"I need paramedics here now!" Hector yelled into his radio, a series of squelches and feedback breaking up his harried voice.
Frank and Muldoon stood opposite the body, unmoving, both men in halt and unsure of what to do at that very moment. In this tentative state, Frank dug deep into his mind and tried to remember if he had ever in his thirty-one year career seen anything as remotely grotesque, as horrible as the vision before him. He'd seen a great deal of daunting incidents, but could not recall anything equaling this, and he simply did what his mind allowed him to do at the moment: stand frozen with fear and awe and amazement. And Muldoon—well Frank could only assume similar feelings distressed him, perhaps to a point of even further torment than Frank perceived, given his limited exposure to such adverse episodes. He remained immobilized as well, gun lowered, agape and trembling.
It was quite a sight. A young man like the first sat naked in a puddle amidst a ring of refuse on the alley ground. He leaned back crookedly against the building wall, his entire body trembling like a machine. At first glance it seemed he was staring up at them, eyes rolling wildly and unable to pin their target, but in reality his tense face bore eyes turned up into their sockets, the whites glistening, shot with ruptured circles of blood.
Just like the first boy they encountered, this victim also suffered gruesome wounds to his groinal area. The penis and testicles had been castrated, reduced to mere shreds of flesh. A flare of blood rose up from his crotch in a wave-like pattern across his entire upper body, across his face and into his hair—which was saturated and standing at various angles. His thin arms, also coated in crimson, looked completely skinless, as if only raw veins and muscles were exposed.
When he was finally able to pull his sights away from the blood, Frank noticed a small object locked in the boy's hands. It was about the size of a grapefruit, round with maybe a half-dozen circular, six-inch spikes emerging from it. As Muldoon tried to steady the flashlight's beam on the boy's trembling hands, Frank could see his bloody fingers gently caressing the object, smearing the gore around in finger-painting circles, exposing a dark shiny hue beneath the deep wet crimson. Frank thought the object to be black in color, but couldn't be sure as it had so much blood covering it.
Something then happened, and as shocking and as paralyzing as the whole vision was, nothing could compare to...well it tempted their minds with madness, taking them beyond all the carnage and gore and into a more terrifying and disturbing persuasion of lunacy.
He smiled. Wide grinned, teeth ivory white and aglow beneath his red mask of death. A delineation of dementia gone overboard.
Frank's weaker rational personality spoke out to him, struggled desperately to convince him to break away, to flee this terrible wickedness, and even though it was his own voice, it was not that of Frank Ballaro the adult but that of Frank Ballaro the child, reminding him in his very own unfledged, high-pitched utterance that something as profoundly terrifying and evil-appearing as this was something not to be reckoned with—no matter what age he was, no matter what the circumstances might be. Frank strangely realized for the first time in his life that in some situations, such as this, the helpless child had more common sense than that of the rational adult.
But he resisted the urge to run. The strongest identity inside—the truth-seeking detective—again fought his less daring half—the source of the child's voice—and shut it down from making any weak decisions. It demanded answers, wanted to understand what afflictions had become of the young man before him, and it forced Frank to stay.
Something is very wrong, he thought to himself, something here, in New York City, this Friday morning, October 21st 1998, and he had unwittingly taken the first of many steps that would presumably lead toward an explanation to this madness, had scratched at the surface of an incredibly terrifying mystery. Its substance was now under his nails. It was too late to run.
The boy's chest rose and fell. The smile suddenly vanished from his face and his lower jaw dropped. A foul odor rushed out in an almost visible gush. Rushing footsteps approached from behind, flashlight beams flying like nightclub lights. Breaking his inactivity, Frank quickly turned and glimpsed a team of paramedics scurrying down the alley toward them.
"Freeze!" Muldoon suddenly screamed.
Frank leapt at the sound of Muldoon's shout, felt a lump form in the back of his throat. He spun and saw something...something so alarming, so quick and dream-like and more frighteningly mysterious than the injured boy himself, that it at once became difficult to believe that what he saw actually happened as it unexpectedly did, right before his eyes.
A strange looking man shot into sight through the hole in the fence, perhaps six-two or three, arms long and lanky, shoulders broad. His entire body was ensconced in black; jeans, boots, jacket. His hands were covered as well, fitted with sleek mitten-like gloves. Even his eyes were lost behind large dark sunglasses. Only the pearl white skin of his face and bald head were exposed to the traces of the growing morning.
With spider-like finesse, the man stretched forward, grabbed the bloody boy beneath his arms and yanked him through the hole in the link fence, into the courtyard and out of sight around the corner of the building.
The air suddenly reeked of feces and urine, uncomfortably counteracting the panic that ensued. Hector screamed for back-up, the quiet alternative of the radio serving no purpose now. In the commotion, Muldoon abruptly forced the EMT workers against the alley wall, making room for additional police to squeeze through. One medic, a young girl with freckles and blond hair tied in a bun, screamed as she struck the brick surface.
Frank pressed himself against the wall opposite the EMT workers, his three personalities engaged in a whirlwind of conflict. This battle, in combination with his semi-suppressed exhaustion, stunned him to the point where he simply couldn't make a move, take action, and he remained frozen, allowing the oncoming police to engage in the pursuit while his minds chattered.
What the hell just happened? Did some guy just reach through that hole in the presence of armed police officers and snatch a castrated man away in mere seconds? Yes, it had to be. No level of fatigue could drum up such a bizarre hallucination.
Muldoon followed his counterparts through the shed hole in the fence. Frank finally coerced movement in himself, and he and Hector followed.
The entire courtyard came into view. It was smaller than it had first seemed, perhaps only thirty feet across to the next building. It appeared from this angle that the only legitimate accesses to the yard were those from the buildings themselves; all the other alleys were fenced off.
Frank immediately saw streaks of blood in the grass, like trails of paint, the body clearly having been dragged away with the same quick determination as it had been scooped through the hole in the fence. Frank and Hector followed the messy streaks to a hole in the ground where the policemen stood circled about it, looking down inside and shaking their heads with what indicated utter disbelief. Muldoon and a middle-aged mustachioed cop with tufts of black hair jutting from the sides of his hat were shining their flashlights down into the hole. Another was crouched on his knees, tugging at a manhole cover in the grass at the side of the opening.
The cop with the moustache, McGoldrick, spread his arms in question, disbelief drawn on his face. "Bastard disappeared down the sewer."
"Did anyone see him go down?" Hector asked, jerking his head in all directions, including all the cops in the query.
"No...but there's blood all over the edge," McGoldrick answered, shining the flashlight around to confirm his statement. "And on the grass around it."
"Maybe he threw the body down there and fled?" Hector suggested, breaths escaping his throat in anxious gasps.
"Captain, I don't think so. He would've been spotted heading across the courtyard. Cullen and Shafski went to check out the exits and the other alleys, but we're pretty sure he went down here."
Hector's face flushed red as if the veins inside his head had exploded and let their flow seep beneath his skin. He shook his head, confusion no doubt bringing about a flurry of questions. One eventually came out. "Why hasn't anyone gone down after him?"
The cops stayed motionless, lips sealed and eyes blank, not the slightest bit of initiative present in their body language. Something had hold of them and kept them rooted.
"What? What's the matter?" Hector looked at Frank, eyes wide with disbelief as if to say, You believe these guys Frank? They're nothing like we used to be, when we were young.
McGoldrick stepped forward. "Captain, it's a cesspool duct. There's no ladder. It's nothing but cement walls and hook-eyes from here on down. You need equipment to get down there." Muldoon nodded, confirming his statement.
Hector stared at him for a moment, clearly befuddled. "You sure?" Receiving four nods in unison, Hector removed his hat, frustration clearly getting to him. How many times in his checkered career had something as cunning and corrupt as this occur just beyond the grasp of his fingertips, and slip away so easily without allowing a fragment of opportunity to take hold of it? Never? Yet here it happened, a first, and there seemed to be no excuse or valid explanation for letting this incredible mystery just slip away.
He swiped his forehead then stepped forward, peering into the dark depression. Frank stepped next to him.
"They're right Hect. No way down."
"Except if you jumped."
"Must be, what, twenty? Twenty five feet? Can't be done without nearly killing yourself."
"Which means the bastard's still down there with a broken ankle or leg."
A crazy thought entered Frank's mind and he shuddered at its outrageousness. But it seemed to make some sense. "Unless..."
"Unless what?" Hector's mouth trembled and his cheeks, even here in the early morning light, started showing deep ruddy patches of maroon. He would listen to anything as long as he got a viable answer.
"Unless he used the body to break his fall." The option suddenly seemed all to realistic, and Frank could see Hector's frustration jarring almost every muscle in his face as he considered this possibility. It looked as if steam would start pouring out from his ears.
"Captain?" Muldoon interrupted. "He probably is still down there. It's a cesspool. There's gonna be a lot of pipes and ducts leading out, but no tunnels. None that a man could fit through anyway."
Hector at once pulled his radio, placed a call into Special Teams. They'd have spelunkers here in a half hour, all geared up and ready to hoist on down. Holstering his radio, he asked, "If this is a cesspool, how come there's no stink?"
Still peering into the dark of the hole, Frank said, "I imagine it'd stink if you went down there."
Hector gave Frank a quizzical look, one eyebrow jutting in the air.
Frank smiled and shrugged, fatigue making an effort of it. "That's why I'm a detective."
"The object," Muldoon suddenly said, bringing about a round of silence and a variety of perplexed looks. "The thing he was holding, remember Captain?" He stepped forward. "The black thing? It was covered in blood and he was rubbing it with his fingers." He made a swirling motion with his hands.
Hector's eyebrows arched downward. Now he looked pissed, perhaps by the fact that he either forgot about the strange object, or didn't want to remember.
Frank felt a chill sprint through his upper body at the mention of the strange piece. The sudden discomfort made him realize that this whole damn scenario was more than just a weird body snatching of sorts. A plethora of mysteries surrounded everything, and he knew that somehow the object, the black thing with the prongs sticking from it, held answers. Answers to secrets that were shrouded with a tenebrous black veil and talons hidden underneath so that they could no doubt lash poison-laden scratches should someone come near it in attempt to lift it away.
Cullen and Shafski both returned from their investigation, heads shaking. They hadn't found anything, not a drop of blood.
The bald guy had indeed gone down.
"So did anyone find it?" Frank finally asked, his renewed strength now vacating as fatigue once again caught up during the lag of activity. Everyone shot harried glances around at each other, but there was no admission.
"What do you think, Frank?" Hector asked, brow furrowed with lines of curiosity.
"I think it's what the guy was after."
The smile on Hector's face could have been one of incredulousness, but Frank doubted his ex-captain would feel anything but inquisitiveness during a situation as considerable as this. "What makes you say that?"
Frank thought about it for a moment and shuddered. He really couldn't answer that question with any form of truthfulness. I just do would have been the most appropriate response. Just 'knowing things'. It had been a dominant part of his inbred talent as a cognitive figure in society, the one trait that all three of his personalities willingly shared. He closed his eyes for a moment, pondering Hector's simple question.
"I don't know for sure. It just seems obvious to me. I think it was the way the kid was holding it. Like he was...caressing it. Like it was something special."
The statement maintained the silence, everyone clearly giving thought to it, their faces blank stares. Whether they accepted Frank's observation was another story altogether.
Hector finally broke the silence, changing the subject, no doubt wanting his men to put their minds back on capturing the bald man. "Well, at this point there's nothing else we can do until the unit arrives." He tapped Frank on the waist. "Why don't you get some sleep Smoky, and we'll talk tomorrow. Besides, it's all dirty work from here on in."
Frank stared at Hector, felt slapped. What had he said? Was it that crazy an observation? Or was Hector in truth cutting him a break, allowing him to go home?
Frank rubbed a hand along the side of his face and realized that everyone was staring at him. He probably looked like hell, eyes barely open, as pale as a ghost after a hundred years of hauntings.
Hector nodded, gave him a quick patronizing smile. "It's all right Frank, go 'head. We'll be fine." He stepped over next to Frank, whispered, "You and I both know I shouldn't have let you back here in the first place."
Hector was right. Legally, Frank could only be a witness to this crime and nothing more. He had been off duty, and although everything had happened in his neighborhood, this wasn't his jurisdiction. Hector would be in charge.
But Hector was a dear friend. Tomorrow they would speak, and then Frank would get a small hold on things...
Frank tried to smile but knew it looked like a grimace. He then grunted, making his reluctance obvious, and turned away. As he dragged his feet, waves of relief suddenly washed over him like a rushing tide, rousing restless, anxious feelings that yelled get home! The prospect of getting into bed sounded so glorious all of a sudden, motivating that lesser listened-to, rational personality to peek out from behind the iron curtain of his consciousness and take control of his bearings. He spun back, added, "I guess we'll be speaking soon then, right Hect?"
"Of course Frank. Very soon. You're a witness and we'll need your report."
Frank finally staggered away, crawling back through the hole in the fence and into the alley. Wet trash and dirty puddles sloshed under his footsteps. The cool temperature locked the breath in his lungs. "So much for my long weekend," he mumbled as he passed a forensics team specialist prepping the area for a sweep. He slowly followed the now nearly invisible streaks of blood past a police barricade at the alley's entrance, back around the corner, through all the activity and onlookers. He barely made it to his apartment just as many were starting out their work day.
It wasn't until he was laying comfortable in bed a half-hour later, up to his chin in sheets, that he remembered something else he should have mentioned to Hector.
Atmosphere...