Friday, July 22^nd

Burgess’ phone rang at seven o’clock in the morning. He was more hungover than usual. But he was at least alert enough to remember that this was an important day. A day with serious consequences if he failed.

He fumbled for the phone, managing to locate it before the call was directed to voice mail. He didn’t recognize the voice. The caller gave no name. He gave Burgess an address where he was to pick up the package. He told Burgess to take no longer than an hour to get there.

The address turned out to be a Thai restaurant on Larkin Street in the Tenderloin. The neighborhood now known as Little Saigon. It was only a few blocks from the cheap residential hotel near Market Street where Burgess lived.

Burgess stopped across the street from the restaurant. He watched for a few minutes. It was an old habit. A matter of survival. He had no intention of walking into a trap. He didn’t trust anyone. And he was unarmed.

He knew the cops would find Piper and her friend soon. He wasn’t concerned about finger prints as he had worn surgical gloves. But he didn’t want to hold on to any evidence linking him to the murders.

He had dropped the magazine in his pocket along with the expended shell and the bullet already chambered. He had wiped the gun down and dropped it on the floor. No prints. Serial number filed off. He would get rid of the magazine, individual bullets, empty cartridge casing, and gloves in multiple trash receptacles on his journey back to the city.

There was no way to connect him to the murder of the two women. But now he wished he had the gun back.

It was early. There were few people in the restaurant. He wasn’t sure it was open. There was an alley running along one side of the restaurant. It was dark. He could see no movement.

After five minutes he was satisfied. He crossed the street. As he approached the front door there was movement to his left. Someone was in the alley. Burgess reached under his coat. There was no weapon there but whoever was in the alley wouldn’t know that.

A young Asian man stepped from the alley. He wore a hoody, which prevented Burgess from seeing his face.

“You Burgess?” he questioned.

“What if I am?”

The young man held out a small box. A box about the size a watch would come in.

Burgess took the box with his left hand. He kept his right hand on the imaginary gun.

As soon as Burgess took the box, the young man disappeared into the dark.

Burgess took the box back to his room to open it. Whatever was in the box had cost Burgess most of what remained of the money the man in New Orleans had given him. He had been living on the small jobs Rossi had assigned him

Inside the box was a vial. Droplets of condensation clung to the glass. It looked something like the vials that nurses use to take blood. It didn’t contain blood. It contained something far worse. So horrible Burgess almost dropped the vial. He laid it carefully on the bed. He didn’t trust the table. He feared it would roll off and break. He didn’t want the contents of the vial to escape.

The creature was larger than a tick. Smaller than a spider. It looked like something that might result from a mating of the two. Or something created by a mad scientist.

It was black with small, angry streaks of red. It had several short legs. Burgess couldn’t remember how many legs a spider had. Was it eight? Six? He thought the small monster in the vial might have eight legs.

It had two pincer-like protrusions where its mouth should be. Burgess couldn’t tell if it had eyes. Its head, at least what Burgess assumed was its head because of the pincers, moved from side to side. The pincers seemed to be searching for something. Maybe they were sensors. Burgess didn’t want to find out.

The box contained a piece of paper with specific printed instructions, which he read carefully. Then read again. He was sweating. He had not expected this. He reached for a half empty bottle of cheap red wine. Filling the glass he had used the night before, he drained it. His eyes never left the small, ugly little creature constantly moving inside the vial.

Burgess worked out a plan. He shaved. He even washed his hair. He put on his one suit, white shirt and tie. He hoped the wrinkled condition of his clothes wouldn’t be noticed.

He spent most of the day at a bar next door to his hotel. He ate a sandwich and fries for lunch. In the afternoon he nursed his drinks carefully. He only ordered another when the bartender began to scowl at him. The thought of the caged nightmare in his pocket was reason enough to stay sober.

Sobriety, temporary though it may be, was also required when the time came to put his plan into action. He didn’t want to appear drunk on the streets of San Francisco.

Not that he cared about San Francisco one way or another. It was a puzzle to him. The street on which he lived was one of the most dangerous in the city. Yet only seven blocks away was the Art Moderne Rincon Center, a famous building that started as a post office built by Franklin Roosevelt’s Works Projects Administration in 1940. He read that in a brochure a former tenant left in the apartment he was renting.

At five o’clock he paid his tab and started the walk through the Tenderloin and Chinatown up to Nob Hill. He had waited until the offices closed for the day. The sidewalks would be crowded. Workers would be anxious to get home or to their favorite after work hangouts to start the weekend. Hopefully there would be people entering the Anderson woman’s building. Burgess wanted to blend with those people. He thought that was his best chance to get by the security guards and the concierge. Just another working man tired after a long day.

By the time he reached the building, the hoped-for crowds of workers had been released from their cubicles. The sidewalks were jammed with mobs of rushing people. A block down from his target building, Burgess pushed his way into the middle of the moving human raft. He was winded from keeping pace with the younger people around him. He managed to keep up.

As they came abreast of the target building, Burgess was relieved to see a small group turn into the lobby. Two of them stopped to talk to the concierge. He saw no sign of a security guard.

Burgess used the temporary distraction of the concierge to move quickly to the elevator. Four others were already in the car when he entered. They all punched in the numbers of their floors. Only Burgess had a key allowing him to access one of the secure floors. No one noticed when he used it.

Alone in the elevator as it moved upward the last few feet to the 15^th floor, Burgess pulled on a pair of leather gloves. Not only did he wish to leave no fingerprints, he didn’t want to be bitten when he released the monster in his pocket.

Piper’s pass key gave him easy access into the condo. He took a minute to look around. It was far different from the dump in which he lived. That made him angry. The anger made him even more determined to press ahead with his plan. He went down the hall to the bedrooms.

His instructions were to find folded clothing that Trent wore next to his body. Tee shirts. Shorts. Pajamas. He was careful as he went through the drawers and closets. He didn’t want to leave signs that someone had been there. When he opened the drawer containing the Anderson woman’s underwear, his resistance slipped. He couldn’t help rubbing a thong over his face. His eyes closed and he let out a low moan as he did so. He tried to carefully put them back as he found them.

The next drawer was the one he sought. It held the soft black pajama pants and black, long-sleeved tee shirts in which Trent slept. He had been told the creature could live for up to four days with only a little water. Eventually it would have to feed on blood or die. There was time.

In the bathroom he ran water onto a dirty handkerchief he had brought with him. He used the wet cloth to slightly dampen a small area inside one of the folded shirts Trent slept in. Very carefully he removed the glass vial from his pocket. Aiming the opening directly into the dampened fold of the shirt, he removed the stopper and gave the vial a light tap. The creature moved slowly out of the vial. It sensed moisture and quickly lost itself within the folded cloth.

Dropping the now empty vial in his pocket Burgess closed the drawer, relieved to be rid of the potential torment. His lips twisted into a repugnant smile as he thought about Trent pulling that shirt over his head.