Crime Rave (19 page)

Part Three:
Further Down The Rabbit Hole

When I looked around, I saw and heard of none like me. Was I then a monster, a blot upon the earth, from which all men fled, and whom all men disowned?

—Mary Shelley,
Frankenstein

Alice laughed. “There’s no use trying,” she said. “One can’t believe impossible things.”

“I daresay you haven’t had much practice,” said the Queen. “When I was your age, I always did it for half-an-hour a day. Why, sometimes I’ve believed as many as six impossible things before breakfast.”

—Lewis Carroll,
Alice in Wonderland

Sunday November 1, 2000

1:15 PM

Beverly Center

T
he lines outside where the LAPD’s task force collects DNA samples from family and friends of the missing aren’t getting any smaller, even after the now-quashed melee that broke out when a celebrity mother tried to jump the queue and another angry parent pulled a gun and shot her. Tensions run too high, and law enforcement is stretched thinner than it’s ever been.

All for what the lab techs know is a futile exercise in collecting DNA samples to which there is nothing left to match. A charade the government must put on to save face in a most wretched and unexpected of circumstance. Who would ever have imagined that homegrown terrorists—white ones, to boot—could hit from within the United States? And on such a massive scale as this? Nobody ever planned for the scenario they’re in now.

And so, parents, families, guardians, friends head home with no answers.

The waiting game begins.

When they see footage of the vaporized hill, they know in their hearts their sons and daughters are gone. But still that sliver of hope remains. The sense of not knowing when you don’t have a body to bury is crushing. Thousands who will never have closure, not the way they wish they could. Not the way others do. The anger starts pouring into those empty soul places. Why wasn’t mine chosen? Why wasn’t mine saved? What’s so special about the sixteen survivors who made it and my baby didn’t. If mine died, all should die. The rage burns out as fast as it arrives in a mist of sadness, dissipating, a melancholic lethargy is all that’s left behind.

You’ll leave their room as it was until it becomes too painful. You’ll become overbearing toward your remaining children. Or you’ll stop caring. You’ll find new love in your partner. Or the sight of their face will remind you too much of all you’ve lost and you’ll separate. There are no happy endings. Camelot is dead. You wonder if it ever existed at all.

The Ethereals

Y
ou have done terribly wrong. You feel it now.

You’ve woken Mother, The Ancient One.

Kaleanathi only grows stronger as she builds her army of Elementals.

And an entourage of neighboring multiverse overlords approaches to declaim your energy siphoning.

The humans have a word for this: Disaster.

The Angel Curiel has left you to watch over your human survivors below. After all this, they at least need to be kept safe. Otherwise everything has been too much in vain.

You should have known better. Why didn’t you leave well enough alone? Why didn’t you listen? Now you know it’s too late.

A reckoning will be upon you.

You hope it doesn’t spell another human word: Annihilation.

Please, you pray. Don’t let it spell that.

1:30 PM LAPD Headquarters

N
atalie Crane, estranged wife of Charles Wallace Crane, wrings her hands in the waiting room. A pretty, forty-six-year-old blonde, the former Mrs. Motel Chain ages gracefully, not bothering to hide the lines around her eyes or mouth. Her hair is long and straight, in a stylish side part that makes her look ten years younger. She wears a black sleeveless beige linen suit that shows off her muscular arms and trim figure. She alternates the hand-wringing with dabbing at her eyes.

Assistant Chief Ortiz and Special Agent Quatro emerge from the field room and approach Mrs. Crane. She stands.

“I’m Natalie Crane, thank you so much for meeting with me. I’m sure you’ve got so much going on right now…” her voice fades out.

“It’s no problem. I’m Assistant Chief Gabriel Ortiz, this is FBI Special Agent Rosario Quatro.” Agent Quatro shakes Natalie’s hand, closes her eyes and breathes deep. Natalie watches, puzzled, as does Chief Ortiz. Quatro comes off as a strange woman, indeed. When Quatro opens her eyes, Natalie has the distinct feeling that the FBI agent knows every thing she’s ever tried to hide. Unnerving to say the least.

Chief Ortiz escorts the women to his office.

“Mrs. Crane, may I offer you some water? Some tea maybe? Coffee?”

“I’ll take three fingers of whiskey if you’ve got it. Police chiefs in movies always seem to have a stash.” She lets loose a deep and shuddery sigh. Quatro raises an eyebrow. Natalie stopped drinking after her nightmare of a divorce.

“Of course. This must be a devastating day for you.”

Tears fill her bright blue eyes as she nods. “My two children were at that party. I take it they are not among the survivors?”

Chief Ortiz shakes his head no.

“I am so sorry for your loss, Mrs. Crane.”

Ortiz hands her a generous helping of whiskey. She takes a gulp and eases back into her seat. Rubs her eyes.

“As if that wasn’t bad enough, a courier dropped this off about an hour ago.” She hands Ortiz an envelope of heavy-duty paper, embossed with Charles Wallace Crane’s name and motel logo, addressed only
Natalie
.

“May I?” Ortiz asks. Natalie nods, and he takes out the letter.

Dear Slut,

By the time you read this, I will be long gone and you will never find me. Nor will you find any of my fortune. Like your children, it is gone, gone, gone. I made sure they were at my little party. And we all know how that turned out.

Just to be perfectly clear, this whole thing is all your fault, you cheating whore. When the walls started bleeding, they told me that you’d probably kill yourself from guilt. I sincerely hope you don’t. I want you to suffer every day knowing that you were the spark that ignited this fire. You are nothing, Natalie. A cheap tramp I tried to turn into a queen and failed. You deserve all the pain in the world. Now that’s all you have. I can’t begin to describe how happy this makes me.

You should also know that I’ve put a hit out on your husband, that white trash interloper who ruined everything. I won’t tell you when it’s going to happen. I’d like to leave some suspense in my wake. Maybe it’ll be tomorrow, maybe in five years. But it will happen. Of that I can promise you. We are officially even.

Enjoy the rest of your pathetic life, you fucking bitch of a cunt.

Yours in hatred,

Charles Wallace Crane

October 31, 2000

Ortiz lets out a small breath and looks at Natalie.

“Jesus,” he says.

Natalie’s chin quivers. “A real piece of work, right? And what can we do about the hit on my husband? Do you think it’s real?” Natalie says after Ortiz finishes and hands the letter to Quatro. “When I left Charles, it was for my current husband. I had no idea it would push him this far over the edge.”

“We’ll most certainly take the hit seriously since your husband made good on his other threats. Our forensics accountants are already reviewing what’s available of your ex-husband’s finances, we’ll let you know what we find.”

Quatro puts her hand on the Mrs. Crane’s shaking shoulder, calming her. “When was the last time you spoke to him?”

“Um, I guess about a month ago. He was giving the kids money to go to those raves, which I forbade them to do. And because he knew it would hurt me he encouraged them.” She laughs a hollow sound. “He even gave them quote ‘E money.’ Can you believe that? I called to tell him I’d report him to the cops if he didn’t stop. He laughed and hung up on me.”

“What was your marriage like?” Ortiz leans on the edge of his desk.

“The only good things that came from our marriage were our two children. He was manipulative, controlling. I was young when I met him. I confused my intoxication with his power and experience for love. I learned quickly he’d set up his entire world to fuel his ego. He grew up poor, so when he started making money, it changed him. Monstrously. Everything was about legitimacy. He didn’t think that a motel millionaire was considered the same caliber as a Hollywood star or even a hotel millionaire. He always looked for ways to make himself more authentic to other rich people.” Natalie Crane blows her nose.

“So he started building that creepy mansion. He was obsessed with constructing new wings. Although he called it ‘driven.’ Each one was stranger than the last. I felt like a guest in my own home. And for the first time I was scared, I could see something snapping inside him. I couldn’t live like that anymore. His mood swings, his irrationality. So, I left him.”

“You had an affair?”

“Yes. It was a mistake. I should have divorced Charles first. Twenty-twenty hindsight. And I cheated with a man less powerful than him, which I think was what offended Charles the most. He was furious in a way I’d never seen him be before. Very quiet. Controlled. But his eyes spitting daggers. I packed up the kids and left. At that point I didn’t care about his money. Or his power. Within a year we were divorced. That was three years ago. I had no idea he was still so angry.” Natalie shudders and looks at Ortiz. “Is it true there were over thirty thousand people at that party?”

Ortiz nods. Natalie Crane is devastated. “He’s right. This is all my fault. I just never thought he’d kill his own children. And so many others! Oh, none of this makes any sense,” she sobs. “Does anyone know where the bastard is?”

“We suspect he was killed at the party, though from this letter it appears he had no intention of actually being there when the bombs went off. We also checked with his estate and it seems he’d been squirreling away his assets one by one in offshore accounts. Starting in October of 1997.”

“That’s when our divorce finalized. Oh God. That long? He’s been planning this for that long?” Natalie goes pale.

“Are you okay, Mrs. Crane?” Ortiz moves toward her.

Natalie puts up her hand and takes another swig of whiskey. Red spots appear on her cheeks, a stark contrast to her ashen skin.

“I’m sorry, I think I’m—” and Natalie Crane, ex-wife to America’s new leading mass murderer, falls into a stone-cold faint.

Kaleanathi, The Smog Goddess

T
he pieces are in place. In human hours, just a few to go. You can hear The Elementals realizing they have lost. You feel the presence of beings from another universe approaching, coming for The Elementals. Good.

You continue ignoring Mother, The Ancient One’s demands that you give up your hold on The Source.

Fiero the Murder Goddess completes her first ritual, the one that makes ghosts into flesh.

The goddess of webs, Aranya, spins away, forging the connections you’ll need to finish this once and for all.

The other Elementals add their power into the mix, boosting the signal and amplifying The Source.

You all will put The Ethereals in their place. Forever.

Time. Time is all that separates your stolen tributes from returning to your dark place where they belong and where they’ll stay until eternity’s end.

But feed, you must. You’re hungry again. The thousands of souls in you diminishing too fast. The Source doesn’t taste as delicious as a fresh soul. You must maintain.

You roam Los Angeles’s smoggy skies, seeking snacks. Robbery homicides. Domestic gun violence. Drug overdoses. Suicides. The consequences of the vacuum you left by taking all those lives.

You suck up the new deaths as if through a straw, but they still don’t fill the hole left by The Ethereals.

More, you need more.

You branch out your search, greedy for souls, the high wears off faster each time. The power they give you less and less.

You will not be diminished.

You will not be denied.

You’ll eat every soul it takes until you rule the heavens.

Even if it means there’s nothing left to rule.

1:30 PM Spruce-Musa Hospital

D
etectives Red Feather and Günn take the elevator from the cafeteria back up to the fourth floor of Spruce-Musa, showing their badges to the new officer on duty who waves them in.

As they pass the nurse’s station, Nurse Jonelle chuckles and clucks. “That cute little wolf girl’s gone and woken up. Thought you two would like to know.” The nurse giggles.

“What’s so funny?” Red Feather says, chuckling along. Jonelle’s laugh is a positive infection.

“I was just thinkin’ about everyone’s faces when they saw her and realized it wasn’t a costume. Oh Lord have mercy! Any time I need a pick-me-up, I’m gonna remember that.” Nurse Jonelle laughs outright.

Red Feather studies the nurse. “You really have an amazing spirit, Nurse Jonelle. You definitely chose the right profession.”

“Aw, bless you, Detective.” She leans in as if to tell him a secret, “I think you’re right.” With more of her laughter and a “Good luck you two!” she returns to her paperwork with her signature chuckle. Red Feather smiles. Günn, shakes her head, unable to comprehend how the nurse could take this all in stride like it’s any other Sunday.

The detectives knock on the wolf girl’s door and introduce themselves.

“Come in,” she says. Instead of screaming on the floor as fur retracts into her body and bones break into human shape, the wolf girl is on the bed, legs crossed, wearing a pink and black silk polka-dotted hospital gown. As if the Michelin-starred restaurant didn’t bring it home enough: this is Beverly Hills.

“How are you feeling?” Red Feather asks as Günn sets up the video camera.

“Much better. That was pretty trippy right?” She’s as bright as a bee on a honeycomb.

“For lack of a better word, yes.” Red Feather can’t help but return her broad smile. Wolf Girl is fetching in human form. Deep olive skin, sparkling emerald eyes, broad smile; a darker version of Drew Barrymore.

“Oh yeah, I guess you’ve never done drugs, huh, being a cop and all?” The smile doesn’t leave her face.

“I’m Lakota, I’ve done our peyote ceremony, but that about does it.” Red Feather cannot believe he just told a victim that he has done drugs. Günn is as shocked as a priest taking a porn star’s confession. The wolf girl laughs at their expressions.

“Chill, you guys. I’m not gonna, like, tell anyone or anything. Unless you caught it on tape already.” She winks at Günn, who scowls in return, not liking this cutesy creature one bit.

Red Feather clears his throat. “Um, well you have us at a disadvantage. You know our names—”

“And that you do drugs, hah!” She sticks out her tongue and makes devil horns with her fingers, pointing them at Red Feather.

“—but we still don’t know who you are.” Red Feather clears his throat. Awkward much?

“Do you promise not to laugh?” She looks from one detective to the other, one perfectly-arched eyebrow raised.

“Okay,” Red Feather agrees. Günn shrugs.

“My name is Lisa Wolverton. Can you fucking believe that?” She snorts.

Red Feather lets out a peal of laughter. “That’s what I call poetic justice.”

“Actually, I think the official term is irony, but I won’t hold that against you.” Lisa “Wolf Girl” Wolverton winks at Red Feather again, who returns a smile. Günn frowns, looking back and forth between the two. Perky cheerleader types, her most loathed kind of woman.

Red Feather finds himself blushing unexpectedly thinking about Lisa’s naked body post-wolf transformation. In that moment his whole world had changed. The mystical reality of the day takes on a physical nature as he surveys the olive skinned, curly-haired beauty before him. He clears his throat.

“Are you originally from LA, Lisa? I hear you have a slight accent.” The question comes out naturally, though what he should have said was, “Tell me about the rave last night.”

“Oh, everybody calls me Trip. And no, I grew up in New York but I’ve lived here for, like, five or so years now. I love the weather. I love driving. I didn’t even know how to drive when I moved here, couldn’t you die?” She twirls a strand of auburn hair around her finger. Günn feels an angry flush steal over her as she watches the witness flirt with her partner.

“Not much need of a car in New York, is there?” Red Feather grins back.

“Not really.”

“So, where’s the nickname from?”

Lisa, aka Trip, for the first time looks all but chipper.

“I don’t think I should say. I might get in trouble.” Trip looks away.

“You’re not under arrest, Trip, you’re a witness and a victim.”

Trip’s bright smile returns. “Oh, fuck it. I’m sort of a hunter.” Pause. “Of magic mushrooms.”

Red Feather’s brow furrows. “Meaning?”

Günn smirks, “She’s a drug dealer.”

Trip frowns. “There’s more to it than that. I travel around, sometimes the world even, and I find magic mushrooms. I’ve been to Ireland, India, Nepal, Mexico, all over North and South America. I never got how I had such a good nose for finding them, but guess my wolfish nature was latent.”

“I thought it was pigs that could sniff out mushrooms,” Günn says, holding back a sneer.

Trip cocks her head at Günn. “That is an excellent point, Detective. And listen,” she turns back to Red Feather, “I’m not an addict if that’s what you’re thinking. ’Shrooms have always been a spiritual thing for me. Totally changed my perspective on life, the world. I share the experience with others. I help them learn something about themselves, their place in the cosmic sphere. You’ve done peyote, you should know.”

Red Feather looks uncomfortable.

“Ooops!” Trip puts her hand over her mouth. “Sorry for outing you! My bad. But anyway, I’ve never touched peyote. It’s not my culture, you know? It’s sacred. I never want to offend the gods and goddesses that be. I’m not a dabbler or a dealer. I’m a spiritualist and a guide. I know it probably sounds like an excuse to you, but it’s the truth.”

Red Feather believes her but says nothing.

“So, you smuggle illegal substances across international borders?” Günn says. Fear flashes over Trip’s face.

“I knew I shouldn’t have said anything. You tricked me!” Trip’s breathing picks up a panicked pace.

“Okay, everyone cool your jets. Let’s just focus on what you remember about last night,” Red Feather interjects, feeling like he’s been slapped out of a reverie.
Animal magnetism.
So that’s what the phrase means.

“So, what can you tell us about the rave, Trip?”

Trip considers. “It was the first time I ever turned into a wolf. I figure it was probably a combination of genetic predisposition plus the full moon and then, of course, the mushrooms I’d eaten.”

“What would that have to do with anything?”

“I read a lot and I read somewhere that the first official accounts of lycanthropy were on account of people eating wheat that had been processed accidentally with magic mushrooms. It caused the person to crave raw meat and display animalistic tendencies. That’s the science behind the werewolf mythology, anyway. But obviously there’s more to it than that. I’m living proof, right?”

Red Feather has no idea what to think. Günn wishes this little bitch was lying but she smells nothing.

“So, the party. I was ’shrooming. The mansion was a really crazy place, it felt sort of, I dunno, bad.” She waves her hands in the air searching for the right word, “Malignant. Contagious. It’s weird because I always check out the place before I eat, but for some reason the walk to the mansion through the woods, the ’shrooms called to me so I ate them.”

“They called to you?” Günn drips with sarcasm.

“It’s hard to explain unless you’ve connected with them before.” Trip finally starts to sense competition. Günn snorts. Red Feather shoots her a
Shut the fuck up
look. Günn raises an eyebrow and averts her eyes, fiddling with the video camera.

“Who were you with?” Red Feather asks Trip.

“My friends Connie Jones and Teresa Chalmers. How are they? Are they okay?”

Red Feather pulls out the stack of Polaroids and Trip IDs two of the photos as her friends. Connie Jones, the African-American woman with silver eyes and a blond afro.

“This is Connie. Aren’t her eyes amazing? They turned that way after eye surgery. Crazy, right?”

You can say that again,
Günn thinks.

“And this is Terry.” Trip points to the fifty-something woman who looks out of place among photos of all the young ravers.

The screamer in the induced coma,
Red Feather thinks.

“How did you two meet? It seems strange that such an older woman would find her way into your…” Red Feather clears his throat, “um, circle.”

“The rave is open to all kinds, Detective.” Trip continues. “Dude, her story is messed up. Her husband was molesting her daughter for, like, years and then he had a heart attack and died. Her daughter killed herself that same night. Terry slept through the whole thing cuz her husband drugged her. So awful. I think she liked hanging out with us young’uns since we reminded her of Lana. But besides that, her therapist prescribed E to help with the grief and trauma, which worked. Then she found me through a mutual friend—”

“A drug dealer?” Günn interjects. Trip ignores her.

“—to see if ’shrooms would help her connect with the other side. Maybe talk to Lana.”

“Did it?”

“No. Sadly not. But we became fast friends. She was like a sister and mom wrapped up in one. My mom died just before I moved here. That’s the real reason I left New York. Having Terry is such a gift.”

“And about last night?” Irritation drips from Günn’s voice. Red Feather feels a twinge of annoyance at his partner’s behavior, even more curt than usual.

“Oh yeah, sorry. Sidetracked! The party, yeah, so the water was totally spiked with E because I started to roll and I never do anything synthetic. It hit me hard.”

“To roll?” Günn says, frustrated.

“It’s what ravers call being on ecstasy.” Now Trip is getting annoyed. “What planet do you live on? Jeez.”

Günn opens her mouth to retort, her hands in fists clenched at her sides.

Red Feather defuses. “Other witnesses have said the same thing.”

“Gross. Why would the organizers spike the water? That’s just…wrong, man. So wrong.” Trip shakes her head, outraged.

Red Feather ignores the question. “Did you see this man at the party?” Red Feather hands her a photo of Charles Wallace Crane.

“Isn’t he the dude who threw the party? I’ve seen his picture in the paper.”

“But not last night?”

“The last thing I remember is being in the bathroom with Connie and turning into a werewolf. After that, a whole lot of nothing. Until I woke up here and I was turning back to human. I’m sorry.”

“Do you recognize anyone else from that stack of photos?”

Trip looks through the pictures, more carefully this time. “This girl looks familiar, I think she was hanging out with my friends. Hard to forget a one-eyed girl, am I right? And I also recognize these two.” Trip shows the camera the photos of Lily, Chamelia, and NRG. “I don’t remember their names, though. And the rest, yikes, everyone was in costume you know? Some of them had masks. I can’t be sure about anyone else.” She hands the stack of photos back.

“So what preparations has the hospital made for tonight?” Trip asks.

“Tonight?”

“It’s still a full moon isn’t it? Isn’t anyone worried I’m going to turn again?”

Dammit
, Red Feather thinks,
I didn’t even think of that
.

“I’ll let you know what the plan is. Until then, you think of something new and you give us a call.” He gives her his card. “Thanks again.”

“My pleasure. Sorry I don’t remember more.” She beams at Red Feather who avoids meeting her eyes.

Günn packs up the recorder, seething with barely-contained anger. The detectives leave, Red Feather none the wiser to his partner’s emotional state.

Trip hopes the hot Lakota detective will find a reason to come back. Hopefully next time without the blonde bitch.