Dark Harbor (13 page)
T
HE LITTLE HOUSE
on Cypher Street was dark. Night had closed in around it softly, as if to avoid stirring the odd proclivities of its inhabitant. Cloistered in the windowless basement, he was oblivious to the dying of the light as he sat rocking on a small scrap of cloth in the far corner of the antiseptic room. In front of him, the makeshift shrine glowed with candles, seven in all. Six were placed in front of large jars, their contents deep red, surrounded by baubles and trinkets and locks of hair as talismans to guard against the souls of their former owners. The seventh candle sat apart, next to an open jar on a lonely corner of the shelf, its heat mixing with the formaldehyde fumes that wafted up from the jar, turning the air sickly sweet.
Rocking, always rocking, he repeated the verse like a mantra, blurring the words into one another until he was no longer speaking in a recognizable language, but in a gibberish; like an ancient tongue, secret and powerful.
The waters you saw where the whore sits
are people, multitudes, nations, and languages.
The beast and ten horns you saw shall hate the whore.
They will bring her to ruin and leave her naked.
They will eat her flesh and burn her with fire …
They will eat her flesh and burn her with fire …
Theywilleatherfleshandburnherwithfiretheywilleather
fleshandburnherwithfiretheywilleatherfleshandburn
herwithfiretheywilleatherfleshandburnherwithfire …
He’d settled his mind—or God had. That was what he liked to believe. It was time for another sacrifice. This was the time he most enjoyed, the anticipation of divine intervention—the feeling that he no longer controlled his actions, that they were guided by a force far greater than his own will. The abdication of control gave him a warm, protected feeling. It wasn’t heaven, he knew, but that reward would come in time. And for now, this was the closest thing to heaven he could imagine. Sometimes, when he was in these trances, he could close his eyes and almost touch his parents. They were beaming at him with pride. Pride and acceptance; those two gifts he’d sought and been denied. They were his now.
When he was finished with his meditation, he left the candles burning and headed upstairs to get changed. The fear that gripped the city—the fear he’d created—made his task more difficult. The streetwalkers were wary. Many had taken to carrying weapons, or were staying off the streets entirely. He needed a new plan, and he’d spent days perfecting it.
There were places he’d researched on the Internet where prostitutes gathered in groups, looking to tempt men’s weakness; bars that catered to ugly, discreet meetings and vile, no-strings-attached affairs. He’d use them as his hunting ground. It was thrilling to begin moving freely in public, fulfilling his duty in plain view of a city unaware of the approaching apocalypse.
Of course, hunting in bars meant he’d have to blend in. That had never been easy, and he’d spent a week working hard to look normal. The perversity of the need almost excited him. Almost.
They will bring her to ruin and leave her naked.
They will eat her flesh and burn her with fire …
They will bring her to ruin and leave her naked.
They will eat her flesh and burn her with fire …
As he walked upstairs, he was humming. As a child, he’d hummed when he was most happy.
S
TONE NOTICED HIM
almost immediately. He was in his thirties, short, with sandy brown hair that was thinning badly on top. In an attempt to make his hair look thicker, he’d grown it long in back and then brushed it forward over the bald spot on top. The effect was the opposite of his intent. He looked like the victim of some late-night infomercial.
Under normal circumstances, Stone wouldn’t have given him a second look, but after losing the man who’d attacked the hooker a week before, he’d redoubled his efforts to scrutinize everyone at the Kiss Club. Mr. Infomercial caught his attention on the second pass.
The guy was sitting alone at a small table against the wall, his head turning on a swivel, taking everything in. He looked out of place with his forward-swept hair and his starched white shirt buttoned all the way to the collar, tight around his neck. But it was the look in his eyes that really startled Stone. The man watched each of the working girls strut by him with a cold, hard stare. Most of the men at the bar watched the women; there was nothing unusual about that. Men leered at their feminine parts with hunger. The stranger’s glare was different, though. There was no heat to it, no yearning. It was judgmental and calculating, as though he were meting out silent justice.
Stone got up and moved to the other end of the bar so he could get a better look at this odd character. His new vantage did nothing to discourage his initial assessment, and he dedicated himself to watching the man closely for the rest of the evening.
The first thing he noticed was the smell. Lavender and musk and alcohol mixed with the more subtle odors of desire and sin to form a tapestry of desperation. The experience was so powerful it tickled something in his memory from before the death of his parents—before he’d changed. He couldn’t quite put his finger on it, but it reminded him of the loss and pain he’d suffered, and it made him angry.
Put it out of your mind
, he told himself. The time was coming, and he was the instrument of God’s final will, but he needed to focus if he was going to be of any use. A young girl—no more than nineteen, if that, he guessed—walked by, looking down to smile at him as she passed. She was wearing a red silk dress, tight over her breasts to accentuate and reveal her lithe curves. From there it clung to her midriff and waist before letting go of her form to fall in a loose skirt to just above her knees. The skirt swished softly as she walked, and it brushed his hand as she passed close. He was surprised at the inner stirring it caused, and he struggled visibly to keep his composure.
He took a sip of his tonic water. She was too young anyway, he thought. She hadn’t yet caused enough of God’s children to stray. She would burn, no doubt, but not at his hand.
He picked up his head again and scanned the bar. There were so many to choose from, it was exhilarating. After several minutes of looking, he found the one he wanted—the one God wanted. She was sitting at the bar at the far end of the room, her legs crossed seductively, stirring a drink with the end of her finger. She did it sensually, running the pad of her finger around the edge of the glass, dipping it in occasionally to mix the drink, then lifting her hand to her mouth and dragging her finger over her lips, licking the moisture off with the tip of her tongue. It was a routine—a performance—that was clear, but it was also effective.
He stared at her for a few minutes, watching her practiced tease. She was older than most of the others—into her thirties, he guessed—but stunning in a sophisticated way. It looked as if she’d sat at that bar for an eternity, tempting the weak and destroying God’s work. He hated her instantly.
After several minutes she noticed him staring at her. She looked surprised, embarrassed, and flattered all at the same time. She’d practiced that look in the mirror, too, he was sure. She smiled at him and then looked away for a moment, then returned her gaze and gave him a full smile that lacked any hint of inhibition or reservation. He couldn’t bring himself to smile back at her, but simply nodded his head.
He stayed in his seat for a moment, wondering what the proper protocol was, whether he should cross the bar and approach her. She was the one God wanted, he knew that, but he had trouble bringing himself to initiate contact in public. He was still locked in indecision when she got up and started walking toward his table.
She swung her hips as she walked, and the dress showed off her legs and chest in a provocative way. Several men turned to watch her, but there was no doubt she was staring at him, and it was clear she was coming his way. A lesser man would be excited, he told himself, as he fought off the stirrings of lust, anger, and aggression.
When she reached his table, she sat down opposite him. She didn’t wait for an invitation or an introduction, or even a smile or nod of encouragement. Just sat down as though it was her right to intrude on his evening. Her arrogance made him hate her all the more, and it made him happy for what God had in store for her.
Rejoice over her, O heaven!
Rejoice, saints and apostles and prophets!
God has judged her for the way she has treated you!
The words of the scripture screamed through his head, blazing a trail of white fury. They echoed in his ears and blocked out all sound, leaving him deep in isolation. She was smiling at him now, the whore, smiling as if she expected him to soil himself with her and debase his very essence—and pay willingly for the privilege. She was talking to him, talking as though she had a right to converse with the Lord’s emissary on equal terms. She would pay for her arrogance in accordance with the prophecy.
He still couldn’t hear her, since the screeching in his head was relentless, walling off the rest of the world, but he could understand her nonetheless. The words were simple enough to read on her thick, painted lips. “Hello,” she said, still smiling. “My name’s Eve, what’s yours?”
Slowly, a smile came to his own lips, with the realization that God was with him, guiding his every move. He was tempted to respond with righteousness—
I am the Alpha and the Omega; the First and the Last; the Beginning and End
—but that would have been presumptuous, for he wasn’t the Lord. He was merely a servant of the Lord, and a witness to the prophecy of the apocalypse fulfilled. Suddenly his smile broadened with a new revelation, and the screaming in his head subsided as he returned to his earthly task.
“My name is John,” he replied.
T
HE ODD-LOOKING MAN
was leaving with the hooker, and Stone had a decision to make. The man had done nothing overt to make himself a legitimate suspect, but Stone knew in his gut that something was off about him. He could sense it. The man seemed angry, bitter. There was a violence in the way he carried himself.
Of course, that would never stand up in court. So, for the moment, all Stone could do was allow events to unfold. This, he was beginning to realize, was the worst part of being a police officer. The restraints placed on him by the letter of the law often kept him from preventing a crime he knew was imminent. Every day on patrol, he’d seen the hoodlums standing on corners outside crack houses, their cell phones blaring. There was no doubt that they and their accomplices were loaded down with illegal drugs—drugs that were stealing youth and opportunity from an entire generation. He knew it. They knew it. And yet that knowledge wasn’t enough to authorize action. Instead, the police were forced to wait and see if they could catch one of the dealers in a transaction. It was just as they whispered to you at the police academy: the law knows no common sense.
As the strange man left with his new companion, Stone threw money on the table to cover the evening’s soda waters and headed for the door. He needed to stay far enough behind to avoid detection, but close enough to keep the couple in sight. Maybe he was wasting his time. After all, anyone as awkward as this guy appeared would likely have to pay for sex. But Stone had decided to follow his instincts, and his instincts were telling him to follow them.
Outside he spotted the couple moving down the street and fell in step behind.
Eve.
He smiled at the thought. Was it possible God had realized the depths of that first mistake, when he pulled the rib from Adam’s chest and molded it into temptation? It was Eve who’d forced God to banish mankind from Eden. Perhaps it was Eve who held the key that would allow the righteous back in.
“So, what are you into, John?” She asked the question without shame or remorse, as though she were selling him an automobile rather than her most personal affections. It amazed and angered him and he had trouble hiding his disdain in the look that he gave her.
“Hey, not that it matters, as long as it’s nothing too far out of bounds. I don’t do anything involving animals or food, and I won’t let myself be tied up. Safety issue, you know. After all, we just met.” She smiled at him. “I’ll tie
you
up if you like, though.”
This time, he smiled back. They were getting close to his house, and his anticipation lightened his mood enough to feign kindness. He was growing excited about the things he’d do to her. Not the things she was anticipating, but things far more intimate.
Give her as much torture and grief
as the glory and luxury she gave herself.
“It’s right up here, on the right,” he said, pointing to his house, which was lost in the shadows between the streetlights.
“Nice. I like it out here. It’s quiet,” she said. They were standing on the stoop, and he slid the key into the lock, relishing the fit as the tumblers fell into place. Before he could turn the key and open the door, though, she put her hand on his as if to stop him. He was enraged at her audacity; laying her filthy hands on his sanctified flesh. “You know it’s a hundred dollars, right?”
He actually laughed at that. “Don’t worry. I have more money than you’ll ever need,” he said.
“Ooh, I like the sound of that!” she cooed. “Let’s get started.”
He pushed open the door and stepped back, allowing her to go in. She looked at him one more time, making her final decision. Then she stepped across the threshold.