DRAGONFLY: PART SIX

Genre: Horror/Mystery/Fantasy

DRAGONFLY

By Daniel Skye

PART SIX: HARBINGER

            That morning, Richie Carter checked out Bennett’s Marina. There was a stationary trailer on the property where the local fishermen could purchase bait, ice, and tackle. The owner, David Bennett, was an early riser. And he was drinking coffee behind his desk in the trailer when he saw Richie pass by.

            “Can I help you?” Bennett asked, poking his head out from the trailer door. He looked familiar to Richie. He could’ve sworn he’d seen his face in the papers before. But he didn’t bother asking.

            “Maybe. I’m looking for a boat called the 4-Play. Owned by a guy named Mac Wilson. Real first name is Charles.”

            “Dock C, slip twenty-two,” Bennett told him. Then he asked, “Are you with the police? Are you with the other detective I spoke to earlier? I think he’s still down on the dock.”

            “Yes…” Richie replied, unsure of how to answer. Someone had beat him to the punch. Had his brother sent one of his fellow officers? Or was somebody else looking for Mac Wilson?

            Richie sensed he could be walking into a trap. He had his gun on him and made sure it was out and tucked under his arm as he approached Dock C. Slip twenty-two was empty, but there was a man waiting at the end of the dock. Tall, dark, mysterious.

            Richie continued down the dock, minding the planks that had begun to rot and splinter. The man turned his attention to Richie, his hand slowly reaching into his overcoat. Richie saw him making his move and he reached under his arm, drawing his Colt .45 before Garton’s fingers could grasp his Luger.

            “Don’t even think about it!” Richie shouted. “Hands in the air!”

            Garton sighed. It was early and Garton was tired and not in any mood for bloodshed. If he killed Richie, he’d have to kill David Bennett too. He couldn’t have any witnesses. Richie was not wearing a uniform, and he wasn’t wearing and suit and tie, either. Garton assessed he wasn’t a cop and saw an opportunity to defuse the situation with simple conversation.

            “He’s not here,” Garton said, raising his hands. He assumed Richie was looking for Wilson too. Perhaps Wilson owed him money. Garton didn’t really care what Richie’s beef was with Mac. He just needed Mac for information.

            “Who?” Richie asked.

            “Mac Wilson. I assume he’s the reason you’re standing here.”

            Richie, still gripping his Colt .45, moved closer to Garton.

            “What do you know about him?”

            “I know he’s scum. And I know he’s an acquaintance of my current employer. All I need is information.”

            “Funny you say that. I had a few questions I needed to ask Mac myself. If he were here, I’d start by asking why somebody tried to kill me last night. You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that, would you?”

            “I don’t even know your name, stranger. And I don’t care to know it, either. All I know is I was hired by a man for a very peculiar assignment, and this man just so happens to have a connection with Wilson. Before I fulfill my obligations to my employer, I need to know more.”

            “Who is your employer?”

            “I’m not at liberty to reveal that.”

            “Who’s the one with the gun here?”

            “Technically we’re both armed; you just so happen to have the drop on me at the moment. That could change at any time.”

            “I don’t want to kill you,” Richie said. “It’d be a waste of bullets.”

            “And I don’t desire to kill you,” Garton said. “I don’t kill for free unless I absolutely have to.”

            “Then spill it. Who are you working for? You sure as hell aren’t a cop. And you’re not FBI or CIA.”

            “Neither are you. Maybe I should ask who you’re working for.”

            “My name is Richie Carter and I’m a private detective. I’m working a case with the Dorchester police. A snuff film found its way into a little girl’s bag of Halloween candy. I’m looking for the men on that tape. I have reason to believe Mac Wilson was one of them.”

            “Looks like we have common interests,” Garton said. “Perhaps we can assist each other.”

            “Sure. You can start by telling me who you’re working for.”

            “Kirk Warwick. He’s a retired preacher dying of throat cancer. I learned of his connection with Mac Wilson and another petty thug named Nico Cirico through Fenton Meeks. Meeks said the guys had a nickname for him. They called him The Outsider.”

            Richie lowered his gun and stared in disbelief. “What did you just say?”

* * *

            Garton followed Richie’s beat-up Oldsmobile back to Dorchester. Richie received one call on the road from Anthony.

            “Hey, broski,” Anthony said. “I’ve got some unsurprising news for you. All the prints on the gun belonged to Jacob Price. The serial number was filed off, as you already know, so tracing the sale of the gun is going to be impossible. Price had no criminal record and had no family. He was living in one of the vacant rooms of the hotel he was working at. What have you got on Mac Wilson?”

            “His boat was gone. Looks like he might’ve set sail someplace else. But I’ve got a new name for you to look into. Mac and Nico had a connection with an older man. They called him The Outsider. His real name is Kirk Warwick. Check it out for me. And I need everything you know about a man named Zack Garton.”

            “Garton!” Anthony exclaimed. “Holy mackerel, that is one guy you don’t want to frig around with. He’s a real heavy hitter. Killed at least twenty people we know of. Of course, there were no witnesses and there was never enough evidence to convict him, but trust me. He’s ruthless. A cold blooded killer.”

            “Well that answers that,” Richie said. “Get back to me when you can about Warwick.”

            Richie stopped his car near a set of train tracks and Garton pulled up behind him. Richie exited the Oldsmobile and Garton followed his move.

            “How long have you been a hit man?” Richie asked bluntly.

            “A long time,” Garton sighed. “Long enough to know I should’ve done something else with my life.”

            “How many people have you killed?”

            “To be exact? Twenty-nine.”

            “Look, all I really care about is finding out who the men are on that tape. I don’t care who you are, where you’ve been, what you’ve done. But if you try any shit with me, I don’t care who you are, you’re a dead man.”

            “Don’t cross me and I won’t cross you,” Garton assured him.

            “So who’s the mark?”

            “Beg your pardon?”

            “The mark. The target. The guy Warwick hired you to grease.”

            “It’s in the car,” Garton said, walking back to his vehicle. He opened the passenger side door and took out the glass jar. The dragonfly fluttered about harmlessly without a care in the world. “Now you see why I have some questions about Warwick? He fears this insect more than his impending death. Needless to say, it’s peaked my curiosity. It’s not every day someone pays you to whack a bug.”

            “If we’re going to find answers, we need to find Mac Wilson first.”

            “Just for my own edification, what was on that tape?”

            “You don’t want to know,” Richie shuddered at the thought.

            “I’m afraid I do if we’re going to proceed from here.”

            “It was a tape of a young girl. Her name might’ve been Nadia Sanborn. Four guys, all wearing masks–they…they…desecrated her. They raped her. They tortured her. Whipped her. Burned her. Carved her up with a knife. Extinguished lit cigarette butts on her tummy. Then they slit her throat from ear to fucking ear. And now I can’t get those images out of my fucking head. It haunts me day and night. That’s why I need to find the four men that were on that tape. Happy?”

            “Not particularly, no,” Garton sighed. “I don’t kill women, or children for that matter. I’ve never even hit a woman before in my life. Frankly, it sickens me.”

            “At least we’re on the same page there.”

            “Alright, you’ve convinced me. I’ll help you if you help me. No tricks, no double crosses. But once this is over, we go our separate ways and we never breathe each other’s name again.”

            “Agreed.”

            “Hey,” Garton sighed before Richie could walk back to his car. “You said four men. What about the camera? Was it set up on a tripod or was there somebody filming it?”

            “Fuck,” Richie muttered. “You’re right. The camera wasn’t stationary. There was a fifth man in the room with them.”

            “Well let’s worry about that later on. First things first. We need to find Wilson. And I have a good idea of where to start. I don’t think Fenton Meeks has been entirely honest with us. All I’ll need is a few minutes with him, and then we’ll know everything he knows.”

* * *

            Joker’s Pub was deserted that afternoon. Mackenzie, the girl who had served Richie the last time he showed his face at the pub, was behind the bar. She recognized him instantly, but he didn’t acknowledge her. Didn’t even make eye contact with her. He and Garton walked straight past the bar and towards the back office.

            They tried the door, but it was locked. Carter pounded his fist against the door. “Meeks, open up. I promise this will be quick.”

            “Don’t make promises you can’t keep,” Garton cackled.

            Richie continued banging on the door until Mackenzie leaned over the door and called out, “I think he’s napping. Haven’t seen him all day.”

            “Fuck it,” Garton muttered and rammed the door with his shoulder. It didn’t budge the first time. But the third time was the charm.

            Richie entered first and gasped at the sight of the blood that had pooled around Fenton’s desk. His body was propped up in a chair, hands placed in his lap.

            The skin of Meeks’ torso was flayed, peeled back. And the fat and muscle had been shredded away, fully exposing his ribcage and organs. But one crucial organ was absent.

            Well, it wasn’t exactly missing. His heart had been extracted, and placed in the palms of his hands that now rested in his lap.

            “How did the girl not hear anything?” Richie asked. “He must’ve been screaming at the top of his lungs.”

            “Nope,” Garton said, walking around the desk, careful to avoid the puddles of blood that had collected. He pried Fenton’s jaws open and showed Richie what else was missing. “They cut out his tongue. He couldn’t have screamed even if he wanted to.”

            “Jesus,” Richie exclaimed. “I have to call this in to my brother. And you need to vamoose. The cops don’t need to see you hanging around here. Use the backdoor on your way out and meet me in the parking lot behind Jack’s Liquor Mart in two hours.”

            Garton nodded and was on his way. Richie took out his cell and dialed Anthony’s number. As he turned back to the door, he noticed it for the first time.

            A message scribbled in blood above the door lintel.

            Satan appears in many unassuming forms…

DRAGONFLY: PART FIVE

Genre: Horror/Mystery

DRAGONFLY

By Daniel Skye

PART FIVE: THE OUTSIDER

            Tuesday, November 4^th, 2008.

            When Richie Carter woke that morning, the first thing he tasted was whiskey and cigarettes. His breath reeked like a pub ashtray. He rolled over in bed and found the culprit, an empty bottle of Maker’s Mark.

            He got out of bed and tried to shake it off. Bleary eyed and still a little drunk from the night before, he stumbled around as he tried to pull his cell phone from his pocket. It was one of those cheap prepaid phones you can buy in convenience stores and put minutes on. Drug dealers refer to them as burners. Richie Carter refers to it as being poor.

            He dialed his brother’s number and Anthony picked up after two rings.

            “You got something for me?” Anthony asked, not even wasting time with a hello.

            “Actually, I need you to get something for me. I need any and all information you have on Nico Cirico and Mac Wilson.”

            “Are we talking suspects?”

            “Potential suspects. Just get me what you can please, including an address on Wilson, if you can.”

            “What about Nico Cirico?”

            “Don’t need his address. Nico is dead. Drug overdose. His brother, Dominic, came to my office when he heard I was asking questions about his brother. But information on Nico could lead me to others. I also need anything you can find on a girl named Nadia Sanborn. She…I mean, I think she might be the girl on the tape. But I can’t be certain. Not yet at least.”

            “Christ on a cracker,” Anthony said. “This is big. Sit tight and I’ll get you what you need.”

            “I’m afraid I can’t sit tight. I’m heading out to Fairview today.”

            “For what?”

            “To look for Mac Wilson. I think that’s where he might be. Just try and get me an address and in the meantime, let me do my thing.”

***

            Zack Garton stopped in late at Joker’s Pub. He didn’t acknowledge the late crowd that had gathered for one last beer or game of pool. He didn’t approach the bar or order a drink. And he made sure to avoid eye contact with the bartender or any of the bar flies as he walked casually to the back.

            He knocked on the office door several times before Meeks reluctantly answered and Garton forced his way in. Closing and locking the door behind him, Zack grabbed Meeks by the throat and tossed him over his desk.

            Someone had put a few quarters in the internet jukebox and the music of The Rolling Stones drowned out any commotion that could be heard from the office. Garton walked around the desk and clasped his catcher’s mitt sized hand around Fenton’s throat, slamming him against the wall and delivering several crushing fists to his ribs. Then he pressed his trusty 9mm Luger to Fenton’s temple and cocked back the hammer with his thumb.

            “Kirk Warwick,” was all Garton said at first. Then he added, “Tell me everything you know about him and maybe I’ll let you live.”

            “I never heard of him, pal,” Meeks said, catching his breath. “I swear.”

            “That’s not what I heard. I understand you and Warwick had an arrangement of sorts. What was it?”

            “Warwick was a man just like any other. He had needs and desires. So I helped him fulfill those desires.”

            “You’d get girls for Warwick?”

            “Yes. Because of his relationship with the church, we had to keep it quiet.”

            “Is that all?”

            “He used to hang around with two younger guys. They had a nickname for him. Called him The Outsider.”

            “Who were they?”

            “Mac Wilson and Nico Cirico.”

            “Where can I find them?”

            “Nico is dead. Drug overdose. Mac is out in Fairview, I think. But I can’t be sure. Last I heard, he was in jail. But he’s probably out by now.”

            “What did Warwick do?”

            “What do you mean? You mean with the girls?”

            “No. He must’ve done something terribly wrong at one point in his life. The man fears hell more than anyone I’ve ever met. It’s not just an act either. And I don’t think it has anything to do with his preacher gimmick. So whatever he did, it must’ve been bad.”

            “I don’t know, man. I swear. I just scored him girls. That’s it. Ask Mac if you can find him. That’s how I met Warwick. Through Mac and Nico.”

            “I will,” Garton assured him. “And if Mac tells me a different story, I’ll be back to collect your heart.”

***

            It took several cups of coffee for Richie Carter to sober up before he hit the road. His car, a gray 1987 Oldsmobile, smoked and the engine squealed and shrieked whenever he fired it up. But it still ran. The engine was in such bad shape that when the car was motionless, it would vibrate. Kids would pull up alongside him at red lights, point and snicker.

           But today, the ridicule didn’t faze him one bit. He was a man on a mission. He didn’t know how he was going to find Mac Wilson when he arrived in Fairview. He didn’t even know if Mac was in Fairview to begin with. But it was a start. And judging by what he had heard of Mac, this guy wasn’t the type to frequent five star establishments. So his plan was to check some of the local dive bars and seedier establishments and ask around.

Somebody was bound to know something about Mac. If he had a past in Fairview, a criminal record, people would probably be familiar with the name.

First things first, Richie thought as he saw signs for Fairview. You need to find a place to hang your hat for the night.

Fairview was a small Long Island fishing community with a rapidly declining population. As the state continued to change laws, add regulations, and raise prices for fishing licenses, many of the local fishermen had hauled up their anchors and set sail elsewhere.

Richie passed an independent gas station, a few bars, a bait and tackle shop, an abandoned strip mall, and a vacant hotel with a glowing neon sign that advertised low rates and cable TV. Richie was disappointed with the lack of a pool in their advertisement, but he supposed the place would do for the night.

He pulled the Oldsmobile into the empty lot of the White Lodge Hotel. The name reminded him of a show he had watched as a teenager. He couldn’t recall the name, but the main character was this clairvoyant detective who used to rave about coffee and cherry pie like it was the greatest thing since sliced bread.

The character, with his upbeat attitude and squeaky clean image, reminded him of his brother, Anthony. He was surprised that Anthony hadn’t gotten back to him yet, and so he phoned him from the parking lot.

“Hey, broski,” Anthony answered after two rings.

“Hey yourself,” Richie said. “What’s taking so long?”

“Sorry, been meaning to get back to you. It’s just been a zoo down here at the station. You got a pen and paper?”

“Yeah, go ahead,” Richie said, taking out his notepad and a pen.

“Nico and Dominic were both born and raised in Dorchester. Mac Wilson’s real name is Charles. He was born and raised in Fairview. Did some time up in Riverhead for solicitation and battery. He and Nico were up there around the same time. Nico got popped for breaking and entering. He was robbing to support his drug habits. Nico is deceased, but you already know that. And Mac, or Charles I should say, got out of jail a while ago.

The word on the street is he settled back down in Fairview. He also has a boat out there somewhere. Or he did at least. Don’t have a name for the boat though. No address for Charles Wilson either. He’s not on parole so he doesn’t have to check in with his parole officer. Last time he saw his P.O. he was living in a halfway house. We checked it out and he’s not there anymore. And Nico and Mac have no connections that I’m aware of outside of Fenton Meeks.”

“What about Nadia Sanborn?”

“Nothing on the girl. No criminal record, no family history, not even dental records. Whoever she was, someone knew she wouldn’t be missed, that her disappearance wouldn’t bring about many questions or leave a trail.”

            “Thanks, Anthony. I’ll let you know what I find out here. I’m checking into the White Lodge Hotel as we speak.”

            “Oh, man. That place is a dump.”

            “I know. It’s perfect for me. Talk to you later.”

            “Later, broski.”

            Richie hung up the phone and walked into the front office. The clerk was a young man in a Pink Floyd T-shirt. His bloodshot eyes, sticky fingers, and malformed grin all indicted that he was stoned. Richie could smell it on his clothes.

            He approached the counter and asked, “How much for a room?”

            “How long you plan on staying?” the clerk asked in a daze.

            “Just the night,” Richie answered.

            “That’ll be sixty bucks,” the clerk said, dragging his words.

            Richie opened his wallet and dropped three twenties on the counter. The clerk took the cash and gave Richie a key in exchange. With all those plastic sliding cards hotels have nowadays, Richie thought the key was a nice tough. It felt nostalgic. He accepted the key and the clerk told him it was room four.

            “I gave you the suite,” the clerk grinned. “We had a fire here not too long ago. It was a meth lab explosion. All the rooms had to be redone and painted again. Room four is the only one that doesn’t smell like paint or chemicals.”

            “Why thanks,” Richie nodded.

            “Yeah, it actually smells like cat piss. Don’t know why. We’ve tried everything to get the scent out. It’s the strangest thing.”

            “Wonderful,” Richie rolled his eyes. “Before I retire to the litter box suite, I have a couple of questions I need to ask you.”

            “I have a question too…Are you a cop?”

            “I’m not a cop. I’m a private detective.” He almost slipped and said private dick instead and silently cursed Anthony in his head. “And I’m working a case that has no relation to you. Have you ever heard of Mac Wilson? His real name is Charles.”

            “Yeah I’ve heard of him. Never hung out with the guy or anything. Mac was a rebel, always getting into trouble, starting fights. I heard a lot of stories about him from my brother.”

            “Your brother knew him?”

            “He knew of him.”

            “What about Nadia Sanborn? That name mean anything to you?”

            The clerk chuckled. “Oh yeah, I remember Nadia. She was the old town bicycle, if you will. Hell, everyone had a turn with her. Even me.”

            “Uh huh,” Richie said, unimpressed. “Where can I find her?”

            “Beats me. She left Fairview a while back. Haven’t heard her name uttered since then Not until this moment.”

            “Was Nadia turning tricks?”

            “Nah, she just couldn’t stick with one guy. That was her thing. She never stayed with one guy for too long.”

            “Thanks for the help,” Richie said and dropped another twenty on the counter. “Buy yourself a gram.”

            As Richie left the front office and walked to room four, he remembered the name of the show this place reminded him of. “Twin Peaks,” he whispered.

            Richie dropped his bag off in the room and got settled in. Then he hit the town, visiting a few of the local bars he had passed on the way in. Everyone he talked with seemed to know the name Mac Wilson, but they had little to share about him and no one claimed to know him personally. Until he stopped in at the bait and tackle shop as they were closing up.

            The owner knew Mac, said he used to come in to buy bait. Anthony said Mac owned a boat, and the owner confirmed that Mac had, or used to have, a houseboat docked at Bennett’s Marina. He even knew the name of the boat: The 4-Play.

            Yeah, sounds like Mac to me, Richie thought as he thanked the owner for his time. It was getting late and Richie figured he could stake Bennett’s Marina out in the morning. Better to do it in daylight. So he left the bait and tackle shop and returned to the hotel.

            When he turned the key in the door and opened it, he saw a lone shadow cast over the floor. Someone was sitting on the edge of bed, waiting for him to enter.

            As a private detective, Richie was permitted to carry a firearm. He drew his pistol when he saw the shadow of the gun and kicked the door open. He marched in, Colt. 45 aimed towards the bed, his finger wrapped around the trigger.

            It was the desk clerk, clutching a semi-automatic pistol. His Pink Floyd shirt was stained from profuse sweating. His hands were trembling. Richie assessed the kid had never fired a gun before in his life. He wasn’t even accustomed to the weight. He had to use both hands just to hold the thing up.

            Richie let the silence fill the room. He stood his ground, finger still on the trigger, but he didn’t make a move.

            Neither did the clerk, unless you count his involuntary tremors. His didn’t even have his finger around the trigger, but it was close enough. Too close for comfort.

            “Easy, kid,” Richie finally broke a long and bitter silence. “You don’t want to do this. I can see it in your eyes. Somebody put you up to this. Was it Mac? Fenton Meeks?”

            “I can’t turn back,” the clerk said. “It’s too late.”

            The clerk’s index finger reached the trigger just as Richie fired two shots. One to the chest, one to the face. The hotel was deserted and nobody had heard the shots.

            Richie examined the semi-automatic pistol as best as he could without touching it. He noticed the serial number had been filed off. He had a feeling if the cops dusted it for prints, they’d all belong to the clerk. They wouldn’t find an additional set of prints. Whoever set this up, they made sure to cover their tracks.

            Richie fished the clerk’s wallet from his pocket and checked his ID. Jacob Price.

            Richie had two options; cover his own tracks and run, or call it in to his brother. It was self-defense after all. Fairview was still a part of Dorchester County and fell under its jurisdiction.

            So he called it in.

***

            Anthony made the drive down to Fairview to meet with the local police and speak on Richie’s behalf. The cops didn’t charge him with anything. They wrote it off as a clear cut case of self-defense.

            In the parking lot, Richie asked Anthony to run Jacob Price’s name when he got back home. “He knew Nadia Sanborn,” Richie added. “He might have been one of the four men on that tape. But I seriously doubt it. You should have seen the fear in his eyes. I don’t think he ever fired a gun before in his life. Someone paid him off and gave him the gun.”

            “But who?”

            “Mac Wilson, maybe. He’s out here. Has a boat docked at Bennett’s Marina. The 4-Play.”

            “That mother fudger,” Anthony said. He refused to curse other than when he referred to Richie as a private dick, so he used substitutes. “I got to call this one in.”

            “No, hold off on that. Let me check it out first.”

            “After everything that’s happened tonight?”

            “I can take care of myself. Trust me on this one. It’ll be better if I go alone. A bunch of cops all swarming in at once is a dead giveaway. And if he put Jacob Price up to this, that’s what he’ll be expecting when he hears the news about Price’s death. He won’t be expecting me to come alone.”

            “Alright, if that’s how you want to play this out, I’ll trust you. But watch your back.”

            “Hey, after tonight’s episode, what’s the worst that could happen?”

***

            Zack Garton knew something Richie Carter didn’t know. He knew the secret identity of The Outsider. Kirk Warwick. A dying preacher with a soiled, checkered past. And a man who unnerved the usually cool and collected Garton to no end.

            Before he did the job Warwick had paid him to do, he was going to find out everything there was to know about the old man. Starting with Mac Wilson.

            It was around midnight when his headlights beamed off a road sign that welcomed him to the town of Fairview.

To be continued…