The Black Chronicle (21 page)

The noise of the city was there waiting for her. It was the sound of a great gargantuan machine, slowly working and churning and flattening and beautifying and killing everything and everyone who entered it, mulching them and grinding them up and turning them into fuel to keep the beast alive. She looked back in the hotel room and her and Jeremy's eyes found each other. He smiled at her sadly.

The smell in the dungeon or basement or wherever they were, was pungent and coppery. Dried blood on cold cement. Though he was blindfolded at all times he could tell by the way sounds reverberated and echoed that the space they were in was large and mostly empty. A warehouse maybe. Always he could hear chains jangling cruelly, sliding on tracks above them.

He had no idea how long he had been down there. A week? Two? Was his wife down there also? His children? He couldn’t decide which was worse. If they were also in this place with him or if they were already dead.

There were at least two other captives in their exclusive little hell and was fairly sure they were blindfolded but not gagged, just like him. They were capable of speaking to one another, if they dared but Mister had promised to remove their tongues with a fork if he heard so much as a sob. He could have easily gagged them of course but he suspected Mister enjoyed teaching them obedience. It was in the way he talked to them. As though they were dolls or pets.

He fed them and gave them water every now and then to keep them alive. He was gentle about it… if you didn’t resist. A day or two ago he heard a man refusing to eat and then the horrific squealing that followed and continued long after Mister had left the room again. He never heard another peep from him.

              The deadbolt on the door slowly screeched open and like a Pavlovian response his stomach immediately tightened. Each time that door ground open he knew it could finally be time for his death but it was not death he feared. If anything he hoped for it now. It was the fear of pain which sent his body into near convulsive shivers and threatened to cause him to evacuate his bowels and bladder. And it wasn't just pain. It was horror. The psychological pain of being at the mercy of a truly soulless and reprobate man. A man who, it was clear, delighted in maximizing the suffering of his victims. Who delighted in demonstrating just how deeply they were at his mercy and that he in fact had no mercy. As Mister descended the stairs towards them the man had no idea what was going to happen. He didn’t know if it was his turn to be hurt and mutilated and humiliated, all he knew for sure was that once in this room nobody left again but through unimaginable agony. He had heard the squealing and crying, the pleads to God and Jesus and Allah and Mommy but none of them ever came.

The footfalls stopped very close to him, five or maybe six feet away. He could feel him there, sneering down on them, observing his livestock.

And then there was a gasp. It sounded like a female’s just across from him. He cursed himself for being relieved he had picked someone else. He had to, if nothing else, hold onto his compassion for these people. Wouldn’t it be better anyways to have it done with?  Everyone knew this ‘Mister’s had been operating with impunity for a long time now. If he could be caught he would have been and if he ever was going to be it was not likely going to happen in time to save them.

“Please, please, please,” he heard a young girl say.

“Please what my dear?” Mister asked calmly.

“Please don’t kill me.” She cried.

“Why not?”

“I want to live. I want to see my parents. I’m so sorry. I’m a good girl. I’m in school to be a vet.”

“Why do you want to live?”

“I’m a good person. I want to live. I want to live. Please.”

“That’s not an answer. Why do you want to live?”

“I want to live because I am young. I want to have children. I want to see my parents again. Don’t you have parents?”

The sound of Misters fist coming down on the girl’s face was a dull sickening thud and a deep groan followed.

“Do you think you’re real?!” Mister screamed, causing the man to jump along with everyone else in the room.

The man just sat there and listened. What else could he do? He listened to everyone else listening and he waited for what was surely coming to one of them, or all of them: Pain. The unfortunate little ring of victims all forced to listen to the cruelty and madness play out.

“You foolish little bitch! What makes you think you’re even real? What makes you even think life is worth living if something such as this can happen to you?! Tell me, is there a God? Is the world a good place?! Do you feel him up there looking down on you now? Do you think He will save you?!”

“Please. I don’t know. I don’t know.”

“The most horrible thing of all,” Mister whispered, “is He’s there. He sees you, but intends to do nothing for you. In fact he's not even your God.  I am as close as you will ever come to God and my intention... is... to... hurt you.”

And with that she began to shriek again. The man sat there under the darkness of his blindfold and listened as Mister inflicted whatever cruelty on the poor girl which took his fancy.

He tried to block it out. Tried somehow to close his ears to that horrible squealing but it was an exercise in futility.

Finally he could tell that Mister had stopped whatever it was he was doing to her, even though the girl continued to cry.

“You can blame your auntie Mary for that,” Mister said as he walked away ascending the stairs and slammed the door shut again.

The girl sobbed for a long time. The man couldn’t keep quiet anymore. Fuck Mister and his rules. How much worse could he really make it for him than he already intended to?

“Are you okay?” he whispered. Immediately the girl went silent. This was, he knew, the first time she had heard another person’s voice besides Mister’s in, well, he didn't know how long. Soon the sobbing started again but softer.

“No… no I’m not fucking okay… he… he took my finger.” She weezed and what unsettled the man the most was that he was not surprised to hear it.

The man expected some of the other captives to speak but they didn’t. He almost asked who else was in the room but if they were too scared to talk he didn’t blame them and didn’t want to put them in more danger by insisting they do so.

“What’s your name?” The man asked.

“Cindy Summers.”

“We have to get out of here. He’s going to kill us anyway.”

“You’re right. I know”

“Would you two shut up?!” hissed another voice in the room.

“You shut up!” Cindy hissed back. “I don't want to die here!”

“He’s going to hear you and come back here and hurt us all.” The other man's voice persisted.

“She’s right. If you don’t want to talk then don’t but you can’t expect us to just do nothing until he decides he’s good and ready to kill us.”

“I know… I’m just so scared. I don’t… I don’t want to make him angry.”

“We’re all scared. What’s your name?”

“My name is Brad.”

“Okay. We are all scared Brad. But let the girl talk. We need to figure out where we are and how to get out of here.”

“Thank you.” Cindy said after some time. “What’s your name?”

“My name is Greg. Greg Whinner. Don’t worry Cindy. I’m going to get us out of here.”

              A Styrofoam cup of black coffee sat on the desk in front Jeremy, the last of its warmth steaming off of it like banished ghosts. He stared down into is tarry blackness trying to divine answers like a gypsy reading tea leaves. 

              “I see you've gone over the materials,” A voice said from behind him.

              Jeremy turned to see Mathews unpacking his things from a laptop bag at one of the desks.

              “Do I look that tired?” Jeremy asked, lifting the coffee and taking a bitter sip.

              “Yeah, you do.” Mathews said turning his chair squarely towards Jeremy and taking a seat.

              “Well, at least I'll blend in then.”

              Mathews grinned seriously.

              “So? Any thoughts?” 

              Jeremy had thoughts, though he didn't really feel like talking it through right at that moment. He needed more time to digest. He couldn't say that of course, after all, they were both being paid to be there.

              “Well,” Jeremy said smoothing out his tie and taking another lukewarm and unsatisfying gulp, “You profile was thorough. There's perhaps one or two insights I might be able to add to it, but I need a bit of time to think it through.”

              “I'd appreciate hearing your initial thoughts now” Mathews politely insisted.

              “Okay. Well, for instance, you point out that he is educated, at least self educated if not formally. Which I agree with. He does show a strong aptitude in vocabulary, which doesn't prove anything in and of itself but it is indicative of an intelligent mind. However you suggested he has an analytically driven thought process, citing the organization he displays in the ritualizing of his killings, the care he must make in selecting targets, and what have you. But I think he actually has a very visually driven mind. If you really listen to the way he talks, instead of saying things like, I will make you understand, I will explain it to you, I will present the facts, he says things like, I will open your eyes. I will make you see, it will become clear in time, let me paint you a picture. Visual cues of a visual mind.”

              “Not bad Foster. Except, how does that fill in the profile? What's the utility of that?”

              “Well, for starters it's very probable that he is preoccupied with his appearance. Atheistically. We are dealing with someone who has created an alternate identity which allows him, or gives him permission in a sense, to kill. And the way he distinguishes that identity from his 'real' self or most likely what he thinks of as his
less
real self, is visually. The costume, the make-up. So his other self will be just as contrived. Meticulous. He won't be shabby or un-kept.”

              There was a moment Jeremy caught on Mathew's face, where it looked as though he was going refute what Jeremy was saying but it passed.

              “What I guess that rules out Agent Green huh?” He said instead and turned his chair back around to face his desk. “I'm sure now that you're on the case we'll bag this guy soon anyways.” Mathew's said with clear sarcasm.

Well that was catty.

              Jeremy sensed something like this might be coming and it truly didn't bother him. An emotional reaction would be beneath him.

              “You got a problem with me coming onto this Mathews?” he calmly asked and pressed his thumb and forefinger into this his tired eyes, massaging them.

              “No. I have a problem with the misapplication of resources.”

              “Oh, did they finally start buying cream for the coffee room?”

              “And pandering to the public.” Mathews finished, refusing to be interrupted. 

              “Oh this should be good. I can't wait to hear where this is going.” Jeremy said chuckling and meant it.

              “You already know where this is going. You're a smart guy. You're a mascot Foster. A public relations stunt.”

              “Yeah? How's that?”

              Mathews shook his head back and forth and tried to dismiss the brewing confrontation away with a wave of his hand.

              “You know what, never mind man.”

             
Never mind?
Yeah, fuck that
.
He
did
mind. Jeremy got up and walked over to him.

              “No, no, you clearly got something to say, so say it.”

              “Come on. Really?” Mathews asked, smiling as though Jeremy asked what colour the sky was. But Jeremy just stood there and waited for an explanation. 

              “Look, people are scared. They want to know that everything that can be done is being done. So they bring in someone with a high enough profile. Someone who seems like a big gun. I don't have to tell you that half the time state brings in the feds it's a PR move. Don't pretend politics isn't part of the game.”

              “You think this case doesn't warrant the attention of the bureau?”

              “There are literally hundreds of FBI agents contributing to this. Not to mention the fact that you're no longer in the FBI.”

              Jeremy was trying not to take it too personally. Some of these guys weren't very good at compartmentalizing. They had to be uptight pricks just so as not to burn out. He supposed he could kind of see where the angry little shit was coming from. He wouldn't be a point man on this, the bureau's highest profile case in years, if he wasn't a top tier agent. He was of the new school, or the newer school than his at least. An elite monster hunter. Dragging Jeremy out of retirement for a case which he and so many other good agents were already working must seem very silly to Mathews. Hell, it
was
pretty damn silly. So he did the right thing and tempered his response.

              “Look, maybe you're threatened by me, maybe you're just exhausted. I don't know, I don't care. I didn't go looking for this, I was asked to help, and that's what I'm trying to do.”

              “Don't get me wrong Foster. You seem like a smart enough guy.  A little robotic, but you know what you're doing. I'll admit that. But so do the rest of us. One more cook in the kitchen ain't going to make a difference.”

              “Maybe, maybe not. It can't hurt. It's not like my pay is coming out of your pocket so what do you care?”

              “Hey, forget I mentioned it. When this is all over, you’ll write a book about it, maybe do the day time media circuit, make a ton of cash. Your fifteen minutes will become thirty.”

              Okay, now he was clearly just trying to push his buttons and it was working.

              “Okay. I know you're type Mathews.”

              “Oh profiling me now. Great! Let's have it.”

              “You're a big game hunter. It's the contest that blows your hair back. You have a dusty little rec room in your mind with all the mounted heads of the predators you have caught. And maybe the walls are looking a little bare. Maybe when you joined the bureau you thought your life was going to turn into one continuous episode of the X-Files-”

              “Wow the X-Files.  How old are you exactly?”

              “And all that matters to you is that you’re the one to catch this guy.”

              “You're damn right!” Mathews yelled slamming a fist into his desk.

             
Who's getting their buttons pushed now hot shot?

              “I don't care who catches him. It's never been about the glory for me. The books where about money so I could leave this shit behind me and have a quite little practice where I didn't have to prolong my client’s therapy and bore myself half insane just to keep the lights on. I didn't ask to be a part of this. I had checked out already if you don't recall.”

              “Like the song says Foster, you can check out anytime you want but you can never leave.”

              Jeremy walked back over to his workstation. This was getting ridiculous.

              “Yeah, that's cute” he said, packing up his stuff to go look for a less hostile room to work out of. He could have left it there but fuck it. It was Mathews that wanted a fight.

              “I read the files on Matherport last night. I didn't realize it was you the bureau put on him after he was caught. So maybe I see why you are threatened by me. You couldn't get him to talk and I could. Well don't worry champ. I'll do your job for you this time too. You just take it easy.”

              And with that Jeremy turned and left the room.