The Perfect Sandwich

I Wrote this in 5 days over three years ago and had the intention of it being my first full length novel. I have been brainstorming and getting to know the character Larson Cain who stars in this story for over ten years, it just finally felt like time to write. The catch is I was deployed to Iraq earlier than scheduled and had to leave it here at this stopping point. I feel its a great spot in the story for many items to come in and send the plot several different ways, but I have been told its great as is and should be a short... I'm not so happy about that (and the ending here is quite shocking and intense... sorry about that) anyway, I have just pulled this sucker out for the first time since being a civilian again and did a minor edit. Now I am very curious to run it past the scrutiny of some fellow writers. I'm looking for real criticism please, be harsh, be specific, I need to get this one polished. Thanks in advance and on to the story.

The Perfect Sandwich

Part 1
The Dead Man’s Diet
   
To make the perfect sandwich, first one should have the perfect craving.  After much thought and deliberation Larson decided instead of a sandwich he in fact craved blood. It came to him rather suddenly in a chain of somewhat random thought “Does the perfect sandwich call for mayo or mustard? Maybe it needs oil and vinegar…cant mix oil and water… blood is thicker than water… blood. Blood! Wow that’s what I have been craving the last few years!” mused Mr. Cain “Blood.”
   
The last few years had really been two give or take. Who was counting? Time has been a wash of endless days for as long as Larson could remember. Days of tears and pain. Nights of booze and rage. The only counsel had been his appetite; Chivas on the rocks liberally day in and out was at first all he could endure. That went on for the better part of a month before he decided water might help kill the horrid hangover he had inherited from the night before. Water led to the acknowledgement of hunger. Then he decided he could let into his life the occasional visitor if he was delivering pizza or possibly Chinese food and out the door in less than two minutes. Two years passed with this “dead man’s diet” as his most utilized pizza boy coined it, until on one day he decided half heartedly to make himself the perfect sandwich, an endeavor he and his son Gabriel  had spent many a Sunday afternoon trying to perfect. Without fail Gabe would have a bite of the spread prepared solicitously by his father, presented with flourishes of hand ala the great magicians of yore, he would proclaim with a mouthful of giggles and grub “Not as good as peanut butter n jelly.” at that, on cue daddy would, head hung in shame go back to work asking of Gabe “With nanas?” of course he wanted nanas. This was the way it happened every weekend.  Larson knew the routine as any gifted actor knew his lines from countless repetition and anyway the sandwich was not for the kid as he so lovingly referred to him, after all what little boy can be blamed for loving so intently peanut butter n jelly with bananas.
   
It was a hobby of Larson’s to seek out the perfect filling for two pieces of whatever kind of bread toasted or un. The search yielded no result however after devoting eight years to the cause, one year before Gabe and the seven with him. Granted he had made some damn good sandwiches (one in fact had made it onto the menu of the diner down the road owned by his wife Nancy‘s father) he just always felt that he could do better. The sandwich years with Gabe had exhausted countless combinations of breads, rye through good ole American white, meats, ham to salami, smoked or otherwise, cheeses, and spreads ( he did happen to discover the perfect sandwich spread: half a cup of mayo, two tablespoons of Tabasco, and garlic powder to taste.) Needless to say it was a ritual Larson and Gabe grew quite fond of. Sandwich time was indeed the time when they bonded most. Often Gabe would wait almost a whole week until sandwich time to share his latest big something. At sandwich time daddy had learned of his first girlfriend Anna, “Today she kissed me on the eye.” he had told him.  He confessed to punching a bully in the belly for making fun of a boy with a wheelchair and Down’s syndrome “That boy is really nice and he didn’t know that mean boy was just being mean. He just thought he did something wrong, and that made me mad.” after swallowing the mouthful of sandwich he had been struggling to talk over he added “So I punched that stupid boy.”
Daddy laughed and gave Gabe a tussle on his curly little head and added as an afterthought “You know you shouldn’t hit people. What you did was right but, it would have been better for you to get a teacher on that little bully.”
At that Gabe said with his sly smile and widening eyes as if to enunciate just how little the bully was not “He wasn’t little.” Oh how they loved sandwich time.
   
Gabe spent one week with his mother and one week with his father but Sunday was still sandwich day and he spent every one with his daddy, sometimes Nancy would come along for the fun. they had been divorced over infidelities on both sides of the fence after two years of marriage, but they were still close friends. There was no custody battle or child support issues they didn’t want to complicate things (in fact they still loved one and other and always would) they just couldn’t be together any longer, a new life that Gabe took to quite bravely asking few questions and totally understanding it to be normal. When he learned of the impending separation he said “Gary’s mommy and daddy don’t live together either. He says he gets two Christmases.”
after Larson and Nancy exchanged a quick smile at the thought of how cute their son could be Nancy cupped his chubby cheeks in each hand forcing him to look up from his coloring book into her eyes she said “No extra Christmases for you kid we will still be spending Christmas together as a family no matter what.” And they did just that. Nancy moved just on the other side of town. A five minute drive for Larson in his 1969 Chevelle SS, ten or so for Nancy in the soccer mom mobile.
   
Life admittedly was going well for all of them. They found the perfect little school for Gabe right in-between them. Larson was doing well at work as the head of security of First National Bank. He started there as a security guard just after he had finished a four year term in the US Army Airborne Infantry one year of which he spent in the desert trying not to get blown the hell up. He worked into the head of security seat after only four more years attributing it to his expertise. The college degree the Army had paid for helped a little as well. What had actually landed him the job was the foiling of a robbery on his part alone. He smelled it before it happened and the kid never had time to see Larson draw his weapon. Larson shot him in the shoulder as he drew the pistol from his belt Just as he was screaming “OK everyone get the fuck down! This won’t take LonGHHUHH!” the 38 had been lost in the fall slid across the floor and stopped inches in front of Lucy who worked the desk opening new accounts and such. The pistol might as well have been a tiny man with a full beard wearing nothing but oven mitts waggling his manhood in her face making ogling noises and shitting trumpets for the dumbfounded look slapped on her otherwise sweet face.
The would be bandit continued “FUCK FUCK FUCK I‘M FUCKING SHOT!!” 
To that Larson retorted “AND I’M FUCKING HUNGRY!’
He cuffed the bleeding bandit (who turned out to be a 16 year old rich mama’s boy from the suburbs)  retrieved the gun from under Lucy’s confused face and helped her to her feet rising with a generous applause from all present. After poking his balding head out into the line of fire just enough to make sure he would live to bald a few more years, The bank manager came out from under his desk to personally shake Larson’s hand. After a letter from our brave manager to up on high Larson was offered his seat as head of security and a nice office to boot. He of course told all this to Gabe at sandwich time, minus all the vivid language.
   
Nancy did not need to work much as Larson made it clear that he was paying for the house, school, medical, and anything else that had to do with Gabe’s wellbeing. She objected but not too much for she knew Larson to be as bullheaded as they come and she also knew his intentions to be noble, besides it would give her plenty of time to paint maybe open a studio or gallery of her own. It took a year and a half, what with all the PTA meetings and all, but she did finally open her little studio/gallery and she named it “Blue”. It featured some of her own work but she mostly consigned for other local artists. Most of her work was done at home with the sounds of Gabe at play, and without fail she played The Beatles when she painted. In their vast list of songs she decided that they had covered musically any emotion that a human can feel. Ever. She drew from their pallet of sound just as she drew from the little plastic number with oils and hues mixing with abandon in her hand. On occasion she was reminded by her little oblong paint dispenser of the time Larson had said that “she should frame her pallets and show them to a modern art museum somewhere. They would have to sell. You could hang them right in between Pollack and Picasso and no one would be the wiser.” with that he gave that sly smile he and Gabe shared so perfectly, a proud satisfied smile with a bit of a pucker. On their first anniversary she had done just that, she framed four overlapping pallets from which she painted the series of misty portraits that surrounded it, featuring Gabe and Daddy side by side with the famous sly smile. She gave this to Larson who in turn felt quite bad for only getting her a bracelet, it was of opal and sapphire but still just jewelry next to such a thoughtful gift (her gift in fact had made Larson spring a leak and smile, though not quite a sly smile with that quivering chin) . She didn’t seem to think it was unworthy when topped with the love they made that evening. She often thought of her life with the boys all together but that was in the past. She, when reminiscing of times like that would always and without fail put on The Beatles White Album, sing along and paint. She was quite happy in her new life and nice little house.
   
In time they both acquired new romantic interests. Nancy had met someone (Elliot) and to him she was quite devoted. He was a good guy of course and Nancy seemed to be falling in love with him. Larson approved of him as well. She would never consent to be around anything but a genuinely good person and would never even think of letting anything but just that be a part of Gabe’s life (it had however put an end to those occasions when the exchanging of Gabe from one house to the other would lead to wine, heavy petting, and sometimes more.) Larson knew all to well the contented look in her eye. So he in turn was content for her to be happy. As for Larson however, he seemed to acquire and loose new romantic interests with frequency and ease. He felt his life was just fine the way it was. He had Gabe as much as he pleased, Nancy still a close friend, and Elliot seemed to be growing to be a decent friend as well.
   
Nancy did keep her promise and They spent Christmas together as a family. Her father was there of course. He was always at one of their houses (having grown quite close to Larson and being Nancy’s father) so why should this holiday be any different? Nancy‘s mother had passed away when she was 15 from “the big C” as she put it. Larson was orphaned at Gabe’s age by a mother who he knew nothing about nor cared to. Being raised by the state, he had no family other than those present, and what a family it was (maybe some would say dysfunctional, some might think it odd, it almost certainly had an air of sit-com, but they were all full of love for Gabe) The family had in fact just extended now to include Elliot. She had let loose the secret that they would be married. Larson was the first to raise his glass for a heartfelt toast to their happiness. In no time they were married and happy indeed. Nancy and Elliot on their second year of marriage were blessed with a new baby boy and they named him “Michael” Six years of these new family happy Christmases and birthdays with all in attendance. Seven years of Gabe, sly smiles and perfect green eyes, eight years searching for “The Perfect Sandwich.”
   
Sitting there over the unfinished makings of the first sandwich he had attempted in two years (Everything was gone from the fridge so it was also the first time he entered a grocery store in the same amount of time, liquor stores did just fine for the Chivas and the occasional bag of chips or beef jerky.) thinking back on the all too short time he had spent with his perfect son, Larson had dredged up the perfect craving, the craving for blood. It was no surprise that this was indeed the perfect sandwich. It was also the last one he would ever make.                                                                   
                                                                 


Part 2
The Fall of the Innocent
   
That night started as most any other would have in that area of time Larson just so happened to occupy. He had dropped Gabe off with Elliot. Nancy was holding an exhibit on a local artist who had spent time in some tropical little impoverished country portraying the struggles they endured with the ability to remain a jubilant spiritual people. The work deeply touched Nancy. The exhibit would not be over till nine o’clock currently it was seven which gave Larson and Elliot with the ever-careful Gabe as chaperone enough time to take a spin in Larson’s newly souped hot rod, and Larson would still have plenty of time to pick up “this pretty young thing” as he had dubbed the girl with which he was scheduled to have dinner with that evening. Larson had just dropped a 550 big block in his silver baby last week, and Elliot couldn’t wait to get behind the wheel. Elliot being a car man himself (though he leaned toward newer more foreign makes and models.) at this time was driving a Porsche painted a deep metallic purple. Larson loved his input and Elliot sure wasn’t going to complain about being asked to drive something with “real American muscle” as Larson liked to say, and while sticking the keys in Elliot’s hand he also stuck that sly surreptitious smile in the face of that poor purple Porsche.
   
They drove the neighborhood for a few, stopped off to get Gabe an ice cream, and were back at Elliot and Nancy’s place in less than thirty minutes. Larson headed off to pick up that pretty young thing “Natasha”. He had met her after picking Gabe up from school. They stopped off at a local coffee house for an espresso he desperately needed, Gabe loved to go to the coffee shop for he always got chocolate milk and a butter cookie or two. This time, as on several occasions the cookies were on the house because Gabe had melted the heart of the girl behind the register.
   
While Larson stood waiting for his espresso Gabe had caught the eye of Natasha she was hard at work on her laptop studying for finals. Gabe was quite interested in what she was doing and asked “You playin a game?” edging up to see what game she might be losing at and if maybe he could help.
“No sweetie” she replied with a smile “I’m doing homework. Don’t ya just hate homework?” Gabe could totally relate with this girl
“Homework is never fun” he added “I have a fun game at home; I can’t play until I finish all my school work.” He rolled his eyes and shrugged his little shoulders.
“Well” she motioned to her laptop as if it were useless “This old thing doesn’t have any games. It hates fun.”
Larson having just received the chocolate milk cookies and espresso, set it all down at the table beside them and tried to get Gabe to leave the poor girl alone “She needs to do her homework too.” he had said. Natasha insisted that she needed a break more and asked if it would be ok to join them for a few. Of course Larson didn’t mind, she was beautiful, long strait dark hair past her petite shoulders. Dark copper eyes framed by thin black rimmed reading glasses that gave the look of intelligence and innocent beauty. Skin about the same light color of the foam on top of his espresso, he was instantly trying to find a way not to imagine her naked, what those hips so suggestively pointed to might taste like, and if she kissed the way her full lips hinted she did. When she sat with them she asked what two handsome fellas like themselves would be doing on a Friday night. Gabe had the perfect answer “Daddy is taking me to mommy’s house. Me and mommy and Elliot and Michael are gonna go to the beach tomorrow.” (Michael was four now) Gabe loved the ocean and you could tell he did by the way he said “The beach” with such enthusiasm.
“What about daddy?” she asked.
“Daddy likes ta play with his car on Saturdays.” matter-of-factly, “but Sunday is sandwich day.” And so Larson with some help of Gabe from behind a cookie the size of his chubby face  told her all about sandwich day and all that it entails. Of course it hit her right in her mommy clock
“Too bad everyone can’t have such a good daddy, huh?”
Gabe looked up at his father as if appraising him and said “Yeah he is pretty cool.”
It went pretty well as far as Larson could tell, and as they were headed out the door saying bye, nice to meet you and all, he found himself hoping he would see her there again sometime without Gabe so he could flirt more openly. She bid farewell to Gabe and as the boys headed for the door she stopped Larson to give him her number
“I don’t know if you would be interested but I gathered you weren’t married and you seem like someone I would like to get to know”  she said while blushing.
“Of course, I would love to meet up with you again sometime.” at that he gave her his card and off to mommy’s they went.
   
He didn’t want to seem too eager so he had planned to wait until Monday to call her, only she called him the next day. So after dropping Gabe off with Elliot that night he took her out to dinner. They hit it off quite well, found out they had quite a few things in common. They both adored Jack Kerouac and Hunter S. Thompson although they disagreed on who was the more talented Kerouac or Thompson. They both had similar tastes in music. Most of all she gained his favor by how impressed she was with his car. She loved it so much he decided that she should drive them to his house in it. Back at the house he offered her a drink and she offered him a kiss. He was right about how those lips would feel, soft and moist. He was however wrong about the innocent girl he saw at the coffee shop. She had taken him in her mouth without hesitation, looking up at him with eager eyes and gifted lips. Her black dress was either more strongly affected by gravity than her or she had undone it without Larson seeing, either could have been the case for when she rose the thin black garment fell. Her nipples turned out to be the same color of pink that tends to be every little girls favorite color. Larson wondered why it was that it wasn’t more often little boys favorite color; now however, he was sure that it was his favorite. They fucked on the stairs on their way up to the bedroom, balled on the floor before they could make the bed, and showered together. After bathing each other in steaming hot water they had a few drinks lying in bed and a bit of giddy, if a bit exhausted conversation. She let on that she was impressed more than she expected to be he said the same about her. “That was fun! When do we get to do it again she asked.
“Well I was hoping shortly after we wake up tomorrow.” said Larson.
She sighed approval cuddled up next to him and they both fell into a satisfied sleep.
   
Larson woke feeling that someone was watching him from inches away from his face. He attributed that to Natasha who he could feel sleeping next to him. He hadn’t actually had anyone sleep next to him in quite a while. The thought that it might be Natasha was abruptly shattered when he felt sour breath on the other side of his face from her. He shot up so fast it took his heart a second to catch up to him. No one there. No one but Natasha quiet, sleepy, and concerned.
“What’s wrong?” she asked rubbing her eyes.
“Nothing, I think I had a bad dream.” getting out of bed he added “I’m gonna go get something to drink.”

He made his way downstairs  trying to forget that fright he had while half asleep by pondering which of Natasha’s  lovely parts he enjoyed nibbling the most. Into the kitchen, no lights were needed he knew his house well. The fridge provided enough light to pull him out of that half asleep fuzzy headed state he was in. He grabbed the milk. On his way to get a glass from the cupboard he stooped over the stove to make sure nothing was left in the oven, something smelled as if it had been burned, not quite like something was burning now. No fire, no burnt leftovers. He poured himself a glass and sighed with the satisfaction of a perfect evening fresh in his mind. He had poured milk in the glass so when what he tasted wasn’t milk he was a little confused. He pulled back from the glass and reopened his eyes to discover that it was in fact milk, ice cold sour milk. It is hard if not impossible to voice displeasure in the act of mid swallow. Half choking, sour milk coming out of his nose, and blasting through the fingers covering his mouth in violent spurts Larson bolted to the sink where he emptied his stomach, his glass, and the gallon jug of soured dairy. He washed his mouth out and rinsed the sink, then he held up the empty container examining the expiration date from behind a perplexed face. It still had a week and a half to expire. He voiced his displeasure of the whole affair “Fucking shit” and continued “Ugh.”
Tonight there were a few things that Larson had not expected, but the sound of a grown man laughing in the manner of a giddy child from the adjoining room, in fact from Larson’s reading chair not 10 ft. away affected him in a couple surprising ways. First he threw the milk jug he was holding in the direction of the laughter as he fell on his ass. At that the laughter intensified from giddy to seriously amused, From a high pitched closed mouthed series of H’s and M’s to a full blown cackle “He He HeHEHE HEH HEH HEH!” one of those laughs that leave the laugher gasping for air. Footing regained and ready to pounce Larson could see the man’s silhouette. From the light of the fridge he could tell that this man was wearing a black suit and most peculiarly he was also barefoot. The man had stopped laughing now and there proceeded a lingering awkward silence in which Larson wasn’t sure what to do. The man switched on the table lamp next to him, stuck his face in the light, and said with an enormous smile and a bit of the enthusiasm that accompanies a punch line “Startle ya?”
then he reverted to the first snigger that had in fact startled him quite a bit.
   
Surprisingly Larson was at this point quite at ease, though a bit puzzled. He had not noticed a gun, nor did this man seem to want a fight, at least not now. The last part Larson just felt, besides the man was seated and Larson had the upper hand.  The man sat there fading from his gleeful snickering, inspecting the empty milk jug (he apparently had caught it) with much the same perplexed look on his face as Larson had when he was the inspector just a few seconds ago only the man was obviously mocking him. The man was quite handsome, in his early thirties it seemed. He was physically fit from what the stretching fabric covering his biceps had to tell of it. His eyes were a hard color to make out the way they sat under his strong brow. Under his smile were nice strait teeth, teeth made for chewing meat, though just a shade or two from white. He had the teeth of a heavy smoker with a good dental plan. He was wearing a black suit with Pinstripes. The top was open exposing a shiny silver shirt that was left open down to his sternum revealing further yet a chest full of tattoo that Larson couldn’t make out.
“Who the hell are you?” demanded Larson.
At this the intruder seemed pleased at first, dropping the empty jug, grinning and rolling back his head as if in thought, repeating in a gravely throaty whisper “Who the hell am I?… Who the hellll am I?” at that he snapped his head back to meet eyes with Larson, only now the man seemed quite angry, seething and hissing. “Do you love your life, son of Job?” it was his turn to do the demanding. Leaving no time for retort “Your tooth rotting sweet little fucked up family? Your pretty young girly friends? Your happy little blessed life?”
“What do you want?” was the only thing Larson could think to say.
“Are we playing the question game?” asked the man with a smile, though once again not wanting an answer he continued. “Do you think God loves you Larson?” hearing his name from this stranger unnerved Larson almost as much as the strange man’s strange question. “Does God love anyone down here on this little rock piled high with shit, and rotting flesh?” more sniggering, but it was of the kind that seemed it could break into a good sob an any second. After a few seconds of this throughout which Larson was struck mute, the man abruptly went silent, leaned forward in Larson’s chair once again locking glares and asked “Shouldn’t you be checking on that pretty young thing of yours?” at this Larson heard noises from upstairs akin to furniture being moved, or maybe what it sounded like down here when he was fucking her on his bedroom floor, …or like a struggle. He listened for a second, he could make out more than one pair of feet. The struggle seemed to be dying down then a muffled cry for help. Larson bolted for the stairs, halfway up he turned to make sure the man wasn’t trying to stop him… he wasn’t there. Odd.
   
Larson kicked in his bedroom door to find Natasha on her knees with a gun to her pretty little head, a black .9mm Beretta. The man on her left was holding it to her head, bleeding from the nose, and smiling. The man on her right started to draw up his weapon as Larson put two rounds in his chest, one in his head, and put a bead on the remaining mans noodle in the time it takes to spit (Larson had stopped at the closet in the upstairs hallway to retrieve his own sidearm though his was an Israeli made .45 Baby Eagle). The man holding Natasha at gunpoint never stopped smiling, he never even flinched.
He just said “Damn, you shouldn’t oughta done that.” shrugged and continued “Man, she kicks like a fucking mule.” 
Larson not amused screamed “Drop your fucking gun or Ill put one in your head!” The man once again shrugged not at all impressed, then said
“You might wanna have a look at this first.” He pulled a cell phone out of his jackets inside pocket pushed a couple buttons and tossed it to Larson. Careful never to drop his sights from the bastards head Larson stole a glance at the phone. At first just with his periphery vision. It seemed to have a picture on screen. The man said “look at it fucker, I promise I won’t shoot you.” Larson had already started to focus on the screen. Nothing could have prepared him for this, not even the crazy evening he had been having so far. There he was on that little screen, his perfect little Gabe, his wonderful green eyed son, with the barrel of a pistol in his mouth. Larson didn’t even know he had lowered his gun and started to weep. At that the man chuckled and said “Everyone can make it through tonight if you play our game.” then rather suddenly he shot Natasha in the side of the head. Gravity took the same effect it had on her dress earlier that evening and as she fell next to it on the floor he pointed his gun at Larson and said “Get it?” as if he had just told an enormously funny joke.
“What have you done to him?” cried Larson. The man just raised an eyebrow and clucked his tongue in his cheek. The phone rang. The killer motioned for Larson to answer. Larson felt as if he was moving through a watery dream, he put the phone to his ear
“I want you to do something for me Mr. Cain.” said the calm and somewhat soothing voice on the other end. A voice you would expect from a psychiatrist to use when telling you that you have an anger problem 
“Where is my family God Damn It?” Larson demanded, breathing heavily and unable to stop crying.
“Well ‘m not so mean as to deprive such a pretty lady the comfort of dying in her own home. Now please, allow me to do the talking. I am not a patient man.” said Larson’s new shrink.
At that Larson had defiantly lost what was left of his composure. “What the fuck do you want with us God damnit!”
A gunshot answered him on the other end, Elliot’s painful screaming, and the screams of Nancy and the children answered the gunshot. “You just shot poor Elliot in the kneecap” explained the caller in the same mild mannered voice. “Do you know how painful that is? I hear it’s only second to being shot in the belly… If you speak again without being prompted to do so, we will have to ask him which is more painful. Do you understand?”
Nothing but Larson’s sobbing and heavy breathing answered the callers reply
“It is ok to speak now Mr. Cain, I asked you a question.”
“Ok, Ok. Don’t, please just… don’t. I’ll do whatever you want.” implored Larson
“Now we are starting to see eye to eye.” said the caller.

Enter Arius
   
“It’s gonna be a long day” said Arius standing over the corpse of little Linda Wood. She was the third girl in a string of similar killings. This being the third put the whole state on alert of a serial killer at large. Her eyes and lips were sewn shut, and her hands were cut off, all while she was still alive, and her heart was removed with a surgeon’s skill and the incision was stitched closed just as professionally. Everything was the same for all three girls. All three bodies were bled almost dry. All three girls were the same age, born on the first day of Passover on the same year, and killed on the night of a significant astrological event. All three had the same blonde hair, the same blue eyes under sewn shut eyelids, and the same two words written on their belly with their own blood “For Kali.”
   
This was of course the part of the job he hated the most. He thought quite often of retirement, but could never stop finding dead people to avenge. For many years he had been avenging the death of his wife vicariously through the evil men he either killed or put away, although he had actually killed the man who took his wife from him. Jacob Anderson, one of the two serial killers who’s spree was ended by Arius. Jacob got off on killing just for the sake of killing. Never the same way. Never the same type of prey. He just killed to kill. That was how Arius came to believe they were dealing with a serial killer. Examining the body of the sixth senseless killing in two weeks Arius couldn’t quite make sense of the scene. A man had gotten out of his car walked across the street and was hacked to pieces with a “Big fucking axe” as Arius called it, with no evidence of a struggle. Until this one he had just been thinking the city had lost its damn mind. ‘Maybe the moon is somewhat off course’ he had said. ’Maybe mars is too fucking close, but this city has lost its fucking mind!’ he was about to scream a little bit more  and the “Big fucking axe” caught his interest.
“Hey Wally” he waved for Wally to come over
“Yeah boss?”
“Where can you get a big fucking axe like this Wally?”
“Buh… Looks like a fireman’s axe.”
“Ok, now do you see a fire station?” asked Arius standing up and with his arms spread as if to offer the neighborhood to Wally for closer inspection. “Do you see a fire truck?”
“Watcha getting at boss.”
“What was the last one done with?” he asked lighting a cigarette having fully regained his composure.
“The one we found Tuesday was done with a screwdriver in the neck.”
“And before that?”
Wally scratched his head “Baseball bat.”
Arius obviously onto something continued “Before that a pretty girl with her throat cut, another man beaten to death with a blunt object, only that one was a piece of rebar, and the first one Father Wallace, an old priest garroted with one of those wires you use to cut blocks of clay.”
“Whatcha getting at boss?” asked Wally. A question that was a regular theme when at a crime scene with detective Arius.
“What do they all have in common?” asked Arius, but Wally could tell it was a rhetorical question so remained silent. “First of all no prints, not a fucking print on any of the weapons. Secondly, none of the killings seem to have a motive. Only thing we could think from the priest was maybe he had touched the wrong alter boy’s no-no, but that’s not turning anything up. The rebar guy was on his way home with groceries, he had a little cash that was still on him, and no sign that he was into anything dirty. The looker had a little over a hundred bucks on her, but it wasn’t stolen. We have someone looking into ex boyfriends, but that’s not turning anything up either. It was just a homeless bum that got the Louisville Slugger. Maybe someone was trying to clean up the streets, but we haven’t found any more dead bums. The lady on Tuesday got a flathead in the neck. She was sixty fucking years old, and on disability. Who could have anything on her? She went to church every Sunday. She had no living family waiting on a will, nor did she have anything to leave anyone.
“Whatcha getting at boss?’ this time adding “You think theys all connected…maybe tha same guy?”
“Damn right I do. Can’t believe I haven’t caught on yet” said Arius going into another one of his, what had been coined “Sherlock Holmes Rants” around the station. “Everyone was found within five miles. Hell the old lady attended the same church that Father Wallace presided over. Bad area sure, but nothing like this before, a few muggings here and there, but this is fucking Loonytoons. Not only that, who gets killed with a piece of rebar? Someone in a fight right? Only the other guy gets his hands on it first and BAM! There was no construction going on anywhere nearby so there is no reason for a stray piece of rebar to be lying around, and it was a brand new piece, no rust or anything. It wasn’t found lying around; the killer brought it with this in mind. People get their throat cut quite often, but it’s usually not with a butcher knife from a kitchen, and usually the throat is cut in a stroke from one side to the other. Ear to ear as they say, not hacked into like that. Her head was almost cut clean off. And you don’t find the knife left at the scene like that. Either you find it in a gutter or on the killer when you get him. The bat and the screwdriver not such strange weapons really, but again you don’t find them at the scene left on the body. When someone kills a person they lose their cool and think of everything possible to throw off the trail. They hide the body, ditch the weapon, and run terrified into the night trying to think up an alibi. It’s the same thing with the garrote, and we aren’t looking for a crazed sculptor on that one. It had never been used to cut clay. It was brand fucking new, unused. And now we have a big fucking axe left right in this poor schmuck’s face. Usually when you want to kill someone ya find a gun. It’s the American way! This motherfucker likes to get close!”
“How do you wanna do this boss?” asked Wally
“Get Lt. Gable n the horn, tell him we got a psycho on the loose, and find out where the hell you can buy an axe like that. Maybe we can track the sales. Fuck I don’t know, maybe it was stolen from a local fire dept. Check into it.”
       
After Arius had dealt with the coroner he went downtown to deal with Lt. Gable and the press, who questioned him on what was being done to catch a serial killer at large. As it turned out he didn’t need to track the sale of the axe. When he got home that night Jacob Anderson was waiting in his house with Arius’s wife. She was standing in front of Jacob crying, with a pistol at her head. Arius pulled his gun and waited for a clean shot.
“Hello detective.” said Jacob with a smile.
“Who are you? What do you want? Drop the fucking gun!” demanded Arius
“Well detective my name is Jacob, and I am the merry prankster you are looking for. There is a letter on the table here that will tell you everything” said Jacob still smiling.
“There’s nowhere to go, put the gun down and we can talk.” Arius careful not to sound threatening.
“Oh I have somewhere to go detective. And I will put down the gun, but only after I shoot your pretty little wife.” still smiling
   
At that Arius and his wife looked into each others eyes knowing it would be the last time, and Jacob did just as he said. He shot her point blank in the side of her head painting red every picture on the fireplace mantle. He then dropped the gun and took up a Jesus Christ pose as Arius emptied a full clip into his upper torso. They all hit the floor, one two three in perfect time. The fourth beat would have been the sound of Arius shooting himself in the head, and would have been right in time with the three count, but he had emptied his whole clip into Jacob. Count five was a local cop kicking in the door.
   
Jacob had called 911 just as Arius pulled into the driveway and left the receiver on the table to hear the whole ordeal. The letter was a detailed account of every killing and a suicide note saying that he chose Arius to send him to his new home because he knew Arius wasn’t a fucking pussy like everyone else and would defiantly get the job done. Arius only took a month off the job before getting back to work telling Lt. Gable with teary eyes. “Work’s all I got left.” He was the best in the trade so Lt. Gable needed him anyway. He just made Arius see the precinct councilor once a week for three months. Not much changed about Arius. He talked very little except for when in one of his “Sherlock Holms rants” which had not changed a bit, and were just as impressive as ever. He also started to chain smoke at a rate that would make Joe Camel say “Not cool man.”  He was personally funding R.J. Reynold’s retirement.
   
He had been working around the clock on the “Full moon killer.” He was named that after doing Sally Baker on a full moon. That name however lost its merit after Sally, The next girl Alice Carter was killed on a Harvest moon. Mars at the time of her death was closer than it had been in about 10,000 years and directly behind the moon. Linda wood was done on the new moon last night. All three girls were killed somewhere else and dumped in seemingly random parts of town. The killings were obviously occult related so Lt. Gable had brought in an expert in the field. Arius’s first partner in years, James Alexander.
   
James had an ivy clad degree in theology and demonology, he also worked occult related killings for ten years all over the country. He was a good looking guy even for his age, which was probably about forty five. Shortish salt and pepper hair, Piercing blue eyes, and a strong jutting chin you would expect to see on Samson if you were there as he pulled down the pillars on the heads of the philistines. He spoke in a strong Scottish accent, he certainly looked as if he could hold his own in a good scrap, and behind his lucid blue eyes was a well of wisdom that seemed you could dip a ladle in and drink from. He wore blue jeans, brown loafers, and a light tweed coat over a white button up oxford shirt. He had taken off the tie after seeing Linda Wood’s corpse. He was carrying a .45 in a shoulder holster on his right side, so as to accommodate his left handed draw.  They worked well together, only talking about the job. James had met enough men with personal demons to fight, so he knew better than trying to engage in small talk. He could see in Arius’ eyes, and in the way he constantly smoked that he had suffered great loss.  The only thing they knew about each other was the work the other had done.
   
James told him all about the goddess Kali “The Devourer of Time” or “The Black One” as Arius drove them to the station.
“Ok.” Began James “Kali has many names ’The Black One, Kalikamata which means black earth mother, and my favorite Black Night. Although all these names sound quite evil, she can, and more frequently is worshiped in a more positive light as Bhavatarini the redeemer of the universe. She devours the ignorant, and ignorance itself, blesses those who truly strive for the knowledge of God, and maintains world order. However someone seems to be more interested in the darker side of our goddess. She, as all the Hindu Gods, appears to the westerner archetypically as quite evil. Malevolent eyes, a protruding snakish tongue, and four arms. On her left, one hand holds a bloody sword, another holds the head of a demon. Her upper right hand makes a fearless gesture, while the lower hand offers the benefits of her worship. She wears a chain of severed human heads, sort of like a bandolier, and she wears a belt of dismembered arms.  Not quite your regular prom queen. Now as in most cultures who worship multiple gods they are all intertwined in a complex drama, more so in the Hindu Vedas than say, your Greek pantheon. ‘Think of Vedas as the Hindu’s bible. They are ancient Hindu scripture compiled by Vyasa Krishna in about 3500 B.C. and even then were very ancient and hardly understood ’ Kali in fact is an extension of the god of fire Agni, arguably the most important of the Vedic  gods, being the messenger between the gods and man, the acceptor of sacrifice, and the consumer of soma. ‘Soma being the body considered separately from the mind, or soul’ and he is connected with anything fire; from the sun, lightning, the stars, to the very spark of life. Agni has seven tongues of fire of which Kali is the black, horrible tongue. More often than not Kali is represented mid coitus with the god Shiva He is the third god of the Trimurti, the Hindu triad of great gods. They are somewhat like your father, son, and Holy Ghost, just not quite as handsome. Shiva is referred to as The Destroyer although he also has control over regeneration, reincarnation and such.  He is typically worshiped in the form of  ‘linga, or phallus.‘ No need to go to much into what he looks like. He is a creepy bastard as you can imagine, a necklace of skulls and snakes, a trail of demons in his wake; he rides a white bull, and carries a trident. There’s you’re synopsis of most everything having to do with Kali.” James delivered this monologue as if it was rehearsed so many times that he could deliver it while asleep. The whole time he was writing on a notepad in sporadic intervals, only looking up at Arius to deliver one of his clever little jokes dotting an imaginary exclamation point in the air with his pen, then getting back to whatever he was writing on that pad, and Arius wouldn’t have been surprised if it was a grocery list.
“It’s a wonder any Hindu can worship without being scared of becoming part of a belt.” said Arius half joking, then asked “So what’s your take on the girls… why Kali?”
“Well both the hands were cut off ‘probably at the same time’ to collect and drain the body of blood. The eyes and lips were sewn shut to keep the girls from spoiling the ceremony by looking the killer in the eye, and to stop them from speaking which would interrupt any invocations or prayers. The hearts removed, and probably offered to Kali, but perhaps the body is for Kali and the heart for Shiva. Although we have nothing but speculation as of yet. All we know is that something was for Kali, be it the heart, the girls, or the ritual itself. Any number of other offerings could be expected to have gone to any number of other gods or demons.”
“So where do we start with this one Detective Anderson?” asked Arius
“Well first lets flag any books from this list that have been checked out from any library in the city. Most are on the goddess Kali or god Shiva. A list of all the Vedas I know of. Some are books of rituals, black mass and such, the others on significant astrological events, some relating to sacrifices, conjurations, and things of that ilk.” he said and handed Arius the page from the notebook he had been writing on wile talking. He continued “But that is flimsy. This one is in deep. She probably has a collection that has been building for years.”
Arius genuinely surprised asked “She? You mean you think the killer is a woman.”
“Well I am not positive, but Kali is a Goddess. That alone doesn’t mean anything. Kali is however the devourer of time. Normally that is interpreted more as if she is the bringer of the end of time, however some small sects of the Hindu faith believe sacrifices to her can keep you young forever. You have probably heard a version of the story that tells of a witch bathing in the blood of virgins for eternal youth?”
“Sure.” said Arius
“Well that is all Kali’s territory, defeating time, virgin’s blood and such. Plus “For Kali” was written in a flamboyant manner, with a skinny finger. Now it could have been a man with small hands and a girlish scrawl, but if it is in fact some kind of eternal youth the killer is after, I find that vanity is more a woman’s domain… vanity thy name is woman. Also the killer be it man or woman is defiantly not working alone.” 
“Ok so step one we flag these books, I’ll have someone look into any auctions featuring any old or rare books, maybe that will turn something up from this list. Plus we are already looking into recently filed missing children reports for another one with the same description and birth date.” Arius accustomed to being the one doing the “Sherlock” rant, not the spectator had to add something.
“Good, also look for any old sacrificial type blades turning up at those auctions. There is a big market for all things occult so you will probably turn up quite a bit. Most of it will end up on some doctor’s wall or as a centerpiece for some rich rock star assholes dining room table. Might even find us a group of kids playing devil worship and smoking a bunch of pot. It’s a place to start, but it probably won’t lead us anywhere. Now, seems to me we have about three weeks to finish this or we will have another dead girl on our hands. I’ll get my assistant to look through anything in my collection that might be related. That should only take a couple days. I‘ll also ask him to look into any recent movement of large collections”
“You have an assistant?” asked Arius and he instantly regretted interrupting James. He knew how he hated it when someone stopped his train of thought mid rant. He also made a silent promise to let James do his job. Arius was impressed with his knowledge in the field and knew without James he would be grabbing at straws.
“Well technically he is an intern. I have quite a large collection on everything Gnostic, theological or demonological. Some artifacts and some rare books, it’s a glorified museum really, but it attracts some attention. He helps run the place and track down anything on the market that I might be interested in ‘at which he has proven to be quite talented.’ Mostly he just sets appointments with interested clientele and uses me to proofread his papers before he turns them in. I have lectured at Harvard where he is studying, and I have written a few essays in the field that have attracted a bit of attention over the years. I guess he wants to go in the same direction as me.”
“What psychic detective?” Arius teased smiling, surprised that he was actually being friendly with someone.
“Fuck you.” Said James continuing the banter.
“Ok, so three weeks.” Arius looked over at James raising his eyebrows inquisitively “Eclipse right?”
“Bingo.” said James in his deep baritone
    At that Arius pulled the car into his parking space in the lot behind the station, and they proceeded inside. After they had made the necessary calls and brought Lt. Gable up to speed Arius asked James “Ok detective Anderson, now what?”
To which James replied “Well we have a little time, How about a bite to eat, and please friend, call me James.”
“Alright James. I know a place that makes a mean burger.”


Nancy’s Tears
   
Nancy had woken with a start. She sat there listening for the sounds that woke her. After a few seconds of silence she was convinced that she was only dreaming.
“You ok?” mumbled Elliot
“Just thought I heard something is all.” At that there was no mistaking it, more thumping from downstairs.
Elliot sat up also “what are they still doing up? It’s almost two in the morning.” he said
Nancy held up her hands put one fist flat in the other palm offering Elliot a fair game of paper rock scissors. Elliot got out of bed stretched and said while yawning “S’ ok baby, I got this one, but you’re up next time.” he then shuffled out of the room. Nancy laid back down and started to drift off to sleep. She had just reached the cusp of a soft sleep and deep dream when she was abruptly aroused again. This time it was the sound of a man calling her name in a singsong voice she had never heard. She pulled back the covers, and with a very confused look on her pretty face creasing her smooth brow, she slowly followed the sound of the voice. Down the stairs she stopped to check in the boys rooms. No one in Gabe’s room, she was about to open Michael’s door when she heard the voice, again calling her name in the same singsong manner. It was defiantly coming from the living room. “Elliot?” she called out and was surprised to hear her own voice sounding so scared. Before she rounded the corner into the living room she was feeling her fear was silly. Then she saw four men in black with guns surrounding her boys. The fifth man was wearing a grey tailored suit. He was on one knee holding a pistol in Gabe’s mouth. He snapped a picture with a cell phone; then he turned to Nancy and smiled.
“Hello Nancy” he said as if the tone of voice he used could calm her enough to feel that everything was indeed fine. “I bet you are wondering what is going on in your quaint little house tonight.” he added as he stood removing the gun from Gabe’s mouth while pushing buttons on the phone.
“Please god no!” Nancy sobbed. She had fallen to her hands and knees. Elliot was unconscious lying on the floor, his wrists handcuffed to his ankles behind his back with the use of three sets of cuffs. Michael was cuffed to one of the chairs from the dinner table, as was Gabe each hand and each foot with its own cuff. They were both seated on either side of a third chair sitting there empty except for two sets of cuffs. Nancy crawled her way to the man in the grey suit with the smoky eyes. She reached out trembling fingers to his shiny black leather shoes, touched them briefly, and continued to plead “Please, I’ll do anything. Just don’t hurt my boys. Please!” she was choking on her sobs.
He reached down and took her hand, helping her to her feet as if she were a princess. “Right now Nancy, I would like you to sit here next to Gabriel and Michael.” he offered her the empty seat in between her two sons. She sat down still sobbing. One of the men in black cuffed her hands behind the back of her chair and pulled her feet behind the front two legs of the chair. He cuffed her ankles together under the seat.
   
Elliot started to regain consciousness. Moaning and shaking his head. The grey suited man kneeled in front of Elliot poking him playfully with the barrel of his pistol. “We will cooperate, please just tell me what you want.” Elliot said as he shook off the last of the blow to the back of the head sleeping aid he was dosed with. “First Elliot I want you to refrain from talking unless prompted to, and I don’t see why you would be prompted so. You see while I don’t necessarily want to hurt the woman or children, I have no problem putting a hole in your head right here.” He taped Elliot on the forehead to add perspective to the point he was making. He continued “You see I am an inpatient man, and I so hate being interrupted whilst I think.” He got up and walked over to Gabe and pushed his hair back from his eyes, got down on a knee, eye level with Gabe, and put a finger under Gabe’s chin forcing eye contact. “Gabriel.” he said “If your father does everything he is supposed to do then everyone will be just fine ok.” Gabe blinked out the first tear he had shed so far tonight.
“Leave him alone you sick son of a bitch!” screamed Nancy having genuinely lost her composure.
“Nancy, Nancy, Nancy.” as he thrice repeated her name he stood and pointed his gun in her face “Now I told Elliot over there that I didn’t really want to hurt you or the children, but that doesn’t mean I won’t, and if I have to endure another outburst like that, little Gabriel here will assist me in shooting you in the heart. Can you imagine this big gun in his tiny hands? I would of course have to help him hold it up, and of course pull the trigger for him, but I think you get the point.” At this Gabe, Michael, and Nancy really started to cry. “It’s ok, there is more to fear than death. I promise.” He never lost his caring fatherly tone of voice when he spoke. Even when making such heinous threats he seemed to genuinely care.
“Just listen to him Nancy, do as he says.” Elliot implored 

The man never turned away from Nancy he just lowered the gun, pinched the bridge of his nose as if trying to relieve a minor headache, and made the slightest motion of his head towards the man by Elliot. At that Elliot received the butt of a fully automatic assault rifle in the ribs from the man standing over him.
“What was I saying.” asked the man eyes closed, rolling his empty hand in the air as if he might pluck it out of the ether. When he said “Ah!” he actually had motioned with that hand as if he had snatched something out of thin air. It turned out to be his cell phone. “Let’s see if your father really loves you.” he said to Gabe. At that pushed a couple buttons on the phone and put it to his ear, waited a second, winked at Nancy, then said “I want you to do something for me Mr. Cain.”


A Trail of crumbs
   
         James and Arius had only been at O’Hannagans Bar and Grille for about an hour when Arius’s phone rang. He raised a finger, the international gesture for ‘just a second’ James had a mouthful of burger at any rate and didn’t seem to mind.  Arius answered the call “Tell me something!” quite enthusiastically. Then a few seconds of silence “Best news I’ve heard all day!” just as enthusiastically. He ended the call.
“Got something?” asked James.
“The boys found us a goose to chase.”
“It is goose hunting weather far as I can tell.” James said motioning to the warm afternoon outside.
Arius paid the tab, and they headed out the door.
“Seems a large collection was purchased about six months ago at an estate sale. No details on what individual books were in there yet. Maybe they’ll know more when we get there, or maybe you can find something at the station. Now, three months Ago the same woman who purchased the books had an associate make another interesting purchase. A nice pretty blade called…ready for this? Kali’s Sacrament. Our new friend Tha Duchess Von’ Kale and company dropped a cool mil on it.” Arius was grinning a dog-eared grin shaking his head in disbelief. “This is ridiculous.” Arius chortled out “No way it’s our man.”
“only one way to find out I suppose.” countered James.
“I’ll buy you the most expensive bottle of whiskey I can find, if this one turns out. Although you probably drink wine huh?” 
“I do prefer wine.” James admitted “Whiskey makes me want to fight, and the only quarrel I have is with god. Now I don’t know about you, but a drunken Scotsman yelling at the sky is just a little passé, and a bit ridiculous my friend.”
“Wine it is then.”  Arius laughed out loud, stoked to be on the trail of something, anything instead of just sitting around waiting for another dead girl “If we are wrong though you have to get me a kilt.”
“Aye!” replied James smiling.
“Aye!” Arius repeated him, mocking his Scottish accent.
   
    Back at the station they gathered more information. And James took notes.
1: The collection had included at least five of the books on James’s list. He knew this because he had tried to purchase a few of them from the owner Geoffrey Rothschild a few years back.  Rothschild had refused to sell claiming they were dearly important to him. He had however left an open invitation to study anything in his collection if James would agree to the same. They had both taken advantage of the arrangement on more than one occasion.
2: Rothschild was killed in his bed, Strangled in his sleep. He had no family, and was somewhat of a hermit. His house keeper found him after he lay dead for three weeks. This left his collection up for grabs.
3: Duchess Von’ Kale had purchased the collection for $950,000 on the first day of the Estate sale. Making her look a little guilty in the killing of Rothschild, circumstantial but it smelled bad.
4: Kali’s Sacrament was a Sumerian ceremonial blade. It had both Sanskrit and cuneiform engraved and inlayed on the hilt. A fact that seemed to baffle James, make him somewhat livid, and quite confused. “Why have I never heard of this thing before? How is it possible that it was sold for barely a million dollars?” He was exasperated. “And why the fuck is there cuneiform and Sanskrit on the same blade?” he closed, throwing up his hands in frustration. He was beginning to resemble the drunken Scot demanding answers of God.  He resumed peering at the picture on the monitor, touching it as if he could feel the contours of the blade through the glass.
5: The supplier of the blade was a wraith. The name that the auction house provided J.D. Molay Was turning up nothing on all fronts, pointing toward it being a black market acquisition.
6: If the blade was authentic it was beyond value, Even if it was a copy with any reasonable amount of age behind it than it would still be priceless. Being sold for a million so quickly also pointed toward it being a black market affair.
7: Claude Decamps is the money behind their plans. Duchess Von’ Kale was wealthy to be sure, but Decamps was the kind of rich that could keep a king contented. Old money that came from Great, Great Granddaddy, but probably with more Greats lined up in a row. Decamps and the Duchess are peas in a pod. Always showing up together to auctions and operas, anyplace you would find the worlds richest swine fighting to get their fill from the sweet teat of snooty acceptance from the obscenely rich. Showing just how rich you are is the theme, and the social hierarchy inevitably has seats reserved for the Duchess and Decamps at either head of the table. They were the teats, oozing out that rancid black tar not quite nourishing the seething servile swine enough to fill them full.
8: The Von’ Kale / Decamps manor was just across town on the beach. And chances are in favor of them being encamped comfortably therein.
9: It only takes eight hours to get a proper lead when you have a Pissed off Scotsman on your side.
10: It is best to leave a fuming ranting Scotsman out of the proceedings when trying to convince Lt. to condone a search warrant.
(9 and 10 were mental notes taken by Arius.)
    Lt. Gable said “I will allow soft surveillance of Decamps and Von’ Kale along with their manor, but Arius, we don’t have enough for a search warrant.
At that James stated quite enthusiastically “All fucking right then.” He smiled and saluted, turned to Arius still smiling “A stakeout.” with that he headed to his coat.
“Thanks lieutenant.” said Arius as he exited Lt. Gable’s office.

The Stakeout
   
They took the necessary items from supply, night vision scope, Kevlar vests, James grabbed a shotgun, and Arius was pissed that all the dish shaped listening devices were gone; they then made their way to The Decamps Manor in less than an hour. It was now ten o’clock. Nine hours had passed since standing over the corpse of little Linda wood. They found a spot under a large sycamore tree. It provided a bit of shadow which they needed, (the moon was quite bright) there were too many cars for the street and the driveway was packed almost full. They were defiantly having some sort of soirée. A dark skinned man of eastern decent stood at the door. With time he proved to be not only the doorman / greeter, he was also the valet. Once when he was parking a guest’s car, Arius and James were almost stymied, they had to duck to avoid being seen as the valet rather abruptly sped out of the driveway. They remained out of sight until sure he was back at his front porch post. The party seemed to be going steadily and it seemed everyone who was coming had already showed up. The valet / doorman had retreated inside, probably to play butler which was no doubt also on his resume. Arius was trying out the night vision scope he had snagged from supply. Three hours had passed.
“Huh. It has turned everything green.” he chuckled and tossed the gadget aside adding “Makes for a nice vibe, but I can’t see shit.”
“They need to make one that can see through Draperies.” James mused.
“So James, what do you think about these two?” asked Arius
“What Decamps and Von’ Kale?” James motioned toward the house.
“Yeah. You think we got our killer in there?” Arius turned his gaze back to the upper window where an occasional shadow would pass.
“Feels right” James said pulling out his notepad. He was constantly scrawling in that thing. He was currently going over the notes had taken down earlier. He began to study.
About an hour of silence passed before Arius had to speak “If anyone flies up on a broomstick, I fucking quit.” Although he was prepared for anything. “So what do you think is going on in there James?”
“Well, I would assume they are having an orgy.” Matter-of-factly looking up only briefly to put that dot on the exclamation mark with his pen, then back to the notes.
Arius retrieved the night vision scope and peered at the window with the same effect as before, he said “Green.” and harrumphed tossing the scope aside once again, returning his attention to the window with naked eyes. After about another hour he asked “Makes you miss the days when you were chasing a proper thug huh?”  He scratched his head. “None of this hocus-pocus bullshit, bastards chopping little girls up in some demonic obsession with youth, having orgies with someone’s daughter locked up in a cage somewhere in the house to listen to it. You think they already have the next girl?”
“Maybe.” said James. Then proclaimed “Thug!” rather abruptly, as if that one word should make sense alone.
“Oh come on, I’m not that bad am I?” joked Arius
“No, ‘Thuggee’” Implored James obviously onto something.
“Ok, I’m lost James.” Arius said devoting full attention to him.
“Sorry, it’s just you said thug. I have been wondering about Rothschild’s death, something seemed strange to me besides the obvious. Ok let me explain; the Thuggee are an organized cult of killers. They kill in the name of Kali, as a sacrifice to her. Thuggee being derived from the Sanskrit sthaga ‘Deceiver’ no other cult has ever killed as many as the Thuggee. Around 30,000 in the 1830’s alone. There is no accounting for the numbers killed before that. The inquisition and witch trials together would be ashamed of their own numbers next to the Thuggee.  The cult probably originated sometime in the sixteenth century A.D. They weren’t uncovered until around 1810 by the British authorities. Great Britain had recently started moving its territories into India. Only to find an alarming number of reports that travelers were being strangled by groups of pilgrims. The authorities paid no attention at first writing off the few cases of strangulation, as bizarre killings, nothing but coincidence. However they found a series of wells and caves in the Ganges area full of dead bodies. Hundreds of them, they were all strangled with a Rumal, a strong cord of cloth worn knotted around the waist of every member of the Thuggee.”  James was about to continue when Arius interrupted.
“Ok, so an old group of stranglers from the 1800’s came and killed Rothschild? Is that what we are working with?” he asked not hiding his disbelief or amusement to the fact that Old James Alexander might just be out a little past the edge. “Just so we are on the same page is all.” he added trying not to laugh too loud.
“Well, I am not saying anything for certain. It’s just a feeling that I have started in the right direction, and most, if not all of the lives I have saved, and killers I have brought down, have been possible because I listened to my instincts”. He looked Arius in the eye for some sign that he understood, and of course he did. Arius nodded. “Ok” said James turning to Arius so they could both see each other clearly. “There is more if you are interested.
“Yeah I’m defiantly interested. It’s just I dropped my coat before I fell down the rabbit hole.” said Arius scratching his head simultaneously loosing his dumbfounded smile. “Ok. Go on before the Mad Hatter shows up and wants his tea.”
“So the British authorities had stumbled onto the Thuggee and decided with so many bodies done in the same way, it had to be a killer cult. After all they had hidden the bodies in a way to promote decomposition, see they had broken all the bones in the bodies post mortem so they would decompose faster, also they were hidden primarily in the wells which were hard for wild animals to reach. Such careful planning had to be that of a secret society. The killings continued full blown for about twenty years. They excelled in silent effectual killing and glorified it above all other earthly achievement. They would sometimes travel in disguise as a pilgrim, a soldier, or even sometimes the more daring would take the guise of a Rajah. They seldom worked alone, usually having scouts choose the victim. In the very slim chance that a mark escaped the first noose the scouts would be waiting in position to pounce. Whole encampments being strangled in their sleep by large bands of Thuggee was not at all unheard of. The Thuggee had a goal of one hundred percent victim to kill ratio. They had codes of conduct, no killing of women was a hard one to stick to, as sometimes to protect their secrecy they had to kill the wife or wives of a victim. No musicians or dancers, no lepers diseased or crippled, and no tradesmen such as carpenters or blacksmiths. The only rule they stringently stuck to was the law prohibiting the shed of blood. Kali taught the elders of thuggery to kill without the shedding of blood. And all victims were sacrificed to her. The Thuggee however got to keep the victims belongings.”
“Sounds like a pretty damn good deal to me.” Arius said, and instantly regretted interrupting James again. Though James seemed to deal with interruption better than he did.
“Indeed.” James continued. “The British police were put in the charge of an officer from the Bengal Army William Sleeman, he was charged by the governor of that province to stop the Thuggee killings. Now from the mid 1820s to about 1840 they captured close to 4,000 Thugs. He had been mapping the scenes of each discovered killing allowing him to somewhat predict the location of the next attack. When his informants brought word that the Thuggee had been seen in a certain area, Sleeman would send his agents out in disguise as a band of travelers; the Thuggee would attack and be quite surprised to be sure. This was a crippling blow, leaving them with not much of a secret society. From the 4,000 captured only about 10 received a pardon for providing information that led to the capture of the remaining Thuggee sects, that in turn led to the undoubted end of the Thuggee and their secret society. The remainder of them were rounded up and sentenced to life imprisonment, and about 800 were hanged.”
“So if they have all been captured or killed how did they kill Rothschild?” Arius had just realized that he had a serious problem keeping his mouth shut.
“I am not saying anything for sure, but there is more. Ok, now to become a member of the Thuggee you had to be born into it. In some not to uncommon cases boys under the age of ten were spared in a raid or captured, and initiated into the sect that had captured him. Ten being the oldest age allowed for initiation. The children would watch the masters at work from safe distances, hidden from view, learning the trade as they watched. On their eighteenth birthday they were allowed to make their first sacrifice to Kali and became a true Thug. Being that the craft is hereditary, and taught so intently at such a young age, some of the children inevitably escaped the noose ‘ironically I might add’ and went on to tend the flame of the Thuggee craft, or at least a flicker of it. Even today you can find evidence of the Thuggee craft, in India mostly, but all over the world in fact.”
   
The party had been slowly dissipating. When the first car started to pull out, both instinctively slunk down in the seats out of sight, and as James continued the cars kept pouring out, they kept hunkering hidden from plain view. Arias soaked up everything James was saying. Now they sat there silent looking at each other sitting cross-legged prospective floorboards, Arius had to lean back into his seat a bit to avoid the steering wheel, although James seemed quite comfortable. The last car had left over two minutes ago, and James seemed to be done with his lesson. Arius peeked over the dashboard. No one outside “It’s clear, we can stretch a bit” he said as he wiggled his way up into his seat, James did the same, but with a little less wiggle. “So, you think Rothschild’s strangulation was actually a Thuggee killing?” As he said ‘Thuggee’ the front door opened and out stepped the dark valet once again. They both hit the floor.
“Once again nothing is concrete, but so far what is in this investigation? It’s just a working theory that might be a point in the right direction.” He shrugged and continued “The girls sacrificed to Kali, Decamps and Von’ Kemp so closely tied to the Rothschild killing ‘though once again not concrete’ It rings of Thuggery, a sacrifice to Kali as well. Also did you see what was around the valet’s waist?” He motioned with a tilt of the head and a jump of the eyebrows for Arius to take a peek. Arius careful not to forget what he learned in sneakery 101 slowly peeked over the dashboard again. There was the dark valet walking to a car near the garage. He was wearing a black silk lose fitting gown of sorts with flowing baggy legs,  On his head was a dark red turban, on his feet black sandals. Then he saw what might have interested James. Around his waist a golden rope, one end seemed to have an eye for the other end to slip through, with a knot keeping it snug and also from slipping back through the eyelet. A quite effective noose he had to admit.
Back on the floorboard Arius was blown away. Looking at James with a face as if to say ‘No fucking way.’ then he did say it.
“No fucking way.”
He said it a couple times in fact. The valet had pulled the car into the garage and it seemed that the partygoers were done going, though there were still a few remaining cars on the street and a limo in the driveway. Back in their seats Arius stuck to his new found mantra that he was apparently using to keep from actually falling down the rabbit hole with the Mad Hatter.
“No fucking way.”
every few minutes always with the inflection on a new part of the phrase, each time seemed to have a different meaning behind the actual words he was saying
“ No fucking way.” ‘I refuse to believe this horseshit put in front of me is actually custard pie’ Is what this one seemed to say.’
James seeming worried about Arius’s mental health said “I can’t say for sure, it’s just a hunch. Could be nothing.”
“No Fucking WAY!” ‘This is starting to irritate me because my gut agrees with this flimsy and flawed train of thought’ was the gist of his last outburst.
James picking up the vibe of Arius’s latest rendition on those four syllables added “But it’s a lot of circumstance and coincidence, I for one don’t believe in coincidence. I believe me gut, and me gut tells me our killer is in there.”
“Fuck.” Arius had cut it down to one powerful syllable that seemed to say ‘ok, I give up, it couldn’t be anything else.”
   
They had been sitting there for almost an hour since the Valet went back inside. It was a little before four in the morning. Arius tried out the Night vision again, same result. He turned to James and was about to ask if he thought Kali would be good in the sack when he heard three muffled gunshots from the Decamps manor. They both peered into the window and this time actually saw the flash along with one final shot. Arius called it in, requested backup, and with that they were both out of the car making their way to the house with guns in hand.

Cain’s Trial
   
Larson stood, for what seemed an eternity contemplating what this man could possibly want from him before Elliot’s screaming died down, and he once again heard his voice on the other end.
“I trust you are still there Mr. Cain?” Not leaving time for Larson to decide whether or not that was truly a question he added “You are to go acquire three items for me a book, a knife, and a vial of silver and gold. The text is ‘Kali’s Lost Sruti’ it will be easy to pick out. It is an ancient text in a house full of ancient texts, but the one you are looking for will have a special place. It will indeed be on an alter with candles to pay homage. There will be a woman reading from the book. You will kill her. The vial ‘Kali’s Will’ will be on a chain about her neck. The blade is Kali’s Sacrament You will know it when you see it. It is ornately decorated with writing and symbols on the hilt. It is older than anything else on this earth. I do not know where it has stowed the blade. It is hidden even from me, but the woman will know its secret place. I trust you will find it. Mr. Cain… do this I have asked of you, your son’s life depends on it.” He paused, if he was going for dramatic effect it had defiantly worked. “Do you understand these, your tasks?”
That was definitely a question. Larson Had to control his breathing as not to trip over his words “I understand, I just get your things and bring them to you.” stated Larson dryly, without emotion.
“No Mr. Kane, deliver them back to my associate at your house. He should be giving you an address just about now.”
Indeed he was. The man who shot Natasha had sat down on the bed and started fiddling with his gun when Larson began speaking to the man on the phone. Just as he said his associate would be giving Larson an address, the killer got up and handed Larson a business card a plain white card with nothing but an address in black, 1021 Mont Forte Way.  A ten minute drive.
“You had best be on your way Mr. Cain, you have until dawn.”
Larson had heard the phone hang up but it didn’t register at first, not until Nancy’s killer had said “I’d get to it Mr. Cain.”
‘How is it that this freak knows what’s happening on the other end of the line? The caller had spoken very mild mannerly, disconcertingly so, there was no way his voice carried across  the room. Still he knew just when to hand over the card, and when the caller hung up.’
These thoughts came to Larson as fast as synapses could fire followed by more satisfying musings.
‘I should kill this bastard, he is sitting down. I have the jump on him, he’s not even looking at me for Christ sake.’
The killer turned his head away from his gun that he seemed to be quite fascinated with, and met Larson’s gaze.
He said “Mr. Cain, dawn is barely three hours away. You can kill me if you want to make things worse, but I wouldn’t wanna be waistin any more time if I were you.”
   
Larson dropped the phone and bolted for the door, thinking if he stayed another second he probably would shoot this fucker in the face. Once in his Chevelle he felt a little better, but not good enough to keep him from throwing a tantrum, slamming his hands on the wheel, screaming, and pointing his .45 in the rearview menacingly as if he might scare courage into himself. He let out a long breath that he was unaware he had been holding, sighed towards the end of the expulsion, and set the gun down in the passenger seat. He looked at his gun as if this was all its fault. Larson had managed to make his way into the street without running anything over, A good sign. He realized that he was speeding quite terrifically and slowed himself to the posted limit. He thought
‘No, better not get pulled over. That would definitely be hard to explain.’

Taking a left on Wooten Blvd. Larson was now headed in the proper direction, and would be there in less than ten minutes. He knew the area well enough. This is the same beach he has taken Gabe to on any occasions.
‘I’ve probably seen this house a hundred times.’ thought Larson.
   
He continued to think the whole way there. He thought of Natasha first, poor dead Natasha. He genuinely liked that girl, although it was hard for him to tell if he liked her more in retrospect now that she was dead, or if in fact she could have been the one to take Nancy’s place. He thought of poor Nancy there with the boys, His precious Gabe, but that was not healthy for the situation. He put distance between himself and the hideous situation at Nancy’s. Larson’s thoughts came to the strange barefooted man in the black suit earlier that night just after the milk incident.
‘What was it he called me?’ Larson tried to recall…  ‘Son of Job.’ that was it.
“What the Fuck.?!” Larson said out loud. His three syllable declaration also had an underlying message, though it was a dancing candy-gram he tucked subconsciously in the deepest recesses of his own mind where he wouldn’t receive it for another decade. That message was ‘It’s fun, if not healthy to shit on the top step of the climb to enlightenment, if you set it ablaze with Agni’s fire and declare gleefully as a free man, ‘What the Fuck!’
   
Larson had no idea those three syllables had been in the air so thickly that evening. In fact today, on the weather forecast there was a skinny, sickly looking little bespectacled man on the screen. He stood in front of a radar view of the local and surrounding areas, and held a large phallus to demonstrate just where on the map he was indicating. He said “Today we have zero percent chance of rain, a one hundred percent chance that some poor schmuck will get shot in the face and in the air today ‘What The Fuck?!!’ is up to six hundred sixty six thousand parts per million, so… Don’t forget your bucket’s.” he finished, obviously quite pleased with himself as he pointed the mammoth wobbly schlong at the viewer. Alas Larson missed the broadcast or he would have known the “What the FUCK?!.” content in the air was dangerously high, and maybe he would have, in fact, brought a bucket along. There was no way however for him to know Detective Arius Córdoba had been affected just as strongly by the plague in the reclining skies this evening now less than a mile away.
   
Larson parked the car about six blocks away, facing an intersection that leads to highway in three blocks, if you take the second available left. He had been in enough sticky situations in the desert to know that a good escape is as important as executing the perfect raid. You never know what shit will go down. He also knew that the back door was the best way to sneak in on any unsuspecting fool. The sand was pushing up between his toes and he realized that he had left the house so fast he didn’t even think to put on any clothes. Making his way down the beach toward 1021 six houses up in nothing but tan sleeping pants, holding a big gun, slinking into the shadow of the wall on his right Larson approached the rear of his targets house. After sliding up to the back door in the shadows he tested the knob. Locked. There were two options 1: he could break the glass in the door as quietly as possible and hope to remain undiscovered, or 2: climb up to the window above him and see if he couldn’t get in that way easier. It would prove easy enough to climb up to the window, but it was probably locked as well. He would have to break the glass there to get in that way and most of the activity seemed to be coming from upstairs so any noise up there would be a bad move, even if it was just the noise from him shimmying through the window, it could cause a problem. Tonight was the one night he didn’t need any problems. He decided to break in through the door.
   
Off of a table on the back patio he retrieved a tablecloth, folded it over on itself a few times, when he had made a manageable pad of a decent thickness, he placed it over the pane of glass closest to the lock, and raised the .45 holding the muzzle turning it into a makeshift hammer. At this point Larson concentrated on breathing out all the negative, and in he breathed the calm. Out, the vision of his son with a gun in his mouth. In, the feeling that everything will be ok. Out, the rage frothing inside him close to overflow. In, the calm in the eye of the storm. Out, the feeling of being a pawn in something he would never understand. In, the steady hand of a surgeon… a lead throwing surgeon. A little trick he had learned from Bob on the green for putting, he was surprised how well it transferred to his current situation. Thanks Bob. He was in the middle of telling himself that this would be no different than war, you sometimes have to take life to save life, and this wouldn‘t be the first time he killed a person who‘s innocence or guilt was unknown. Before he had consciously decided it was the proper moment, he let the mallet fall.
   
The noise of breaking glass was quite a bit softer than he had anticipated. He unlocked the door and let himself in. Careful to stay in the shadows, he moved towards the stairs when, what he thought was a lamp started to move. This startled Larson a bit, but not so much as to make him lose his chance to pounce. Larson crept up behind the Moving lamp that turned out to be a very confused Arab in a red turban, with a black makeup covering every bit of his eye-sockets. He made a high pitched noise somewhere in-between a quiet squeal and a hiss when Larson reached around the wide eyed mans shoulder squeezed his throat, and put the gun to his head. Larson pulled the turban close to his mouth so he could whisper in his ear.
“Is there an alarm?” Larson asked, careful to sound as threatening as a whisper would allow.
The little man answered with a squeak; then he raised his right elbow, as if about to imitate half of the chicken dance. He left his elbow raised and extended as such.
“No not your arm man. You know a beeping box or something?”
At this the turban clad lamp was thoroughly confused. He looked back at Larson as much as possible in his situation and exclaimed “Eh?”
Larson was getting a little flustered, and needed to control the situation. He dragged the little man to the front door and put his blacked out eyes in front of the glowing alarm control box. “The alarm, turn it off.” said Larson.
“Eez off.” he deplored. “Eez off.”
   
Sure enough the button pad was glowing, but a nice friendly green. At that Larson clubbed him, center turban. When he didn’t go down on the first blow, and just stood there wobbling, more like a lamp now than before, Larson clubbed him again. This time he did indeed go down. Larson tucked him into a broom closet. He slid the upper receiver of his .45 Baby Eagle back just enough to expose brass in the chamber. Satisfied, he made his way up the stairs to the noise ahead. He kicked open the door not prepared for the scene inside. It was a vast chamber of marble, a high vaulted ceiling, and walls inlayed with ornate designs in gold. The first thing he saw was what seemed to be a beautiful woman, for what he could tell from behind. She was chanting rhythmically in a foreign tongue. As she turned to the noise of the door coming down Larson could see that she was in fact quite stunning. She was wearing some sort of bejeweled fishnet outfit exposing her chocolate nipples that rode atop her pert breasts, and a cleanly shaven Hoo-Ha. Next he saw the book behind her, this pleased him a little, putting him one step closer to his family. Then the rest of the chamber came to him as a train blasting by, boxcar after boxcar, each one holding details more macabre than the previous. Around the book there were candles as warned, but also there were human hearts, three of them. Each heart was placed in the cupped palms of two severed hands. The hearts were beating in time with each other. When the woman turned and came out from behind the table that was in between Larson and her, he more closely inspected her shaven nethers. She had a black phallus the size of Gabe’s arm (He instantly regretted making that connection).  It was fitted snuggly inside her vagina and held erect by a sort of strap that encircled her waist. It had a somewhat ostrich like swagger when she walked, that is if you could ever think of an ostrich as proud. The table she had come out from behind, on closer inspection turned out to be some sort of torturing pad. It also had a victim held to it with two inch iron straps. The victim was a young girl; she appeared to be about nine or ten. She was naked and bolted down by those bands spread-eagle. Over each hand was what looked like a paper cutter you would find in any school only, transmogrified into a hideous device with an even more gruesome intent. Under her hands were bowls formed in the table itself, both bowls funneled into a glass container. The containers were banded with gold at a quarter, one half, and three quarters. They were secured to the underside of the table, and the gauge on both read just over half full. There were three other people present, the closest to Larson, a man dressed as a priest was holding a large snake to the girl’s genitals. The snake was having its way with the little blond girl. One of the others present was near the little girls head. A woman in  a nun’s habit with what could be nothing but the big brother of the ostrich in the first lady’s crotch. The nun was fucking herself gleefully with it with one foot up on the little girls table, leaning back on what appeared, at a glance, to be closed Iron-Maiden. The other woman was also in nun’s habit, or part of it anyway. It seems she had already had her way with the other end of one or both of the phalluses, her frock was on the floor, now all she wore was the saintly white and black headdress, otherwise she was wearing only a garter belt, black stockings, and black hi heel shoes. She was shaven as well, and she was glistening all around her thighs, as were the unused heads of the ostrich brothers. A visible beading of love sweat had formed on her labia majora which were pierced in four places, two on either side. Most disturbingly she was engaged in the process of sewing the little girls mouth shut. Both eyes had already been stitched. The little girl seemed to be lightly sedated, she wasn’t trying to move her head away from the grim seamstress… no that wasn’t it, there was another iron strap he hadn’t seen holding her head in place. He then noticed the painful contortions of the girl’s hands, and the sad spreading and curling of her white toes. When Larson heard her muffled whimpers it was too much. The train had come and gone in the time it took for the ostrich riding lady to take about three  steps toward Larson when he invoked the explicative of the evening “What THE FUCK!!” At that Larson shot the priest in the back of the head spraying the two nuns with a thick coat of blood and the little girl with a generous pink misting. This caused the masturbating nun to open her eyes for the first time, a nice touch as it was just in time to watch Larson shoot her in the head. He then shot the nun at work on the little girl right between the eyes (Not that a .45 Baby  Eagle leaves much in the way of eyes to judge just where in between them really is) she fell on top of the girl, and slowly oozed off of the table onto the floor.
Larson pointed his gun in the first lady’s face and asked “Where is Kali’s Sacrament?” He took note of the silver and gold vial around her neck.
She slowly moved to the head of the girls table. The Phallus proved to be wooden, when it knocked against the stone table, it let loose that familiar sound of hard wood on a harder surface. The woman seemed to enjoy the vibrations from the tap of her ostrich cock on the stone surface. She cooed a slight moan of pleasure to answer the wooden knock.
Once again Larson asked her, this time more menacingly, thrusting his gun in the direction of her face “Where is the fucking blade?”
She fully extended her arms in the air above her head like she was feeling around on an invisible shelf. Then she said “Ahh.” as she plucked the blade off of that same unseen ethereal shelf. She held it in both hands pointed at the little girl’s heart, and started to drive it home. Larson shot her in the face.
    Larson took a few breaths as he watched the hearts stop pumping in the severed hands. He threw up heavily after he watched the snake extract itself from inside the little girl. The “What the FUCK?!” content in the air around Larson had just become toxic