Genre: Horror/Mystery
PERDITION
PART FIVE
By Daniel
Skye
1.
IT’S THE END
OF THE WORLD AS WE KNOW IT…
Thursday, December 20,
2012.
Becky Lake was 5’4, approximately
105 pounds, with green eyes, and shoulder-length red hair. She was last seen
wearing a green pinafore dress and black Doc Martens.
That’s how her mother hysterically
described her to the police. She was tired, strained, on the verge of tears.
The desk sergeant calmly and politely explained to Mrs. Lake that her daughter
had to be missing for at least twenty-four hours before they could file an
official report.
But as a favor to the family, the
desk sergeant offered to take Becky’s information and pass it on to his fellow
officers via the radio.
“Trust me,” the desk sergeant said.
“If any of our boys see your daughter, they’ll bring her in safe and sound. But
relax, Mrs. Lake. This is Redfield. Nothing bad ever happens in Redfield. And
she’s only been missing since this morning. She probably just skipped school
and ran off with her boyfriend.”
“Becky doesn’t have a boyfriend.
She’s sixteen years old. I mean, I know she’s dated in the past. But she’s not
seeing anybody now.”
“Is it possible your daughter is
seeing someone behind your back, somebody you don’t know about?”
“No, Becky is very open and honest
with me. I’m her mother. I would know if she was seeing someone.”
“What about a girlfriend of hers?
Maybe she and a friend just decided to skip school today, play hooky. We all
did it when we were younger.”
“Oh, for Christ’s sake! Would you just get off your ass and
find my daughter! She’s not with some boy, she didn’t skip school, and she’s
not with a friend! She’s missing!” Mrs. Lake was cross, ready to blow a gasket.
“Okay, okay, I believe you. Just
calm down, please. I will put a call out to the boys and we will find your
daughter. I promise you that.”
Mrs. Lake took a deep breath and
composed herself. “Thank you,” she said. “And I know I said she has red hair,
but it’s really more of an auburn color. Please be sure to mention that.”
“Green eyes, auburn hair. Got it.
We’re going to find her, Mrs. Lake. Don’t you worry. Just go home and let us
take care of it. We’ll call you as soon as she’s found.”
* * *
Friday, December 21, 2012.
This was the day. The day that so
many people had been dreading. Everyone was waiting for it. Just waiting for
some cataclysmic event to bring the entire world to a screeching halt. Just
waiting for our planet to get sucked into a black hole or collide with the
planet Nibiru or whatever bogus crap they read online. The 2012 phenomenon was
nothing more than Internet hyperbole to Richie Carter.
Richie was sitting shotgun in Zack
Garton’s black 1970 Dodge Challenger. Garton had swapped the plates on the
vehicle, but they still couldn’t hang out in plain sight.
Garton had paid off an auto mechanic
named Bill to rent one of his garages out for a few hours. It got his car off
the road and gave them a place to lie low to figure out their next move. Bill
recognized Garton from his picture on the news, but given his own recreational
activities, the mechanic was in no position to turn to the police. Garton was
aware of this, and he knew that a few hundred dollars would buy the mechanic’s
silence.
The radio was turned down, but
Richie could hear Michael Stipe from R.E.M. rambling about how, “It’s the end
of the world as we know it.” How apropos, Richie thought.
“This thing is ancient,” Richie
remarked. “How do you keep it running?”
“Lots of time, money, and patience.”
It was early morning, and without
his coffee, Richie was running on fumes. But he was able to make it through the
night without touching a drop of liquor. He needed to be sober and clearheaded
for this. He needed all of his senses.
“Jimmy Rare’s place is on the other
side of town,” Garton informed him. “14 Industrial Road. Not much else down
there besides a soap factory and a warehouse that’s mainly used for storage.”
“How far is the property from the
warehouse and the factory? It’ll probably be safer if we wait until dark, after
all the workers have punched out. We can’t afford any witnesses.”
“Why don’t you just say what you really
mean? You mean you can’t afford to be spotted with me because your brother’s a
cop.”
“That may have something to do with
it. But you’re a wanted man and you can’t afford to have anybody recognize you,
either.”
“Fair enough,” Garton shrugged.
Richie lit an unfiltered Lucky Strike and Garton bummed one off of him.
The police scanner in Garton’s car
went off, notifying them of an APB on a missing girl named Becky Lake. She was
sixteen years old and she had been missing for more than twenty-four hours. 5’4,
approximately 105 pounds, with green eyes and auburn hair. She was last seen
walking to the bus stop, two blocks from her house in Redfield, wearing a green
pinafore and black Doc Martens.
“Redfield is close,” Richie pointed
out. “You don’t think–”
“I know what you’re assuming, but we
can’t jump the gun here. The girl is missing. But she could’ve run off with her
boyfriend or something. We don’t know her. We don’t know that she was
abducted.”
“You said that Jimmy Rare went out
of town to find his victims. Redfield is out of town.”
“But we can’t assume anything.”
“As long as there’s a possibility
that girl is with Rare and she’s alive, I have to assume it. We need to make
our move, before it’s too late.”
“What happened to waiting until
dark? What about all those witnesses you were concerned about?”
“Fuck it. This is more important.
I’ll take the risk.”
“As much as I’d like to fight you on
this, you’re right. And hey, this just means I get to do what I do best.”
“Killing people?”
“You make it sound so inhumane.”
* * *
Jimmy Rare’s place was an old, neglected,
two-story Victorian style house at the end of Industrial Road. The road was a
dead end, nowhere to go. If the cop showed up, they’d be backed into a corner. If
they were going to do this, they had to do it fast.
At the end of the road, Garton made a three-point turn,
turned around, and parked across the street from the house. He turned the
engine off and took Fran out of her holster.
“If I don’t make it, tell my gun I
love her.”
“You’ll make it,” Richie said. “I
just hope it’s not too late for Becky Lake.”
“We don’t even know if she’s in
there.”
“Well, we have to assume she is and
proceed with caution.”
“Caution? Never heard of him before.
Now let’s do this.”
They exited the vehicle and looked
in both directions as they crossed the street, making sure the coast was clear.
They snuck around the right side of the house, and found a back entrance.
“You want to do the honors and kick
the door in?” Garton asked.
“We’re not kicking anything in,”
Richie said. “There can’t be any signs of forced entry. I won’t be able to
explain that to my brother.”
“So how are we getting in?”
“A lock has never stopped me.”
Being a private detective also made
Richie an expert lock picker. He always carried a paperclip in his back pocket.
He took out the paperclip, unfolded it, and inserted one end into the keyhole.
Richie learned a few things about picking locks over the
years. One thing he learned is that when picking a lock, you can’t see it from
the inside. But you can’t feel it. When the paperclip snags the locking
mechanism and you feel the lock slide out of place, you know the job is done.
It took him under thirty seconds to
get the door open.
Richie removed his .44 Magnum from
its holster. “We go in on three.”
“One…” they counted.
“Two…”
“Three.”
Richie entered first,
his back to the wall. His index finger was hovering around the trigger of his
gun.
“Kitchen looks clean,” Richie
whispered as Garton entered.
“You take this floor, I’ll check
upstairs,” Garton whispered back.
They went their separate ways. Richie
kept his back to the walls at all times as he swept through the first floor.
The living room was clear. The downstairs bedroom was clear. Richie even
checked the tub in the bathroom. The house appeared to be empty.
But there was another door adjacent to
the bathroom. Richie assumed it was a linen closet, until he checked it out. Nobody
bothers to lock their linen closet.
Richie took out his trusty paperclip
and had the door unlocked in a matter of seconds. “I should be getting paid to
do this,” he whispered to himself.
The door creaked as he pulled it open. He surveyed the
countless scratch marks on the other side of the door. Clear signs of a
struggle.
A hand fell upon his shoulder and Richie jumped, bit his lip
to stifle an oncoming scream.
“Nobody upstairs,” Garton whispered.
Richie didn’t say anything. Just motioned at the scratches on
the door. Garton glanced at the door, then down at the stairs.
“After you,” Garton said.
Richie descended the staircase, his index finger tightened
around the trigger of his .44 Magnum. He crept down the stairs, Garton trailing
behind him. Richie’s feet touched the bottom step and he came to a sudden stop
when he saw a young girl with auburn hair in a green pinafore dress. Becky was
bound to a dissection table with leather straps. And she wasn’t moving.
“Well, there’s your evidence,”
Garton said.
She was alone in Rare’s soundproof
basement. Richie rushed to her aid, undid the straps, checked her pulse.
“She’s alive,” Richie said,
relieved. “Just unconscious. He must’ve drugged her.”
Garton took a look around the
basement. There was a workbench with a sewing machine. Gallons of lime
solution. Crude surgical equipment, most of which was rusty or outdated. And
most of them had not been cleaned in some time. There was still blood on the
tips of the scalpels, bits of flesh tangled up in the rusty teeth of a
bone-saw.
“So where is he?” Garton asked.
“He must be out. Which means he
doesn’t know we’re here. So all we have to do is wait.”
* * *
It didn’t take long for Jimmy Rare
to return. He was back within the hour, letting himself in through the front
door. He’d noticed Garton’s car parked across the road, but thought nothing of
it. The factory had limited parking and the workers would often park in the
road. He set his groceries aside in the kitchen, took out his keys, and went to
unlock the basement door.
“Hmmm…That’s funny,” Rare mumbled to
himself. “I could’ve sworn I locked it. I’ve got to be more careful.”
He opened the door and observed the
scratch marks on the other side with great amusement. All those poor souls who
tried to escape over the years. All those naïve people who thought they had a
chance at life. This fact brought Jimmy Rare nothing but satisfaction. The fact
that Jimmy derived pleasure from their suffering was profoundly disturbing. It
disturbed even him sometimes.
There was a time where Jimmy tried
to think of it as business, the same way the mafia goes about a hit. He tried
to convince himself it wasn’t about killing people. That it was about the money
and his growing business. That he was an entrepreneur, not a serial killer.
But Jimmy didn’t try to deny it
anymore. He was doing it to quench his lust for blood. His business–turning
people into leather and fashion accessories–was just a cover at this point.
“Sorry to keep you waiting, my
dear,” Jimmy said, descending the stairs. “You’ve been so patient with me. I
think it’s time to–” Jimmy stopped as he reached the bottom of the stairs.
“You were saying?” Garton asked. “Please
continue.”
“Who are you people?” Rare stammered.
“How the hell did you get into my house?”
“These aren’t the questions you want
to be asking yourself right now,” Garton said. “You see, normally I make these
affairs quick and painless. But my friend here, he has a temper. And he hasn’t
had a drink in over four years. And he also doesn’t like you very much. So I’m
going to let him take his time.”
“Whatever you think this is, you’re
mistaken. I would never harm that girl or any other girl. This is just a big
mis–”
Richie cut Jimmy off in midsentence,
dislocating his jaw with the hardest punch Garton had ever seen. And he’d seen
his share of brawls over the years. And participated in the most of them.
Richie didn’t stop there. He could no longer contain his
rage. He struck him repeatedly in the stomach and chest, nearly breaking his
knuckles in the process. But it was worth it just to hear the disturbingly
satisfying crunch of Rare’s ribs.
Rare lied on the grimy floor of his own
basement, clutching at his chest, struggling to breathe. “Alright, that’s enough,”
Garton said. “Let Fran take care of the rest.”
“It has to be my gun,” Richie said.
“They’ll check the bullets. They’ll know what kind of gun it came from.”
“Shit, you’re right. Sorry, Fran.
Looks like you’ll have to sit this dance out.” Garton tucked the SIG Sauer back
into its holster and accepted Richie’s gun.
“Look out!” Garton shouted.
Rare was back up and brandishing a
scalpel. He lunged at Richie, whose reflexes forced him to put his arm up to
block. The scalpel sliced through the skin of his forearm, drawing a tremendous
amount of blood. He swung the scalpel again, but Richie dodged it and met him
with a fist to his already cracked ribs.
Rare winced in pain, but still
managed to keep his grip on the scalpel. Garton could not get a clear shot with
Richie in the way. Rare lunged at him again and Richie caught both of his arms,
trying to wrestle the scalpel out of his hands.
Jimmy got one of his knees up, hitting
Richie below the belt. He dropped to his knees, giving Garton a clear vantage
point. As Jimmy raised the scalpel, Garton fired one shot, directly to the
heart.
Richie, still feeling the effects of
the low blow, slowly got back up to his feet. He looked over the body of Jimmy
Rare with relief. Dorchester would be a better place without him. The world
would be a better place without him.
“Thanks,” Richie said, applying pressure to his wound. The
gash in his forearm was bleeding profusely.
“Don’t mention it. Seriously.”
Garton wiped his prints off Richie’s gun and passed it back to him.
“So what’s next for Zack Garton?”
“I’m getting the hell out of dodge.
Too much heat in this city. I just have one last loose end to tie up with my
client.”
“So who was this mystery client, by
the way? It’ll be our little secret. It’s not like I can tell Anthony I saw you
again.”
“Lucille Ferr. But she prefers Lucy.
You should see this dame. She’s a knockout. Well, I guess this is goodbye, Richie.”
“I fucking hope so.”
“Take care of yourself. Watch your
back. It’s a dangerous world.”
He gave Garton a head start before
he called it in. The Dorchester PD arrived in minutes. The paramedics tended to
Becky Lake and to Richie’s wound. They bandaged him up, but told him it would
require a trip to the hospital for stitches.
“Congratulations,” Anthony said.
“You’re a hero. Look at that girl. You saved her life.”
Richie looked over to Becky, who had
regained consciousness, and she stared right back him with overwhelming
gratitude. She was alive. And she was grateful for it.
“But that doesn’t explain how you
ended up here,” Anthony added. “I mean, how did you even find this guy? The
basement looks like a slaughterhouse. There’s no telling how many people this
sicko has killed over the years.”
“I was following up a lead on the
Painter case. A source of mine gave me his name and address. He said he could
be a likely suspect. I’m glad I checked out.”
“Uh huh,” Anthony said, choosing to
believe his story. “So do you think Rare killed Allen Painter, too? Did you get
him to talk?”
“No, I didn’t have a chance. I
knocked on the door, he let me in, I asked him a few questions but his answers
were vague. And that’s when I noticed a strange smell coming from the basement.
I asked him what was down there and he became nervous, agitated. I asked him if
I could go down and he said no. That’s when he asked me to leave. But I heard
screams coming from the basement and I ran for the door. It wasn’t locked. I
ran downstairs and found the girl all tied up to that table. And that’s when
Rare came after me with that scalpel. I managed to fight him off and shoot him
once. And that’s all there was to it.”
“I believe you. And all that matters is that girl is safe. You
did good, Richie. I’ll put a good word in with the captain for you. Who knows,
you might even make the force for this.”
Richie’s life had been one wasted
opportunity after the other. But he wasn’t going to throw this chance away.
“It’s all I want,” Richie said.
“I’m proud of you, broski. Now if
you’ll excuse me, I have a lot of questions to go answer. You go to the hospital
and take care of that cut. It’s going to leave a gnarly scar.”
Richie spent a few hours in the
hospital, which gave him plenty of time to think. Zack Garton was long gone by
the time it dawned on Richie.
Lucille Ferr. Lucy Ferr. Lucifer…
2.
CLOSURE
Saturday, December 22, 2012.
The world didn’t end on December 21.
But the world as Richie Carter knew it, did.
He’d solved the murder of Allen
Painter. But he could never tell his brother the truth. Anthony would believe
him about the dragonfly. He witnessed it himself the first time around. He knew
what the dragonfly really was, what it was capable of. But nobody else would
accept their story. It wasn’t plausible. People fear the unknown. They don’t
want to accept that there are things in this world you just can’t explain.
And he had uncovered the true
identity of Garton’s client. But he had no way of warning him. Not like Garton
deserved the heads up. To Richie, he was still a coldblooded killer. Their brief
association did nothing to change that fact.
“Four years, one month, and eight
days,” Richie said aloud. Though nobody was there to congratulate him. His
office was empty. He sat around all day, waiting for a call from his brother.
Becky Lake’s mom had been tying up the line all day, calling Richie to sing his
praises.
When it rang again, he was certain
it was her. But when he picked it up, he was actually relieved and excited to
hear his pain-in-the-butt brother’s voice for once. That was until Anthony hit
him with the news.
“It’s a no-go,” Anthony informed him
over the telephone.
“But you said it yourself, I’m a
hero. I saved that girl. Her family is ecstatic. Her mother won’t stop calling
me. I thought this was my way in.”
“The captain respects you and
appreciates everything you’ve done for the department, but he just can’t
overlook your prior history.”
“Dammit,” Richie shouted. “That
sanctimonious prick. Like his record is squeaky clean. Well, at least I did the
right thing. And at least that girl is safe. That’ll make me sleep better at
night.”
“You did good, Richie. You did real
good. Don’t let this get you down.”
“Ah it’s not the worst news I’ve
ever been given.”
“Oh, I should let you know that
they’ve decided to close the Painter case. You tried your best, but I guess
we’ll never know for sure who killed him.”
“Yeah,” Richie chuckled nervously.
“I guess we’ll never know.”
* * *
Garton swapped the plates again on
the black ’70 Challenger. Richie had seen the plates and Garton couldn’t risk
him reporting it to his brother. He could still give Anthony the make and
model, but Garton wanted to trust Richie. Even though his instincts told him
not to.
He thought about ditching the car,
wiping his prints clean, maybe even torching the thing. But he’d spent too much
time and money on it to abandon it. He cared about that car as much as he cared
about his gun, Fran.
Garton cruised the backroads of
Dorchester, driving slowly, obeying all the speed limits, making sure not to
draw any unwanted attention.
He was going to Lucille Ferr’s house. But he found himself
circling the same block over and over, unable to find the place. He knew he had
the right street. But when he pulled up to where the house should’ve been, he
was staring at a vacant lot.
“Impossible,” Garton said. “It was
right here.”
Garton’s phone rang, one of those
prepaid jobs that are difficult to trace. The number came up as Lucille. He
answered it, but did not speak.
“Hello, Zack. I told you I had one
last name on my list. And that name is Zack Garton. See you soon, Zack. See you
real soon. And hey, Kirk Warwick was right. Satan does appear in many
unassuming forms.”
The line went dead. Garton snapped
the phone in half, tossed it out the window, and drove over it with his tires.
“Not if I see you first,” Garton said as he drove away.
* * *
Richie stopped at the liquor mart to
pick up a bottle of Wild Turkey. His lips were smacking with anticipation as he
walked to the counter and paid for the bottle.
Outside, he twisted the cap off and
held the neck of the bottle up to his nose. “Four years, one month, and eight
days…so much for that.”
He was about to take a swig, but
capped the bottle instead. “I’ll save it for later.” He tucked the bourbon into
his deep coat pocket and walked back to his office.
Richie wasn’t expecting business at
this hour of the night. But he could not ignore a beauty as rare as the woman
who was waiting to speak with him. Jet-black hair, flawless skin, silky smooth
legs, and a body that makes you want to take out a second mortgage on your
house.
“How can I help you?” Richie asked.
“Allow me to introduce myself, Mr.
Carter. I’m Lucille Ferr.”
And that’s when Richie’s heart sank.
“You…you were the one behind all of
this. Weren’t you? You had Allen Painter killed. You hired Garton to do your
dirty work. What’s your endgame?”
“There’s been a war brewing for
centuries. Armageddon. The final battle between the forces of good and evil.
And when that day comes, Hell needs an army. Allen Painter, Reggie Muldoon and
his kill-crazy dope dealers, Kip Stern–all valuable soldiers in my army.”
“If you think I’m joining you, you
can go right back to Hell.”
“Oh, don’t worry, Mr. Carter. I have
no interest in you. You’re one of the good guys. Yes, you’ve killed people
before. But you’ve always been able to justify your actions. And God has his
own plans for you. Heaven needs an army too, you know?”
“What do you want from me then?”
“Zack Garton. He’s still in
Dorchester. He thinks he’s going to find me. But you can’t find someone who is
everywhere and nowhere at the same time.”
“Again, where do I fit into all
this?”
“I need Zack for my army. He’s an
ideal candidate. And Zack’s philosophy is that in real life, the bad guys can
win. I know that philosophy doesn’t sit well with you. And I know the dragonfly
is still in your possession. I think you know what has to be done.”
“Do I have any other choice?”
“Just look who you’re talking to,”
Lucille chuckled. “Besides, look in your heart. You know it’s the right thing
to do. You thought about killing him four years ago, just like you thought
about killing him when you crossed paths with him again. Just take some time to
think about it. I know you’ll make the right decision.”
Richie turned his back for a second
and Lucille was gone. He never heard the door open or close. He didn’t hear her
stiletto heels clicking across the floor. She just vanished, evaporated through
the walls.
He sat behind his desk, took the
bottle out of his pocket, and stared at it. He stared for the longest time,
contemplating both decisions he was faced with.
It was almost midnight when he left
the office, bottle in hand. He walked out into the street, unscrewed the cap,
tipped the bottle, and dumped the bourbon down a storm drain. He still had work
to do.
* * *
Garton wasn’t leaving town. Not
until he dealt with “Lucille.” Garton knew he was crazy. But he never knew he’d
be crazy enough to try and take on the devil himself. But he was not going to
let Satan claim his soul. If he was going to Hell, he wanted it to be on his
own terms.
He’d returned to the garage and paid Bill a few grand to
store his Challenger for the time being. His plan was to rent a room under a
fake name and lie low until he formulated a strategy. But he accidently left
Fran in the passenger seat and had to go back for her.
He opened the passenger door. Fran was gone and had been
replaced by a small glass jar with a perforated lid. Its transparent wings
fluttered effortlessly as it floated in the center of the jar, the glass
seemingly magnifying its iridescent colors. To anyone else, it was just a
harmless dragonfly. But not to Zack Garton. To Garton, this signified his
demise.
He watched in awe as the jar moved and the lid slowly
loosened, as if some invisible force was unscrewing it. The dragonfly, freed
from its captivity, landed at Garton’s feet. And the transformation ended just
as rapidly as it began.
Garton stared up the bipedal monster that had manifested from
this innocent creature. Its skin was black and rough as shoe leather. Its long,
narrow wings flapped at its sides. A forked tongue slithered from its mouth, as
coarse as sandpaper. Its huge, red, compound eyes reflected the terror in
Garton’s own eyes.
Richie didn’t have to stick around. But he had to know it was
over. He hid out behind the garage and waited, knowing Garton would return for
his gun.
He wanted to cover his ears to
stifle the screams. But Richie had to see this through to the bitter end.
Garton lasted longer than most. He fought back, bravely but
foolishly and in vain. But he was only prolonging the inevitable. Hell was waiting
for him to come knocking at the door.
This is real life. And in real life,
the bad guys can win. But not always. Not as long as people like Richie Carter
still exist.
THE END?
