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Written by John T. M. Herres
At The Scene
Agent Herman Schmidt had never seen such vicious crimes. In his 30 years of service, he witnessed some of the various atrocities one human could do, either to another person or a group of people. However, the mess left by this perpetrator outdid anything he'd had to bear investigating.
The criminal, Marcus Arless, liked to call himself an artist, leaving a trail of his so-called art in his wake.
In reality, he left nothing more than death and destruction. Every scene this butcher made, revealed how demented his mind had to be. Schmidt couldn't fathom how anyone could do what Marcus did.
Unlike most killers, he didn't have a set Modus Operandi, save the signature on the corpses. He sliced his name on the bodies he mutilated, always leaving it in plain sight. None of his victims suffered the same fate other than a final demise.
"Gahdamn-sumbitch-n-muth'r..." Schmidt whispered as he surveyed the latest.
"So, how many is this, Agent Schmidt?" Sheriff Arnold Fitzgerald, Fitz for short, searched the NCIC database as soon as the responding officer reported finding the autographs. When he found a match, he called the FBI.
"Five," said Schmidt. "Fifth crime scene, fifth State. Five bodies?"
"Now, how can you tell that?" Gore littered the room of the seedy hotel. They always found the victims in some run down, ramshackle, hole-in-the-wall joint. "The only way we knew was by the five heads floating in the bathtub full of blood."
Schmidt rubbed his unshaven chin, then moved his hand to massage the back of his neck. "Once a month, this guy does his thing." He swept his arm to indicate the carnage. "He started with one. One body, what he left of it anyway, in a place much like this in Oregon.
"He sliced and skewed the torso like some kind of origami figurine. Smashed the bones so he could arrange and fold it as he wished. Then carved his name on the vic's ass, the only part that hadn't been destroyed.
"The local PD couldn't make headway on it, so they called County, who called State. Two weeks after the fact, they called the FBI, and I caught it. By that time, all I could do was see the pictures and the dried-up scene. I heard that every cop who saw the carcass unswallowed on first arrival. When I looked at the photos I understood why.
"The next was in good old Cali. Second one, two bodies. There, he split them in half and sewed them together."
"You mean sewed, like with needle and thread?" Fitz had a hard enough time keeping his three-hour gone breakfast down when he arrived on the scene. As Schmidt went on, he felt awful glad he didn't have the stomach to eat lunch, or he would once again be close to losing it.
"Yeah, but not with needle and thread. He cut off a strip of each of their skins from where he divided them and used that to stitch the halves together. We ID'd those people, a couple from LA. Man and woman.
"So the corpses were half-and-half. He left them on the bed, one atop the other. He'd dissected them perfectly, even their genitals. Somehow, he made the guy's cock hard, both halves, and inserted them into the woman's mouth, both halves, while his tongue delved into her cunt. Both halves."
Fitz felt his stomach lurch a bit at the mental picture, but kept it under control.
Schmidt nodded. "I felt the same when I got there. Since this bastard likes to scribble his name on the cadavers, they got a hit from the previous murder report and I got the call the day after. HQ had told them to leave the scene for me to get a first-hand look. I almost wish they hadn't."
Changing the subject, Fitz asked, "So, this fucker actually writes his name on all the victims?"
"That's right," Schmidt said, "but not writes, cuts. Uses an xacto knife. Always postmortem. We thought it might be a scalpel, but the incision didn't widen enough for as deep as some of the lacerations were. Had to be some kind of razor. Then the coroner in California recovered the used blade. Trust me, you don't wanna know where they found it."
Schmidt glanced at Fitz, concern etched on his face. "You sure you want to know the rest? It gets real sick after that."
Fitz looked incredulous. "Real sick? How the hell could it get any sicker than those two?"
Schmidt turned to the Sheriff and Fitz saw the haunted look in his eyes. He nodded for the Agent to proceed. He believed the only way to anticipate and eventually catch Marcus, rested in knowing how he had left the previous unfortunate people he'd used.
"Okay," Schmidt walked toward the door, motioning for the Sheriff to follow. "Let's go outside. I need a little air."
Fitz lit a cigarette when they got to his squad car. Schmidt had said the murders got worse with each scene he investigated; the evidence inside the room they just left confirmed it. However, he couldn’t have anticipated what the third one involved.
Schmidt removed his blue jacket and loosened his tie to pull off over his head, then took a deep breath before continuing.
"The third was in Arizona. That's when I noticed at least a bit of a pattern. He must be working his way across the Nation. A different incident in each State. If he's not stopped, I figure there might be 48 people involved in either Florida or Maine. Though it would take him a little over four years to do that.
"Anyway, he nabbed three kids."
"Aw, jeez," said Fitz as he closed his eyes and shook his head. He no longer wanted to know the details, but Schmidt had already resumed.
"We don't know how he lured them in, but he gutted them. A boy and two little girls, all around ten years old. When he had them hollowed out, he stuffed them with sawdust. Like he was some kind of fucking taxidermist or something. He arranged them to look like they were playing 'Doctor.'”
“Oh, what a sick mother fucker,” Fitz said through clenched teeth. “It’s bad enough to kill kids, but to display them in sexual positions?”
Schmidt looked at him, the pain in his eyes more emotional. “No, not playing the sexual game; the surgical variety. The boy had been stretched in an ‘X’ fashion, wrists and ankles tied to the four corners of the bed. One girl had the tip of a knife inserted like she was about to take out his appendix, the other positioned like she was performing a tracheotomy. Arless made the fear apparent on the boy’s face, the malicious fervor on both girls.
"Anyway, we never did find their innards. No clues as to what he did with them."
The cop couldn't hold his stomach contents any longer. He barely had time to turn and avoid hurling on the FBI Agent's shoes. While he waited for Fitz to finish, Schmidt went to his sedan and got some bottled water to offer him.
"I'd rather have a fifth of Jack, but this'll have to do." Fitz chugged the cold liquid down after using the first couple of mouth fulls to rinse and spit the acidic taste on the ground.
"I can stop if you'd prefer."
"Nah. Just let me get my breath back." Sheriff Fitzgerald leaned into his car and grabbed a hand towel he kept handy to wipe the sweat from his face and neck. He pulled out another cig with shaky hands and lit it. After gulping a second bottle of water, he told the Agent to continue.
Schmidt heaved a sigh. "Fourth they found in Nevada. I'll spare the details other than telling you it involved hardcore instant glue on the walls."
Fitz absently said, "How's that work?"
"Forensics identified the adherent as 'Cyanoacrylate.’ He spread it on, pressed each person to a corner and rolled them across the wall. Took layers off with each turn. Peeled 'em like an onion." His voice got softer towards the end and he seemed to drift off to somewhere in his mind. The haunted look resurfaced as he visibly sagged from the memory.
Fitz couldn't help the tears forming in his eyes, both in sympathy for the Agent and the horror all the victims must have gone through. "Damn," he whispered. "Sure hope they were already dead before he did that." An involuntary shiver crept up his spine at the thought. "Any ideas how this guy, what'd you say his name is, Marcus? Any idea how he got that much adhesive? Isn't that shit somewhat expensive?"
Schmidt shook his head, not even looking at the Sheriff. "I had the local LEO's run a search for any large quantities sold throughout the whole State. Came up with squat. Maybe he found a source on the black market or something. Wherever he got it, there's no paper trail anywhere."
Fritz glanced back at the motel. "So, now he hit here in Utah. Fifth crime scene, five bodies." He bent his head and closed his eyes, bringing up a mental image of the contiguous United States. "I'm guessing next will be Idaho, then."
"Most likely, but the question is, where in Idaho? He usually hits the smaller towns, but not too small."
"Well, you could just call their State Police and have them put their cities on alert. Give them what you do know and let them decide."
"Yeah." Schmidt pulled out his cell and dialed his home office. As it rang, he muttered, "Too bad we don't have a description of Marcus to give them."
After he hung up, Schmidt and Fitz walked back inside the dim room. The agent pulled out a small jar of vapor rub and put two dabs under his nostrils, then offered it to the Sheriff. The fumes worked well to ward off the smell of death and decay.
They needed to figure out how the group had been murdered, what had been used to obliterate the five victims without destroying the rest of the apartment, let alone the perpetrator.
Aside from blood and gore splattered on the walls, floors, ceilings, and furniture, there were several charred-looking spots in the center of the worn carpet. It looked as though oval campfires had burned there.
"Take a look at these," said Schmidt, kneeling on the marred rug. "They're about the size of an adult body, wouldn't you say?"
Fitz knelt beside him and surveyed the marks. "Sure looks like they could be. What are you thinking?"
"Well, I'm no Chemist, but I did take a chemistry course." He stood and gazed at the black blotches, the general carnage all around. "In one lesson, the teacher had us examine various types of explosives; Nitro, gunpowder, TNT. We had to learn about primary and low explosives, then write a paper on one type. My report was on mercury fulminate. I can't remember all of it, but I know it used to be used as a primer for bullets. A small amount could blow a pumpkin to smithereens."
"You think that's what this guy used? I never studied chemistry, so couldn't say one way or the other."
Schmidt rubbed the back of his neck again. "I'm not sure." Pointing at the stains, he asked, "Did your men get samples of this?"
Fitz scanned the room and called over a uniformed Officer. He squatted and took a zippered bag out, then scraped a fair amount of the soot into it. He handed it over and said, "Take this directly to the lab. I need it tested for any explosive material immediately. Tell them to look for something called, what's that again, Schmidt?"
"Mercury fulminate," the Agent enunciated. He took out his notepad, scribbled it down and tore the sheet out. "It could be silver fulminate, but my money's on the mercury," he said handing the paper to the officer.
"Yes, sir," the cop responded.
Fitz took him by the bicep and made sure his point hit home. "I need the results yesterday, you understand?"
"Yes, Sheriff. I'll let them know."
As the patrolman left, Schmidt decided the time had come to look in the bathroom. When he got there, not even the mentholated gel could staunch the stench. Agent Schmidt reeled, the odor hitting him like a physical force. He brought his hand up to cover his nose and mouth, coughing. "Ho, shit!"
"Yeah," said Fitz, "it's a bit rank."
"'A bit rank,' he says. Understatement of the year." He took out his handkerchief to use as a filter and continued to the tub. There, five decapitated heads floated in congealing blood, two male and three female.
Sheriff Fitzgerald told him, "We figure he leaned the bodies over it while he beheaded them. Let them each drain out before moving to the next."
"Sounds time-consuming, wouldn't you say?"
"Yep," came a voice from behind them. They both turned to see the Coroner leaning against the doorjamb. "Figure about ten, fifteen minutes per body, not to mention the time it takes to lop the heads off, depending on his method."
"Doc," said Fitz. "Glad you could join our little party."
The Doctor snorted. "Some party it must have been, too." He yanked his thumb over his shoulder. "What the hell could have done that?"
"I'm thinking some kind of homemade explosive," said Schmidt. "Agent Herman Schmidt, FBI." He held out his right hand to shake, keeping the hankie firmly covering his face.
"Doctor Phillip Jameson, M.E." He shook and cocked his head to the side. "Why is the FBI involved?"
Fitz indicated the noggins bobbing in the bathtub, each had scribbles on the foreheads. "It seems we've been visited by an Interstate killer, Doc."
Jameson stepped over and bent close. "Marcusarless? What's that mean?"
Schmidt motioned them to exit the tiny space, the noxious fumes beginning to penetrate his efforts to block them. They all walked outside and Fitz lit another cigarette.
When Schmidt had his breath back, he explained the signature and once again described the previous scenes.
On The Run
Marcus stood at the edge of the cliff looking down. A river flowed not far away, rushing over the brink and falling a hundred feet or so to the large pond below before continuing its course further into the thick forest.
He always loved waterfalls. He marveled at the majesty of the clear liquid, how it turned white as it plunged downward, then splashed destructively at the bottom. He wondered, not for the first time, how the landing area hadn't kept eroding until it drilled down to some subterranean cavern and made its own underground river or lake.
Snapping out of his reverie, he scanned the rock wall under him, looking for a spot to begin his climb. The people hunting him would find his trail soon and he didn't want to be standing still when they finally showed up.
At just under six feet tall, weighing in at 190, he would make a hard-to-miss target and had no intention of being riddled with holes.
Besides, getting shot fucking hurt.
He spied a crevice that offered the best starting point so he lowered himself into it. The hounds baying in the distance alerted him that his scent had been picked up. No more time to waste.
He picked holds with care and made it halfway before shouts and rapid barking announced their arrival above. He pressed himself against the rock to hide.
The dogs were going nuts up there trying to find a way they could continue the pursuit.
Marcus couldn't stay put. He had to get farther away from the canines and their masters.
One of the men shouted that he spotted movement. Shots rang out in time with the squeal and whine of ricochets all around the outlaw. Fragments of rock pelted him as the bullets hit too near for comfort.
He chanced a glance below and then above. It sounded like the group overhead had already agreed on how many of them would follow his climb while the rest took the dogs to find a safer route.
Marcus decided the drop would put more distance between them, so he leaned back and let go. As he fell away, he heard curses hurled at him, saw the frantic rush of the men as they separated. Four took off at a run leading the dozen canines downstream while the other six maneuvered themselves over the rim to scale the face of rock to follow him.
He spun in midair to watch as he rushed to meet the surface of water below. Moving into a jack-knife dive, he hit the deep pool with barely a splash. After going under, he angled toward the landing zone of the waterfall, intent on finding out how deep it had penetrated.
He had enough momentum but still kicked his feet to continue down and over toward the falls. He saw the churning bubbles, felt the current trying to hinder his progress. Regardless, his legs and arms propelled him onward.
Scattered boulders broken by the gradual decay littered the underwater bed and grew in number and size the closer he got. When he reached the spot directly under the cascade he felt the strong push from above, complimented by the pull from below. Deciding to follow the flux downward, he explored the subaqueous mound until he located a large opening.
The cavern, dimly lit from within, beckoned him to enter. He swam to it and felt his body being sucked in. The undercurrent had increased to a force he could not fight even if he wanted to.
He traveled the aqueduct long enough to discover a chamber which had open air above the waterline. When he broke the surface, he hoisted his body out of the water to lay on the dry rock and drifted into an easy slumber.
His mind took him back to his latest escapade. He hitchhiked from Nevada to Idaho. He usually hitched between his playgrounds.
His endeavor would require six people. He knew the right subjects would find him, they always did.
Since the first one six months ago, the perfect specimens would pull to the side, ask some questions and decide he wouldn't be a threat. He'd get in and they would drive and talk until the operator got drowsy. That invariably happened right as they came upon a rundown motel, but exhaustion demanded they get a room despite the condition of the available accommodations.
Then his fun began.
The proper tools would already be there. Marcus didn't even think twice about it. He knew exactly what he needed to do and how to do it.
When he finished, he sliced his name onto the corpse, or corpses, as the case may be. He made sure to leave just enough unmarred skin to sign his work, even though he knew it would be a clue. Maybe because he knew that.
All of them followed the same script but the third. When he left the couple in California, he felt the need to keep their car. Just over the border, he saw three kids running out from a batch of trees and darting across the road.
He played the part of an angered motorist and demanded they take him to their parents so he could inform them what heathens their kids were. They drifted to sleep as he drove and he found the motel he needed so he could add them to his collection.
On the most recent one, six stoner types were driving around in an old VW bus. All had long hair and colorful baggy clothes, the girls without bras. One would think they came straight from a 70's Woodstock concert.
They pulled over and threw open the bay doors, inviting him to join them in a cacophony of laughs and words without even asking him about his destination. He, of course, obliged.
They smoked pot and chugged beers as they merrily traveled along, chatting about their histories. As if on cue, the conversations died down as they, one after the other, felt the nods taking over.
When the driver almost went off the road, he announced they needed to pull over unless someone else wanted to drive. Since all the others were drowsy, too, they made a unanimous decision to stop at a motel. Marcus offered to pay for the accommodations in return for the ride.
In his room, he found a satchel with various cutting implements of the medical variety. A smile spread its way across his face as he took inventory. Every tool he touched flooded him with anticipation of the work each had been designed for.
The time had come to do what he needed to do.
Each of the couples had gotten their own rooms. They might be neo-Hippies, but they weren't swingers. They had successive rooms, but the place didn't have doors between them. That would have been convenient.
As he stepped outside, he peered across the unlit parking area toward the dark tree line. He could see various sets of glowing eyes watching him. The predators of the area would have a feast. He didn't have to speak very loud, so mumbled, "Go to the back, my friends. Some treats will be tossed out soon." The creatures understood and began traversing the perimeter.
Marcus went to the farthest room and placed his hand on the knob. It turned with ease and he slid the door open just enough to slip in. The people snored away, just two darker shadows in the gloomy space.
He set his bag down and pulled out the case of scalpels. He knew the order of them from his inventory and removed the longest lancet. Taking the small hammer and ice pick, he placed them on the nightstand and stepped lightly onto the bed. He straddled both of them and dropped to his knees.
They woke slowly, as if drugged, allowing him time to jab the surgical knife into the man's throat and sever his vocal cords, then did the same to her.
As both struggled to press their wounds together, he rolled the girl onto her side and thrust the tip of the knife between the vertebrae classified as C-4 and C-5, wiggling it to both sides in order to completely sever the cord within. They would all need to be paraplegics to avoid any fighting; resistance would make things messy. The bodies went instantly still.
He took the ice pick and inserted it into the upper part of the guy's eyeball and whacked it with the hammer. A crude lobotomy, which he would repeat on every one of them, but they would offer no more resistance.
Going room to room, he had the lot disabled in no time and he could move to the next step. He procured a smaller scalpel and approached the most recently disabled. She would have the shortest experience. On impulse, he turned the man's head so he could watch, helpless to do anything to prevent it.
He pulled the cover off the bed and spread it out on the floor. All the unnecessary chum would be put onto it and tossed out to the critters anxiously waiting outside. They had been promised a hot meal and Marcus had no intention of disappointing them.
He took her hand and extended a finger. The meat on the tips would need to be sliced off to remove the prints, both fingers and toes. Her mouth opened in a silent scream as he worked with a smile, almost wanting to whistle a tune.
Marcus stood to the side and placed one hand on her upper chest and pressed the sharp instrument against her skin over her sternum. He cut her open in a double-Y pattern, then tugged the epidermis as he sliced it away from the bones underneath. Tears streamed down her face as she helplessly watched. She passed out from the sight before he finished and died sometime during the process.
Working steady, he pulled out her guts and laid them on the bedspread before approaching the man. The anger in his eyes, even though his mind didn't work in general, overrode the fear of what would soon transpire.
When he had the man hollowed out, he gathered the corners of the blanket and threw it out the back window. He heard the animals who had been patiently waiting begin a frenzied attack on the buffet.
He went through all the victims in the same manner. With his promise to the indigenous wildlife fulfilled, he could proceed with his artistic endeavors.
The entire process ended up taking a couple of days, but when he finished, he had them all pieced out. For the six cadavers, he had three rooms. His own would not be part of the display.
He used one for the display of the lower extremities; hips, legs and feet. The next housed the trunks; ribs and vertebrae disconnected and grouped according to their positions. The last held the arms, hands and heads. Next to each exhibit he flattened the sections of epidermis from the areas he had to skin to access.
He separated every joint, pulled every tooth, so there were many items. Marcus arranged them all in a grid pattern to make sure they would be most difficult for someone to figure out which parts went with which victim.
He left just enough skin on their upper thighs to add his mark, or "Marcus Arless," as it were. When he felt satisfied, he packed all the tools and went back to his own room to clean up and rest before leaving.
They had been at the motel for a total of three days, for which Marcus had paid in advance with instructions not to be disturbed. In fact, he paid the man well enough to secure the entire building and get the "No Vacancy" sign displayed.
The next morning, he loaded up the van and drove off, looking for a spot to ditch the vehicle. When he heard the sirens, he stared into the mirror, anger rising that the Manager of the place didn't adhere to their agreement. He muttered curses for the guy to meet with a more horrible death than any of his models had experienced.
Several of the Police cars entered the lot, but others spotted him and sped up in pursuit. He ran off the road and collided with a tree, then took to foot through the woods to escape. When he pushed through the tree line and saw the waterfall, he knew he would get away.
On Call
In the distance, the large, faceless form danced in a mist, taunting him. Undulating, gyrating, always out of reach, yet so close he could feel it. No matter how fast Schmidt moved, nor in which direction, the figure continued to spin and weave through a crowd of hapless potential victims.
The loud trilling of his ringtone snapped him from the nightmare. He sat up, breathing heavy and sweating profusely. He swung around to sit on the edge of the bed and cradled his face in the palms of his hands. The cell phone continued its incessant bleeping.
He fumbled with it in the dark room, the glare of the screen almost blinding him as he tried to see who dared call at three in the morning. "Unknown Caller" displayed with a blank silhouette. He swiped the icon to answer and held it to his ear.
"Schmidt," the word came out gravelly so he hacked to clear it. "Hello."
"Ah, Agent Schmidt." The caller had a deep voice, smooth and almost oily. "I wanted to see how you are liking my displays."
Schmidt sat up and glanced at the curtained window of the hotel room he occupied. "Who is this?" He fiddled with the settings and engaged the recording app.
"Come on, Herman. May I call you Herman? I'd like to think we're close enough I could use your first name."
"You can call me Agent Schmidt, whoever you are." He stood and grabbed his Glock in his left hand as he headed to pull the drapes aside. The parking area had plenty of lights, making it almost impossible for someone to hide in shadows.
"I think you know who I am. But, if not, here's a clue:
"My first work of art, I folded with care,
"The second I married two who did share.
"The third I made sure would always play,
"The forth all facades I took away.
"The fifth, I made sure they had a blast,
"And sixth divided evenly to the very last."
"Look, I don't know what game you're playing,"
Schmidt felt a chill run his spine. Only one person could know details of all of the murders.
"You do know, Agent Schmidt. You might not want to admit it, but you do."
The Agent needed confirmation. "I'll disconnect this call if you don't tell me who you are." He wanted to hang up, but wouldn't. His desire to capture the killer ran too deep.
The caller sighed and said, "Fine. You want confirmation, I can understand that. I am Marcus Arless, Artiste Extraordinaire." The voice chuckled, "But you don't consider me an Artist, do you? You think I'm a demented murderer. I assure you, Agent, I am not demented, nor am I a murderer."
"So you say, Arless, all evidence to the contrary. What do you want? Why call me?"
"Oh, just to shoot the breeze. Also, I thought you might want to wake from the nightmares you've been having. About me."
He felt the shiver again. How did Marcus know? "I don't know what you're talking about," he bluffed.
The light laugh sounded once more. "Sure you don't, Agent Schmidt. The form in your dream is faceless because you don't really know who I am. That's because I can be anyone I need to be."
Schmidt put the call on speakerphone. As he got dressed, he said, "Well, why don't you meet with me? We can talk all about these nightmares you say I'm having." He muted his microphone and picked up the hotel phone to call his office. He needed to run a trace to try to locate this creep.
"You needn't call anyone, Agent. They won't be able to find me." Schmidt continued his call. Marcus sighed again. "Very well, then. Tell them. I'll wait."
He engaged his mic and said, "Look, Marcus, you called me for a reason. Get on with it."
As Marcus began rambling, Schmidt identified himself on the other phone and arranged the trace, then asked to be transferred to his boss. "I'm telling you, Director, somehow he knows what I'm doing. Even my dreams. He knew I was calling to arrange a trace, even though I had the mute on."
Marcus droned on in the background.
The Director asked, "What do you mean, your dreams, Schmidt?"
The Agent said he'd explain later and put the receiver beside his cell phone. After he re-engaged the microphone, he said, "Alright, Marcus. You've convinced me. Are we going to meet or what?"
"Oh, there you are, Agent Schmidt. I was worried your Director would hang up on you for a moment there. Hello, Director. Welcome to the conversation."
Schmidt tried to deny the accusation, but Marcus didn't sound convinced. Finally, he said, "Very well, Agent, have it your way.
“I've told you the past, now I'll tell you the rest;
“You have to move fast if you want to be the best.
“The seventh, above the others will be far and beyond,
“For I'll not do seven, only one lovely, little blond.
“I'll keep her around as you search for me,
“You can start by finding an ancient cedar tree.
“From there I'll send word on where to look next.
“When you find it, I'll just send you a text."
The line went dead. Schmidt picked up the landline. "Did you catch that, Director?"
As his boss entered statistics into his computer, Schmidt played back the recording he made. The Director added the relevant information to the digital case file while waiting for the results from the team he had sent the new information to.
“Based on his pattern so far, analysts predict his next target will be in Montana. I’ll email you the info, plus get you booked on the Leer to leave ASAP. Get your gear together, Schmidt.”
When he made it to the private airport, the six-passenger jet awaited, fueled and warmed up, flight plan already submitted.
The journey took less than an hour, wheels up to touch down. Schmidt found an Agency car waiting beside the runway and tossed his small bag in the back seat.
The local Agent identified herself as Maggie Baker. She stood a little over five feet tall and couldn't have weighed more than a hundred pounds, but something about her struck a chord with Schmidt. She handed him a map, the keys, an ear bug, and a secured cell phone.
"The Director said the target has your personal number," she said as he wiggled the device into his ear canal. "I've taken the liberty of programming the speed dials; the Director is number two and mine is 3. Are you sure you don't want a rider?"
The tingle in the back of his mind wouldn't go away. He had a strange feeling about Baker. "No," he responded. "Just keep the tail within ten minutes or so and we should be fine." He got in and closed the door as the pretty blond walked off. "Baker," he called.
She came trotting back and leaned on the side of the sedan. "What's up?"
"You be careful. Arless said something about a blond being involved."
She snickered, "You think I may be a target?" She had a slight rasp in her alto voice that reminded him of a famous Actress he liked to watch in the movies. He couldn’t help the surge of blood that warmed his chest and made his trousers feel a little snug.
"I couldn't say for sure. I don't know if you've read up on the case, but this guy is brutal. He has some kind of preternatural ability. Somehow, he seems to know things he shouldn't."
"Well, I have two burly 'manly-men' with me. Say 'Hello' to De Wise and Jameson."
The men in the van called out greetings. Schmidt reiterated that Marcus had an uncanny knowledge, but wouldn't go into detail. He asked, "Have any of you read up on this perp?"
Jameson answered, "Yeah, we've seen the case file. Hard to believe one person could do all that without being seen."
"Except the last one," responded Schmidt. "The Manager of the place called the cops suspecting foul play. Said the guy asked for four rooms, but laid out enough money to rent the whole damned establishment and asked for the 'No Vacancy' sign to be displayed. Told the Manager to take off. I'm telling you three, be glad you didn't see what he did there, or at any of his crime scenes."
"Don't worry, Schmidt," said the voice identified as De Wise. "We'll keep sharp. You need us, say the word."
As he drove away, he watched in the mirror as Maggie ran to the surveillance van. She climbed behind the wheel and he could hear her co-workers chide her about having a new boyfriend. Schmidt couldn't help but chuckle at the banter.
He followed the directions highlighted on the map and within fifteen minutes, he entered the State Park. Almost like it had been planned, his phone signaled a text message. He told his tail while he pulled to the side and checked.
Get out of the car, don't have to walk far. Go north till you get to the deadfall.
"That doesn't rhyme, Asshole," Schmidt mumbled. Jameson came over the earwig asking what he meant, so Schmidt read the text to them. Herman headed in the direction ordered.
When he got to a pile of fallen trees and branches, his ringer went off. In his ear, he thought he heard a scuffle. "Baker?" He cupped his hand to his ear. "Jameson. De Wise!" None of them answered.
He pulled the still ringing phone out to answer and discovered the call came on the secured line. Figuring it to be his boss, he engaged it and said, "Just now at the site, Director."
"Well, that's just fine, Herman," came the heavy voice.
He stood straight and looked around. "How did you get this number?"
Marcus sighed. "Still have doubts about me? I'm disappointed, Schmidt."
"I don't give a gahdamn, Arless," Schmidt spat back. "What do you want? Where's the victim?"
The chuckle that came across the airwaves sent another tingle down his backbone. "Oh, she's right here. You knew as soon as you saw her that she'd be the one, didn't you?"
He muted the phone and called over the ear piece, "Baker, damn it, answer me!"
Marcus' voice came back, "I told you, I have her."
Schmidt turned and began running back toward the road, but Marcus yelled, "Stop right there! You show from out of the tree line and she's as good as dead." The Agent stopped and looked around again, breath coming in huffs, hoping to find a way to sneak around and come from behind. "Now, go back to the pile of dead limbs, sit your ass down and wait for me to tell you what to do next."
Schmidt returned with reluctance, still going over options in his head. He needed to play along for the time being in order to keep Maggie alive. Somehow, he doubted the two men had fared well. As he sat there, he pulled the earbud out and stuffed it into his pocket, then called the Director to inform him the detail had gone FUBAR.
"Arless has Baker. I don't know the condition of the Agents she was with."
Schmidt listened as his boss instructed him to just follow the directions the killer gave him. "I'll have to get local LEO's to send a unit out to check. Being a dinky little place, those three constituted the FBI presence for the area. Keep sharp, Schmidt."
He started to say something else, but his cell went off again. He put the Director on standby and answered his. Cursing, he came back on the line with the chief. "Gahdamn telemarketers," he griped. "How the hell do they get into secured lines?"
"Forget about it, Schmidt. We have other concerns."
Schmidt's phone went off again. When he looked, he told the Director, "I just got a text from him, Chief. ‘Tell your Director the two men are alive. You pack your ass through the woods, go east and keep trekking until I say stop.'"
"This guy's getting a bit creepy," the Director said.
"Understatement, Boss. Understatement." Schmidt ended the call and began walking as instructed. His mind wandered, without him wanting it to, through the previous scenes left by this murderer, trying to figure out what he might have planned to do with Maggie.
Schmidt kept hearing crackling noises through the ear piece. Static, like the sender had gone just past range. He had been walking for an hour, sweat soaking through his shirt and dripping off his brow. His feet were beginning to ache from the hard soled shoes, making him wish he had worn a pair of sturdy hiking boots.
The cell phone trilled. He engaged it and almost hollered, "Schmidt." His nerves had him edgy, which would not help him. He needed to keep calm so he could think straight.
"Ooo," came the deep voice of Marcus, "a bit testy. How are you holding up, Agent Schmidt?"
His anger tried to rise again at the cockiness of that asshole. He closed his eyes and composed himself before responding, "I'm fine, Arless. Where are you sending me?"
Marcus chuckled. "You're not going to like it. I kind of took a little road trip with your new girlfriend. By the way, did I tell you; you have good taste. She is an exquisite little pixie, this Maggie."
Keep your cool, Herman. He's just trying to get a rise out of you. "Let her tell me if she's okay and we'll talk some more."
"Oh, we'll talk more whether she's okay or not. You do want to catch me, don't you?"
"Just put her on the line, Arless." Schmidt noticed he spoke through clenched teeth and worked his jaw around to relax it.
He heard her raspy grunt followed by a short squeal. Some mumbled instructions came over the receiver before she spoke, "Bastard's taping my mouth closed. He hasn't harmed me; yet." She tried to say something else, but Marcus had taken the phone away.
Herman could hear the ripping sound of more tape being pulled out and figured he resealed her mouth. He didn't want her to give away more details before he decided to reveal them. When the culprit came back on the line, he almost sounded winded.
"Whew. Little hellcat." He snickered, "Bet she'd be a hell of a fuck, eh, Schmidt?" He blew air out forcibly, then continued. "Anyway, we took a little road trip, so you might want to secure some transpo so you can catch up. I'll call you back, buddy."
Schmidt tried to tell the jackass they were not buddies, but the line had gone dead again. "Shit," he said out loud to himself, scanning the woods surrounding him, "where the hell am I gonna get a car?"
He started hearing a man's voice echoing through the trees. As he got closer, the sound of an engine turning over without firing mixed with it. "Damn. Try again." The whir of the starter turning with no reward. "Shit."
He saw glimpses of blue through the limbs and hurried toward it. The man stood on the front bumper of a jacked up 4x4 pickup, leaning into the engine bay to reach the motor. He'd wiggle something and call for another attempt, which failed, cuss some more and try again. As Herman approached, they went through three more tries.
"Excuse me," he said to announce his arrival.
"Ho, shit, man!" The man near fell over when he stepped down and backed a couple of steps. "Where the hell did you come from? Scared the shit out of me."
"Didn't mean to. Problems?" He pointed at the disabled truck. He noticed the beat up red sedan parked behind it and an idea came to him.
The man, average height with a beer gut, placed his greasy hands on his hips, looking at the vehicle and shaking his head. He had his brown hair cut short, flat-topped, and it looked as if he skipped shaving the last two days. "Yeah," he kicked the bumper, “gahdamned thing won't start." He pointed to the plain-Jane girl with flat, flaxen hair in the driver seat. "Donna come all the way out to help, but I can't figure out what's wrong."
Donna stood on the rail under the door and gave a half wave. Her wrinkled blue dress caught the wind and blew above her thighs, revealing her commando status. As she carried about twenty extra pounds, the sight did not appeal to Schmidt at all. In a tired voice, she called a greeting and sat back down.
Schmidt pulled out his ID. "Look, I'm in pursuit of a very bad man and need some transpo. If I can get this started, will you let me commandeer it?"
"Shit, man," the guy said as he glanced at the card, "as much of a pain in my ass as this piece of shit's bein’, you get it running and you can have the gahdamned thing."
Schmidt didn't want to keep it, but nodded and climbed onto the bumper to look around. He told Donna to turn it over, then yelled for her to stop. It sounded as if the timing might be a little off, so he turned the distributor cap a little counter-clockwise. When the girl tried again, it sounded worse, so he moved the device the other way. The engine coughed and sputtered. He gave a little more twist and it fired up. Silently thanking his shade-tree mechanic father for teaching him a few ins and outs, he stepped back down and turned towards the young people.
"I'll be damned, Mister. Yer a jeen-yus." Donna had hopped down from the driver seat and cozied to the man. "Well, sir, a deal's a deal. Have at it." He swept a hand toward the beast.
"Thanks, uh," Schmidt left it hanging as he stretched his hand toward the guy.
"Oh, shit, man. My bad. Jason. Jason Milton." They shook and Jason motioned to the heavy-set young woman. "This here's my girl, Donna. We're gonna be married next month, huh, Donna?"
The girl smiled, her arms wrapped around his waist. Schmidt had no more time to socialize. "It's really nice to meet you both," he said as politely as he could. "Like I said, I'm chasing a really bad man and need to go."
"Yeah, yeah. Get on with it, Officer."
"Actually, it's Agent, but thanks. I'll make sure you’re compensated, Jason. Thanks." Without waiting for more conversation, he climbed into the truck and drove away.
At the trilling of the cell, he slid his finger on the answer icon and pressed the speaker button. "Yeah," he said unceremoniously.
"Got a vehicle, Agent?" Marcus posed the question like he already knew.
"I do. Where am I going?"
"Alrighty. Drive for exactly 10.3 miles and hang a left. Follow that dirt road until you see a worn out wooden sign and turn right. I found a really neat place for us to meet, Schmidt. I think you'll appreciate the irony," he said with a chuckle and disconnected the call.
"Shit," Schmidt said as he glanced at the gas gauge. The truck needed gas.
He looked back up just as he drove through the State Park gates and saw a convenience store a short way off. When he pulled next to the pump, he jumped down, slid his Agency credit card through the reader and pumped fifteen dollars. Not even waiting for the receipt, he got back in and took off.
The wooden sign, faded over the course of time, said something about a park. The closer he got, he could make out some of the other letters and came up with Amusement Park. "Oh, joy," he said with no enthusiasm. "Marcus did say something about irony, didn't he? Great, now I'm talking to myself. Get a grip, Herman."
When he approached the site, he could see the skeletons of some of the rides. A lot of them had been disassembled, the metal probably taken for scrap. The remains littered the carnival grounds in heaps as a rusty reminder of days gone by.
The buildings for the side attractions still stood, looking somewhat strong for as long as the place had been abandoned. Schmidt caught himself offhandedly wondering what had happened and chastised himself. He had more important things to worry about.
Musical notes announced a text message. It told him to go into the House of Mirrors and find his way to the end, where Baker would be waiting for him.
Schmidt knew it would be a trap, but had nothing else to go on. He also had the impression that if he tried to cheat and just enter through the exit, Marcus would know and Maggie would suffer the consequences.
He stepped through the door and drew his weapon. Dozens of his reflections mimicked his every move as he made his way through the maze. Using one hand to feel the glass walls to find the passages, he slowly progressed toward the goal of freeing his fellow Agent. Some glass littered the floor, remnants of people who had tried to navigate it and gotten frustrated enough to make their own path.
As he neared the end, he could make out the subtle grunts and huffs of breath that had to be Baker attempting to free herself. When she came into view, she looked up and stopped. Her eyes widened as he neared and he could swear she flinched a little as he knelt to remove the tape from her wrists.
"Where is he, Maggie?" He kept his voice soft, but it still sounded hollow in the long forsaken structure.
When he got the bindings on her wrists undone, he moved to work on freeing her ankles. She ripped the tape from her mouth and whispered, "It's you, Schmidt."
"What the fuck are you talking about?"
"This guy, Marcus. He looks just like you," she said as she stood. Her legs almost gave out and he grasped her around the waist to support her.
"How is that possible?" As she gained strength, he let her go. He knelt down again and took out the .38 revolver he kept strapped to his lower leg for emergencies, then handed it to her.
"Beats the hell out of me," she said. "I thought you were him when you first came around the corner. Scared the shit out of me."
They began looking for the nearest exit. When they found it, Schmidt grasped the knob and it came off in his hand. He cursed and tried to shoulder it open.
"Not gonna get out that way, Agent." Marcus' voice echoed around them and they both brought their weapons up, searching the area.
"Shit," said Schmidt, "where is the fucker?"
"I don't know, but I don't want to just stand here."
They moved away from the door intending to go back through the maze to the front. The mirrors showed their replicas as they progressed, but Herman came up short and she bumped into him.
"What is it?" she muttered.
He motioned with his jaw. The panel he indicated showed two of him, but only one of her. He had the barrel of his gun pointing at it, and she followed suit. His doppelganger made a swift move to the side and smashed shoulders with Schmidt, knocking him sideways and causing his pistol to fly from his hand.
When Schmidt rolled onto his back, Marcus had Maggie's neck in the crook of his elbow, his own weapon trained on the downed Agent. "Hello, Herman," he said with a menacing air. "We finally meet face to face."
Herman shook his head to clear his vision. The criminal did look just like him; could have been his twin. "What the hell?"
Marcus snickered, "I know. Uncanny, isn't it?" He moved to circle toward the opening leading back to the room he had used to detain the girl. "Imagine, had there been any survivors, they would have pinned all the artwork on you as soon as you showed your mug."
Schmidt worked himself off the floor. He knew not to try to reclaim his firearm but kept tabs on where it and Maggie's had landed. "Artwork, my ass," he said. He had to keep the focus on Marcus, trying to forge a plan. "Murder is not art, regardless of what your demented mentality wants to make others believe."
"Aw, you still disapprove." The killer used a facade of sadness, though the hard glint in his eyes betrayed the hurt he wanted to portray. "And after I tried so hard to make everything perfect."
The two men kept moving in a slow circle, a tense dance of wits as the Agent wracked his brain to formulate a plan. "What are you gonna do, Arless? You let her go, and I'll rush you; kill her and I'll tackle your sorry ass. Either way, we're gonna tangle, so just do what you have in mind and let's get to it. I have more important things to do."
Marcus screamed, "Liar!" He had gone livid, mouth and brow drawn down and eyes wide while his face turned sunburn-red. "I've done more important work in the last few months than anything you've done in your sorry lifetime, Schmidt. Those stupid people had nothing going for them and I made them famous. I did that. What have you ever done for anyone?"
Maggie kept eye contact with Schmidt, waiting for the right moment. When Marcus loosened his grip on her neck, she relaxed her legs and slipped from his hold. As she hit her knees, she swung her bent elbow into his groin. He moved to cradle his hurt and a shot rang out. The bullet penetrated her calf before she could roll out from under him.
Schmidt followed her lead and surged toward him as he doubled over. He brought his foot up and connected with Marcus' cheek, blood spurting in a fountain as he turned. He landed on his back and Schmidt planted a knee on his sternum while he slammed a fist into the side of his nose.
Marcus turned his bloodied face and his angered look disappeared. He looked down the black cavern of the barrel of a 9mm.
"Make a move, asshole," Maggie said, her voice wrought with emotion and pain.
Schmidt stood and maneuvered beside her. He tried to take the weapon, but she pushed his hand away and kept it trained on the suspect. "Maggie, come on," he began.
Marcus planted his hands on the floor and leaped toward them and she pulled the trigger. The red shower painted the dingy wall behind him as he flew into it, a hole in his forehead and the back of his skull obliterated. He sagged to the floor.
"Damn," said Schmidt. He looked away and took two steps.
"Herman, please understand." Baker came up beside him and handed him the gun. "He wouldn't have gone to jail. He told me as much. He said since I would not be there to testify, he'd be able to plea insanity. He would have, too, I know it. You do, too."
Schmidt sighed as he turned and looked in her eyes, then at the dead man. "Yeah, you're probably right." He walked away and found his way outside, she limped behind. The setting sun painted the sky red and orange. They sat on the stage together and watched as the colors faded and turned to a dark blue.
Herman heard a crackle behind and turned to see a bloodied hand holding the revolver he had given Baker. A flash from the muzzle sent lead through Maggie's temple and she tumbled off the edge.
Marcus declared, "Who needs a brain to outwit the cops?" He pulled the trigger again and Schmidt crumpled to join the dead girl, a hole in his chest. Marcus descended the stairs and looked at them, then around the darkening property. Heaving a sigh, he knelt down and placed his hand on both of the injuries he made. "I'll duplicate both of you now and as your counterparts, we'll make some wonderful displays."
––––––––
BIO:
John T. M. Herres was born May 26, 1965.
Born into a military family, he moved around a great deal during his younger years - which meant a constant change of circumstances. He tries to use those experiences to add richness and realism to his writing.
He has a short story published in the Anthology "Full Moon Slaughter 2: Altered Beasts" titled Indigo Matters and several other shorts being considered for publication in other Anthologies.
Having lived in the Great state of Texas a majority of his life, he currently resides in Mississippi.
https://www.facebook.com/AuthorJohnTMHerres/
https://www.goodreads.com/user/show/15238771-john-t-m-herres
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