunks. Zac had skipped dinner, not having anything in the fridge that was considered food. He wandered around the strip joint, half-blinded by neon lights, more fortunate risqué clientele exiting a lineup of who’s who on the car market.

  But, there was one car whose occupant wasn’t dressed for a night spent dancing on the tables. The red Mercedes of late year model turned the corner, parking beneath a flickering streetlight. Zac pretended to idle with a group of glittering people at the cross-walk, his gaze riveted on the car. Was it premonition, a sense of danger? He didn’t know for certain. After a short interval, a woman exited, carrying a brown leather kitbag, the like he’d seen in specialty antique stores. She wore a striped red blouse over a form-fitting leather vest, her A-line skirt was slit up the thigh and her boots clicked sharply as she disappeared down the closest alleyway. He followed without reason, without knowing why.

  Zac was far from subtle, no matter how hard he tried. He kicked a can by accident, sending the cylindrical aluminum spinning across trash heaps. Clumsily, he backpedaled, his shadow a lumpy form silhouetted on begrimed pavement. He was afraid of looking like a fool which seemed impossible not to; peering into the alleyway.

  A faint laugh carried on the night air; he tensed.

  Paper crinkled behind him - he spun around as fast as his legs could move. An engine roared to life from somewhere beyond the aperture of lights and nightlife. But, it could’ve been any one of the club goers; even thinking so, he refocused on the paper lying several feet away. The letters were scrawled in red, the meaning implicit. STAY AWAY.

  Returning home in a daze, Zac plugged in the laptop, dropping before it. On his bed were the scattered sheets of his notes, often rambling from college days. Was it a joke that didn’t deliver its punch line? Or was there more than met the eye? The beginnings of a conspiracy dark and terrible took root in his mind.

  - A corrupt organization! - yes, that was it.

  The words flew from his fingers, covering up the page of blank white. Black typeface, white background. Black and white. There was no grey in-between. Zac poured his thoughts into the screen, half-rambling, half-indecisive. It wasn’t his finest work by far, but just maybe would earn a commission from the Enquirer. He prayed at least enough to tide over the rent.

  In the midst of his absorption, a sound penetrated the quiet of the complex’s thin walls. The sound of a door opening - closing with a bang by a careless hand. Zac’s hands stilled. He had noticed it - the quiet. The utter silence of the room, beyond the room. There was always a TV blaring behind one door, a mother yelling at her kids’ mess, ordinary sounds. Sounds of life. But, now, there was nothing.

  Pushing the computer aside, he rose, padding in socks to the door. Something inside warned cautiousness, intuition perhaps? He leant to the panel, pressing his ear against the flimsy wood. Yes, there was another sound, much fainter. Nearly impossible to tell what it was.

  Curiosity overcame caution, Zac opened the door, stepping into the hallway. Mrs. Ramos had flipped the main switch for the lights early. The corridor was flooded with darkness. Two sets of stairs were at either end of the corridor, each going down. But, at his end, the hall ended in a vestibule of worn finery and only the stair landing was visible. Often used by tenants as a closer route for carrying down trash bags, the area was a well of darkness, lit by nothing.

  “H-Hello?” Zac called, his throat suddenly dry. The notion that something awaited on the stairs, lingering in the darkest part where his sight couldn’t see -- he forced himself to stop imagining things. He was scaring himself silly. Probably some unlucky guy taking out a bag of trash for his girl - as if on cue, he heard a shuffling, scuffling noise midway down the long flight.

  He smiled to himself uneasily, going back inside. He had not yet secured the door chain-bolt when a cat meowed from the outside of the window sill. The cat had a distinctive meow, one would immediately think of the growl of a great cat, but the owner of the meow was no such thing. Rather a large, somewhat ugly grey tabby.

  “Stinky!” Zac exclaimed, going over to let the cat in. Despite regulations imposed by the harpy of a landlady, the couple on the other side of the complex had kids to whom appealed the feline and small-animal type. Stinky as the appellation had come about, was a survivor of a litter of kittens he’d found abandoned in a dumpster. They’d been weak, nearly crushed under trash bags he was employed to take out.

  The rest of the litter had died off gradually, the mother cat long gone. He assumed Stinky was a survivor, that look of feral cat-intelligence shone in the large lamp-like yellow eyes. The cat meowed again, hopping through the open sill to the floor. Another running bound and the large tabby had begun mercilessly clawing his pillow, intent on rest.

  The cat yowled when he scooped it up in his arms, depositing the grey mass of fur to the floor. “What’re you doing here, boy?” He muttered, jumping with a new sound. Similar to the scream of a dying animal, distant, echoing. In another heartbeat, he shook his head, sighing. “Just a dog, probably got hit, poor thing. Jesus Christ!” He rubbed tiredly at his face. “I must be more on edge than I thought.”

  Though, he laughed at himself, he secured the door bolt, drew the curtains over the window and locked the cat in the bathroom with a crate and rag inside. Settling back with the laptop, he found the words wouldn’t come anymore, not as they had been. Spilling eagerly from his fingertips, becoming coherent sentences into paragraphs.

  The hour grew later gradually acknowledged by the writer. He stopped for the night, brushed his teeth, changed his day clothes and went to bed, thoroughly exhausted. Never hearing the screams of another kind.

  ***

  The shrill echo of the sirens drowned out Hootie and the Blowfish on the alarm clock. In vain, Zac turned over, clapping the pillow sides around his ears, desperate to go back to sleep. They were turning the corner, they were...pulling up outside. His eyes flew open, vision blurred. The sudden silencing of the blare was relief to his bruised eardrums.

  Eventually, he succumbed, opening his eyes to the bright sunlight spilling from the open window. The moment his gaze focused on the aperture, the events of the night before crashed down on him. The man, that strange woman...a gun had discharged...had he imagined it all? A new thought occurred to him. Zachary shot up from bed, throwing on whatever clothes he could find, cramming his bare feet into worn sneakers. In a few minutes, he was out the door, along the garish orange hallway where other tenants were slowly poking their heads out.

  Two police cruisers were already on the scene. Mrs. Ramos, strictly visible in a plaid house dress tightly swaddling her girth, spoke to one of the officers. Zachary slipped out, pretending to head for the parking lot. He heard someone comment, “third person to end up like this in a month. Sarge’s gonna be pissed.”

  A red Mercedes Benz pulled up behind the second squad car. A few of the boys in blue looked over, one rolled his jaw and spat disgustedly. He heard a name pronounced quietly. “Blackwood.” The driver’s side door opened, a slim blond woman stepped out. Her sleek flaxen hair was pulled back into a ponytail, narrow sunglasses perched on her small nose. She wore tight charcoal slacks, a white button-down shirt over which a short black leather vest kept company beside a holstered handgun. Her ankle boots clicked sharply across the asphalt.

  Blackwood...Blackwood’s Monster Bible...Algernon Blackwood...Blackwood Corporation?

  “I came as soon as I heard.” The woman’s voice grated lowly like the tinkle of ruptured glass, tinted with the barest hint of an accent. None of the boys in blue save for one, shot her a look. The one who did, was the blonde crew cut asshole whom had served him a parking ticket a few days ago. Zac shrunk closer to the interior of the doorway. Officer Garret...if he recalled right. Garret stood just within the stretch of yellow police tape. When the wo
man stepped closer, he lifted the tape higher for her to bend under and over.

  The woman nodded slightly in thanks, turning her attention to the shattered body outlined in chalk on the pavement. Over the murmur of the other neighbors talk, the rumble of passing cars, he caught only a word or two.

  “Average yuppie housewife around twenty-seven years of age-”

  “-two children-”

  “Husband age twenty-nine, works as a banker at the closest Chase Manhattan Branch.”

  The woman took notes in a pocket notebook, scribbling furiously. Garret pointed to the topmost window, “she fell-”

  “And broke every bone in her body?” The woman shook her head, pocketing the notebook. “Even pushed, there’s no way a fall from a two-story balcony could mangle a human body in such a way.”

  One of the policeman, a double-chinned, buttons-bursting from the uniform, fellow, moved aside for the body bag carriers. In a flash, he had seen it all. Her back covered in a see-through bloodstained silk robe flattened as though a great weight had steamrolled flesh and bone. Bits of grey brain matter spattered the sidewalk beneath the crown of her splayed copper hair. Her face - God - her face was a pulpy crater of blood, bone shards and cartilage, like some kind of giant fist had scooped away all discernible features.

  He knew her.

  Zac felt the gorge rise in his stomach, hurrying away, he didn’t think he was going to make it through the door.

  Ashley Wolff.

  He ran to the alleyway where the police tape ended, emptying burning bile in a hoarse cough on the ground. Bent over double, he hacked weakly, glad he’d missed breakfast. Slowly, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He felt someone’s gaze on him and turned around, nervous. The female detective or whatever she was, stood in the beginning of the alley juncture, staring up at the rooftop. Zac followed her gaze quickly, uncertain as to why her attention would be drawn up there. He didn’t remember anything up there in particular, just a sloping line broken by the concrete lip. There was also a small storeroom up there used to keep rusty pails and the odd mop. He wondered if he should tell her that, try to approach one of the officers -- wasn’t that protocol in TV cop shows? Asking the neighbors if they’d seen or heard anything? A nasty little voice in the back of his mind reminded snidely, not if they think you’re the perp.

  “H-Hey, um, do you need my--” He called after her retreating back. “...Statement?” But, the woman was gone, apparently satisfied the answers wouldn’t be found in a dingy alleyway. Zac didn’t blame her, even admired her unflinching close up look at the body. Sighing to himself, he thought any chance of impressing the opposite sex had flown out the window when she’d seen him barf. Hopefully, she didn’t think he was following her or something.

  Then, he noticed something he hadn’t before. Streaks of dried crimson disappeared beneath one of the trash cans. Walking over to it, he clapped his hand over his mouth, suppressing the urge to gag. In theory, it had once been a dog before someone or something had gotten to it.

  ...leaving behind a mess of bloodied fur and innards.

  Chapter Three: Confrontation

  On the highest floor of the skyscraper hodgepodge of different styles, eclectic to modern, antiquarian stone griffins salvaged from a much-older demolished structure kept company beside stainless steel phoenixes glistening in the dull, leaden afternoon sun. The pouting girl changed the channel, the remote held loosely in her hand. She was dressed casually in a velvet jogging suit, her blonde hair pulled back into a low ponytail. The attire came with a skipped lunch and a round of kickboxing in the training room a floor below.

  She paused on Channel Nine news. The newscaster was saying -- “police are baffled by seemingly random murders in and around the five boroughs. Residents are urged to stay indoors --” The screen went black. She sighed, laying aside the remote. Julian thumped on the open steel paneled door, clearing his throat. “Tox report came in. Zepp faxed it over.”

  Evelyn nodded, “and?”

  Paper shuffled, Julian sounded resigned. “As you thought. Killed in the same manner as the other three.”

  “Five,” she interrupted, slowly turning her cold blue gaze upon him. “There were five victims. The police discounted Homer Atkinson as a fall from construction heights. Yolanda Soliz too, the victim of a domestic dispute. But, in both cases, they lacked sufficient evidence. The only thing that ties them together is...similar method of death.” She bit her lip, thinking. But, even that wasn’t enough. Nothing else tied them together. They were victims from different walks of life, different jobs, had no perceived contact with one another. She shook her head to clear it. “There’s got to be something the police and we’re missing.”

  Julian looked at her blandly. “Other than three of the victims were missing persons before their preeminent demises? What about word on the street?”

  She gathered up the small leather holster from the table along with an old Blackberry. “I’m heading out now...see if there’s been any change.” Unzipping the track of her sweater as she spoke, she fastened the holster snugly over the top of her waist. The two-chambered self-defense gun protruded from the leather.

  He watched her disapprovingly, “the car’s almost empty. Sure you’re going to be alright?”

  “Have I been anything but?” Evelyn countered, pocketing the keys to the Mercedes.

  ***

  Phillip called around noon, rare for the man worked night hours as a security guard on NYU’s Washington Square Campus. Zac figured it had something to do with the childish whoops and hollers he heard in the background of Phillip’s deep velvet baritone. Phillip’s sister had four kids and counting, crammed into the upper floor of a converted townhouse. Downstairs, she ran an antique store.

  “How’re you holding up?”

  “Oh, okay...I’m-” Zac’s voice broke. How could he explain it? Calm, patient Phillip had a small world of watching over his sister’s kids, helping her pay the rent and putting up with the men going in and out of her house. “...drowning.” How could he lie?

  He explained it all in halting sentences interspersed by a running nose Phillip couldn’t see: Mrs. Ramos having caught up to him yesterday morning, demanded the rent by the end of the week. The applications he’d put when no one called all sounded like excuses any guy out of work would complain. To compound it all, the Enquirer’s office had given him an appointment two weeks in advance.

  “I’m telling you, man. I think I really got something here.”

  “Sounds dangerous.” Phillip grumbled after listening to him tell his tale. “I don’t want to hear no nothing about them finding some anonymous white boy in a dumpster, you hear?”

  “Promise.” Though, he sounded more sure than he felt. After hanging up, Zac sprinkled a handful of crumbs into the fish tank, carrying a fairly sizable share to the bathroom door. Other than shredding hand towels and peeing in the sink, the cat had been relatively quiet. Absently, he pushed the head-butting away, dusting cat hair off his pants leg. Phillip had warned him not to go too deep, but what else was there to do?

  Lost in conflicting thoughts, Zac locked up, swinging the backpack over his shoulder. He’d had an appointment with a Career Services agent set for one-thirty. That was one spot of good news, at this point he’d take anything.

  ***

  A flash of red caught his eye. He turned quickly, spotting the sleek muscled body of the familiar red Mercedes crossing traffic. On its rear trunk, an oval symbol stood out above the ornate license plate. “Blackwood.” He mumbled to himself. The crest of a crescent moon above a star and center sickle. Without rational thought, he ran for the scooter parked at the curb, swung his leg over and revved up the engine.

  - I’ve seen it before -

  The scooter zipped in and out of traffic. Drivers blared their horns angrily. Zachary ignored them, cutting down a side street.

  - That woman I saw -

  The Mercedes pulled into the lot of an Italian restaura
nt emptied out of the lunch crowd. He pulled in across the street, squeezing in between a yellow Toyota Prius and a blue Honda Accord of later make. The driver of the Mercedes wasted no time dismounting. She wore a black velvet jogging suit that minimized the curves of her body. Her hair remained pulled back from her face severely. Without so much as a glance toward the restaurant, she walked briskly from the parking area and down the street. Zac waited a few more minutes before striding after her, hands in pockets, pretending to mind his own business.

  Closing shops, milling tourists, the occasional policeman were all passed. Where was the woman going? He wondered, sometimes barely able to keep her in sight. She was small, with a height around 5’5” had he to guess.

  The odyssey ended in a drearier place than where it had begun. Zac’s legs burned from the walking, his nose ran freely in the cold, brisk air. The woman turned the corner and kept walking. He held his breath, slowed, waiting a few minutes. The blank, black face of the cell screen reflected an image of weepy-eyed man with more than a day’s worth of facial hair framing his thin mouth. He pretended to scrutinize the pitiful reflection as many did, fixated on the tiny world held in the palms of their hands.

  I look like shit, he thought and had the strange urge to laugh. There he was in a strange neighborhood, missing his appointment only to stalk a woman he was certain he’d seen three nights ago. Well, that’s that. He pocketed the cell and started walking. The alleyway was dingier than most, with a rank smell that curled unpleasantly in his nose. Zac looked around; there was nothing. No one. Where had she gone?

  Even as his eye roamed the decrepit trash pit there was a sound behind him not unlike the drawing click of metal against leather. He turned clumsily coming face to face with the woman’s anger. “Why are you following me?” She demanded. Her voice as he had observed the day before had a distinctive harsh quality to it. As hard as the short blade she held in one tightly gloved fist. “Didn’t you get my warning?”

  Zac tried to maintain eye contact, aware of the sweat slowly beading on his cold skin. Phillip had been right. He was likely to end up in a dumpster somewhere...