Ephemeral creatures, p.19
Ephemeral Creatures, page 19
After a couple minutes of eating quietly, Greta said, “And now you want to know how to get justice for your friend?”
“Right,” Kevin agreed. “That psycho is probably still out there, a free man. What would be our best recourse? Would the police even take us seriously?”
“I hate to burst your bubble, but speaking bluntly, probably not. You have to realize this is a closed case, and a cold one at that. Honestly, if you had been in a position earlier to appeal from prison to the Innocence Project or another of that type of organization, you’d have a better shot.”
Kevin looked crestfallen. “There’s nothing we can do?”
“I didn’t say that. But you have to understand an overworked and undermanned homicide department—TPD’s not any better off than ours, from my understanding—prioritizes active cases. They would probably take your statement down, but it would then go onto a slush pile, which would be looked at once current cases are cleared. And that is unlikely to happen. All the cases getting cleared, that is. Someone could potentially take an interest in reopening your case, but odds are slim.”
Kevin’s expression mirrored Chad’s dejection. Even Tara looked disappointed.
“Wish I could be of more help. But a partial tattoo, general build, and foreign accent aren’t much to go on. Especially after all this time. Tara, if you were able to work with a forensic artist and come up with a solid composite, or if you had a plate number or some solid lead, it might be different.”
“Would it help hiring a lawyer?” Tara asked.
Chad was surprised. No way in hell could he afford a lawyer, and he knew the same was true for Kevin. Even pooling their resources wouldn’t cut it for the two of them.
Greta looked bemused. “It might. Lawyers can be giant pains in the ass. It really depends who you deal with. If you can sic your lawyer on the homicide captain or someone higher up in the department, I’d say you increase your chances to be taken seriously. But that wouldn’t be cheap, nor would it guarantee success. I wish I could help you out, but I don’t have any connections in TPD homicide.”
“We could go to the media,” Tara suggested. “They always like a good opportunity to bash the police.”
“Hell no,” Chad said. He could picture Lidia’s poor mom, not to mention the rest of them and their families, being hounded by asshole reporters.
“I agree with Chad,” Kevin said. “That would reopen too many old wounds, and I don’t want to do that to Liddy’s mom. Or our families. Not to mention, it could alert the killer too.” He turned back to Greta. “How about political connections?”
“Ah. That’s where you might have more luck.” Greta finished the last of her omelet and washed it down with the rest of her coffee. “Politicians are right up there with attorneys for being police departments’ least favorite ass-pains. You could try contacting your congressman or someone on the city council, maybe.”
“Private investigator?” Chad asked. “Would that be worthwhile?”
“They’d be happy to take your money, just like many attorneys, but results would be debatable.” Greta looked at Tara. “I know this isn’t something you can rush, but if you happen to remember more pertinent details in your therapy sessions, then it could really help your case. Doesn’t necessarily mean a detective would have much luck either if they did take it seriously, though. Normally, breaks in cold cases come from forensic evidence being retested with new techniques and modern lab equipment, especially with the DNA matching available now. But that wouldn’t help your case, unfortunately. And with more than ten years having passed, it’s not reasonable to hope to uncover any video-surveillance evidence that might have been maintained, if it even existed in the first place. The neighbor would have already given a witness statement. Memories are unreliable after such a long time, so probably not any help there either.” She must have seen their deflated expressions, for she added, “I’m not saying it’s not worth pursuing, but I don’t want you to get your hopes up too high and get taken for a bunch of money from shyster lawyers and PIs.”
Chad knew their chances of uncovering more details about the killer’s identity were pretty much nil. Even if they got TPD to investigate, they pretty much had jack shit to go on. He didn’t need to be a detective to see that.
Greta’s phone vibrated. She read a text message and sighed. “Sonofabitch. I need to get back to the office. Probably another ass-chewing from the captain.”
“Thank you for taking the time to meet with us, Detective,” Kevin said.
“Yes, thank you,” Tara added.
“You guys are welcome. Wish I could’ve been more help.” Greta peeled a few bills out of her wallet and tossed them down on the table. “Would you mind settling my portion, Chad?”
“Sure,” he said. “Thanks, Aunt Greta. Good to see you again.”
“You too. Tell your parents I said hi.” She gave him a pointed look.
“I’ll get in touch with them. Promise.”
Greta smiled. “Good man.” She squeezed his arm then got up, put her coat on, and left.
“Pretty much as we thought, then,” Kevin said dispiritedly.
“Yup.” Chad sopped up some extra syrup with his last bite of French toast and finished it.
He pushed his cleared plate away, noticing the others had cleaned theirs, too, even Tara, who’d eaten her muffin with a bit of jelly.
“What do we do now?” Tara asked. “Go talk to a lawyer?”
Kevin grimaced. “I’d have to wait till I get a job lined up—”
“I can cover the retainer fee for now,” she said. “You guys think that’s the way to go?”
Chad shrugged, trying his best to conceal his surprise at Tara’s offer. He thought they were grasping at straws, and that feeling of powerlessness aggravated him. But one had to be a realist. Throwing a bunch of money at a lawyer to go annoy the cops didn’t sound like a great plan. And his family didn’t have any political connections with the Tucson Police Department. He didn’t know if the others could say anything different, but he doubted it. Honestly, their chances were crap. Unless…
“What about Liddy?” he asked Kevin. “Anything else she can do to help find this nut?”
“I don’t think so. We tried that, and it didn’t go so well.” Kevin briefly told them about their attempt to spy on the killer through Lidia’s crystal-ball thing.
“That’s creepy,” Tara said.
Dead end for now. Chad wasn’t relishing the long drive back to Kingman, but he’d only taken off the first half of his shift. Stacy was expecting him to be there in the afternoon.
Tara frowned. “This sucks. Feels like it’s over before we even get started.”
“Why don’t we think it over for a few days and try to brainstorm some ideas?” Chad suggested. “Then go from there.”
Kevin nodded. “Liddy doesn’t like us doing this—she’s worried we might draw this guy’s attention and put ourselves in danger.”
“She’s probably right,” Tara said.
“Still… I don’t plan on letting this go. Do you guys?” Kevin looked at them in turn.
“Hell no,” Chad said. “Liddy deserves justice. She would’ve done the same thing if it was one of us who got killed.”
Tara nodded. “I know it’s crazy to keep pushing this, but like Chad said, Liddy would’ve had our backs.”
Kevin gave a relieved smile. “Cool. So it’s settled, then.”
The waitress came over with the check. When they pulled out their wallets, Tara waved them both off and handed the woman a credit card without even glancing at the bill.
“I’ve got this—don’t worry about it. I was a bitch to Kevin the other day, so it’s the least I can do.”
Kevin looked as surprised as Chad felt, but neither argued.
“Thanks, Tara,” Chad said.
“Yeah, thank you.” Kevin smiled.
“Don’t mention it. Keep me in the loop no matter what happens, all right?” She gave Kevin a pointed look.
“Will do. I’ve gotta say—I appreciate you guys being here. I know Liddy is happy we’ve gotten back in touch too.”
Chad nodded, surprised to find he was in agreement. Something about this undertaking just felt right. The only thing missing was Lidia. She was with them in spirit, of course—quite literally. Chad just wished he could see and talk to her like Kevin could.
On the drive back to Kingman, he considered how easily he’d been convinced, not only to join Kevin in searching for Lidia’s killer, but in believing his story about her return as a ghost. Tara apparently believed him too. He didn’t know the details behind her change of heart, but his burning curiosity meant he’d have to find out from Kevin.
Kind of hard to deny something extraordinary happened with that bullet not killing me, though. Suppose that’s what convinced me—Kevin knowing about it. You gave me a second chance, Liddy. I’ll do my best not to let you down.
-24-
A week after the harvesting at that Arizona rest stop, Hrym arrived in Odessa. Though he generally considered himself a wayfarer, he’d returned to what passed for his home to tend to some affairs for a few days before hitting the road again. The information he’d been waiting on had finally come through, and he was about to take care of a personal matter.
After checking into an Odessa motel, he lay down for a few hours. Aided by a dose of his brew, his sleep was filled with vivid dreams, glorious visions of Ragnarok and hints as to his destiny. In one particularly lucid instance, he saw his hands coated with blood to the wrists as he provided Fenrir a fitting offering.
His phone’s alarm woke him at 2:30 in the morning, the vision of the bloody offering fresh in his mind.
I shall provide as the gods will it.
He dressed and walked across the street to a deserted 7-Eleven for a cup of burnt coffee then climbed in the Tahoe.
Need to change vehicles after this job.
On his phone, he pulled up the address his contact, Harold, had provided. An old associate, Rex, was overdue his comeuppance. Hrym’s twenty-month prison stint had resulted from Rex turning snitch for the police, unbeknownst to Hrym. A sting operation landed him in a Texas prison after an attempted methamphetamine buy. He was booked on several drug offenses and an outstanding warrant over an old assault charge. After he made the meth buy, the cops pulled him over half a mile from the stash house and arrested him. Once incarcerated, Hrym discovered that a number of other inmates had been victims of the same lucrative operation.
Unfortunately, at that time, he hadn’t yet unlocked the full secrets of his Heraldic powers—if he had, then no walls could have held him. After doing his time and getting released, Hrym found out Rex had disappeared, leaving El Paso without a forwarding address.
Luckily, Harold’s technical skills had proven to be a valuable asset. Harold was a fellow ex-con, a pedophile computer whiz with whom Hrym maintained a business relationship. Harold knew Hrym wouldn’t hesitate to kill him if he didn’t live up to his obligations, which he had thus far, as evidenced by his discovery of Rex’s current location through various internet resources. Hrym didn’t know or care about the specifics. He just knew practically anything could be found on the internet, and Harold was a genius at unearthing such information.
According to his phone’s navigation app, Rex’s address was less than two miles away in a seedy neighborhood a few blocks from I-20.
Once three a.m. rolled around, Hrym drove to the indicated location. He cruised slowly past the address before parking around the block. A light glowed through a crack in the curtains of the dilapidated ranch house’s front window. He approached unhurriedly on foot. When he was still in front of the neighboring house, he paused as the door of Rex’s place opened and a man shambled out.
“Later,” the man slurred, clearly stoned or drunk or both.
Hrym spotted a rottweiler when it got up from where it had been lying outside the carport and paced the man to the gate. The visitor climbed behind the wheel of an old pickup and drove off, sideswiping a plastic trash can and knocking it over, spilling garbage into the street.
The rottweiler sniffed around the fence, as yet unaware of Hrym’s presence. The dog complicated matters, but not substantially. Hrym would simply traverse the underworld to access his destination.
He raised his eyepatch, and the pathways unfurled before him. After a few steps through the underworld, he emerged in a seedy living room. A snot-green carpet that had probably been there since the seventies was as tattered and soiled as one would expect. Three men and a woman occupied a mismatched couch and two easy chairs from the same era as the carpet. All but one were comatose, needles embedded in their arms.
Rex blinked at Hrym, squinting to focus. He didn’t appear to have injected heroin, yet was under the influence of something. Meth, if Hrym had to guess. Rex was a scrawny little rat in his late thirties with long, greasy brown hair and acne dusting his chin and cheeks.
Recognition filled Rex’s eyes just as Hrym closed on him. He raised his hands placatingly. “Wait, man, I didn’t have a choice! I—”
Hrym’s fist crashed into his jaw, rocking Rex’s head back like a crash test dummy during a collision. Rex joined his junkie pals in comatosity.
Hrym scanned the room briefly, spotted an unused extension cord, and pulled it free of its socket. He threw Rex to the floor and hogtied his wrists and ankles behind his back. While kneeling, he spotted an envelope sticking out from under the cushion of Rex’s chair. Hrym smiled at the stack of cash inside and shoved the envelope into a pocket.
He slung Rex across his shoulder then used a passage to enter the underworld once more. A few strides later, he returned to the material plane, emerging on the street corner several houses down from Rex’s. When he reached the Tahoe, he threw Rex into the cargo area, making sure to gag him with duct tape.
Ten minutes after Hrym arrived at the house, Odessa was already disappearing in the rearview mirror.
***
“The fuck you want, man?” Rex demanded an hour later. “You still pissed over getting rolled up? Heard you did eighteen months in the joint. No big thing, man.”
“I disagree,” Hrym said. “For twenty months, I was precluded from my sacred duty.”
Rex lay trussed up shirtless and barefoot in the dirt beneath a scrub oak. The two were out in a field many miles from civilization. The thing Hrym liked best about the enormous expanse of Texas was that finding remote places where his work wouldn’t be disturbed was simple.
“Look, man, I’m sorry, all right? You want cash, blow, whatever, I’ll hook you up! Wait, you like crank, right? I got you covered, man. I got a nice stash back at my place worth ten Gs—you can have the whole thing!”
“No, prison cured me of my meth habit. I use something better tailored to my needs these days.”
“Oh.” Rex’s desperate pleading subsided a moment as the wheels turned in his narcotic-addled brain. “Well, I’ve got connections, man! I’m sure I can get you hooked up with whatever you need. Just let me make a call.” He checked his pants pockets.
“Your phone is lying alongside the highway about a mile outside of Odessa.”
Rex paled a bit. “W-whatever—no big thing. Look, let me borrow your phone, and I’ll make a quick call and get you squared away—”
“Shut up. I should’ve left the tape on.” Hrym went to the back of the Tahoe and removed a coil of rope he’d bought at a hardware store back in Albuquerque two days earlier, along with a hatchet. He slipped the latter through his belt.
“Whatchu doin’? Come on, man! You can’t do this!”
Hrym ignored him, throwing a length of the rope over the scrub oak’s sturdiest bough. He then rolled Rex over, facedown, put a knee in his back, and released the electrical cord. The scrawny junkie struggled but to no avail. Hrym retied Rex’s wrists above his head. With the hatchet, he chopped the unused length of rope, which he used to secure Rex’s ankles to the trunk of the tree. When he was finished, the snitch was suspended, facing the ground.
That complete, Hrym went back to the Tahoe and cued up the Abaddon’s Call song “Sacrifice,” a twelve-minute heavy metal masterpiece. He cranked it loud enough to drown out Rex’s whining, his adrenaline surging as the song’s slow buildup turned to a thunderous guitar riff. As he walked back, he hefted the hatchet. He needed the heavy blade—Wolf’s Tooth would be unsuited for that type of work.
Rex let out a pathetic squeal of fright at the sight of the gleaming hatchet. The crotch of his pants darkened, and urine dribbled off his toes into the dirt. He whimpered as Hrym took a moment to savor the pathetic rat’s fear.
“You always were a crazy motherfucker,” Rex snarled in a brief flare of belligerence. “Just put a bullet in me and be done with it.”
“Oh, no. I’ve got something special planned for you, old friend. Ever hear of the blood eagle? Something I’ve longed to try for many a year…”
Hrym knelt and took a moment to dedicate his offering. Mighty Fenrir, I honor you today with this sacrifice. I ask that you favor your humble servant in the days ahead as I lay the groundwork for your return.
Rex’s flash-in-the-pan bluster had devolved into pitiful sobs. He flinched when the hatchet’s cold blade touched his cadaverous back. The meth head probably weighed only about a hundred twenty pounds, sallow flesh melted away by the heavy toll his addiction took. As such, he didn’t have much meat to penetrate. Hrym lined up his strike to the right of Rex’s bony spine, raised the hatchet, and brought it down with enough force to pierce flesh and cleave bone, splitting a rib. Blood spurted, and Rex shrieked in agony.
Hrym took several blows on either side of the spine to separate the ribs and perforate the muscles. With bloody hands, he reached into the gory cavity and pried the broken ribs until they spread apart. By that point, Rex had either fallen unconscious or bled out. Hrym paid him little mind. As he worked, his pulse quickened, and his breath came in shallow pants. He could taste the coppery tang of blood spattered on his lips. He finished by pulling the lungs free of the chest cavity and draping them over the exposed ribs, forming the semblance of wings.
