The Recipient (6 page)

Casey met his eyes. His perception was impeccable. “Am I that transparent?”

“Well, I knew it from the minute the boys downstairs gave me the heads-up that you were here. But there's no harm in listening to a friend's problems before making a guess.”

Laughing softly and bitterly, Casey took a swig from her bottle.

“Scott, it's driving me fucking crazy,” she blurted. “It's only been a week and already I'm going looney-tunes. This whole taking a holiday thing is…it's…I can't rest! I'm no good at this. I need to work!”

Her reaction caught Scott off guard, more so for the fact that she had referred to him by his first name than the revelation of her state of mind.

“I thought you were gonna tick off up the coast for a while,” he said. “Get yourself out of the city and breathe for a bit. Lord knows you need it.”

Casey tried to loosen the tension gathered between her temples.

“You sound like my father,” she observed dejectedly.

Scott chuckled and drew his finger through his goatee. “How is Peter?”

Casey shrugged. “He's good.
Fatherly
as per usual. Not that I need any more of that.”

Scott pursed his lips and whistled through them with an exaggerated expression of mock hurt, to which Casey could only laugh at. He considered her dilemma for a long moment.

“Look…what sort of work are you after?” he asked. “Are we talking above board or, perhaps, something a little more spicy? Bearing in mind that I thought you were playing the straight arrow these days.”

“I have no idea,” Casey ventured, shrugging her shoulders. “
Anything
that will keep me from going nuts. Who's active right now?”

“I'm not gonna lie, a lot of it is strictly black hat work,” Scott admitted. “Not the sort of work I would've thought you'd be comfortable with. Most of your tier are pretty well set.”

The thought of venturing into illegal territory to secure work right now did not appeal to her. Especially given the question marks that were increasingly being attached to her. Though she could probably handle herself, the assurances she had given to her father niggled at her conscience.

“You're sure there's no one who could use a hand? The Coops? Maynard? Steev? What about Pink? He's always in the shit with his programming and coding.”

Scott chuckled and tilted his head, considering his thoughts. “Look, there maybe one or two possibles that could subcontract. Leave it with me. I'll check in with the Bastardos and see if there's something we can get you.”

A brief quiet settled over them and Casey noticed that Scott was shifting uncomfortably in his seat.

Scott scratched his cheek, then gestured hesitantly at her chest. “How's—ahh—things there?”

Casey looked down and tousled the fabric of her shirt. When she looked back up at him, she wore a sarcastic expression.

“Are you still trying to cop a look at my tits?” she challenged before laughing at him.

Scott flushed pink and cowered behind his beer bottle. “I'll take that as an ‘everything is okay' kinda explanation,” he commented.

Casey reached across the table and squeezed his big, meaty hand. “Just get me some work, Sasquatch,” she pleaded gently. “I know you've had my back since uni. You're one of a very small group of people that I can count on and I know I come to you a lot but I promise, I'll make it up to you.”

___

A loud rapping on the warehouse door woke Casey from her sleep. She flinched where she lay and screwed her face up at the sound before opening one eye and checking the clock on her bedside. It was the following day. And it was nearly 1PM.

Groaning, she shut her eyes against the bright glare of the sunshine streaming through her window.

A further salvo of loud rapping peppered the door, reverberating in Casey's ears.

“I'm coming!” she called out gruffly, scrambling drunkenly from under the covers. She searched for a T-shirt and shorts to pull on over her naked form.

A third volley of knocking caused Casey to squint incredulously at the door.

“I'm coming!
Jesus
!”

Padding barefoot across the floor, Casey rubbed the sleep from her eyes as she went up to the door and peeked through the peephole.

She recognised the woman standing on the other side.

“Dammit!” she hissed.

Hesitating before the door, she eventually flipped the lock and grabbed the handle. Sliding the rumbling door aside, Casey revealed the woman standing there, one arm leaning against the door frame while her other hand remained raised, ready to knock again.

Dressed in a grey pantsuit, her raven hair pulled into a bun, the woman wore a dripping smile as Casey levelled a glare at her.

“What do you want, Prishna?”

Casey's eyes dropped down to the woman's waist; she saw the gold of the detective's badge glint in the sunlight from the window behind her.

“Nothing special,” Detective Sergeant Prishna Argawaal replied. “Just thought I'd drop by and see what you were up to.”

“I'm sleeping,” Casey shot back, standing against the door, her arms folded.

Prishna took her hand off the door frame and inspected her watch. “At 1PM? Wow, things must be good in your line of work.”

Casey rolled her eyes. “Moderately good. But you can't expect me to rely solely on the work you guys send my way.”

“Hmm,” Prishna's eyes narrowed slightly. “I'll grant you, our budget doesn't stretch far to remunerate you more generously. I see you've been making some influential friends in the corporate sector. They speak highly of your skill set.”

Casey stared at Prishna.

Checking up on me again.

“
Others
are delivering similar praise,” Prishna continued.

Casey clenched her teeth. She didn't respond.

“I've been working hard too, Casey, and making some friends in interesting places. You'll recall our talks in the past about this mystery hacker called Octagon.”

“Cracker,” Casey hissed, correcting Prishna. She hated it when people who should know better referred to the common misnomer that was applied to her kind.

Prishna laughed haughtily. “My mistake. I really should know better, shouldn't I. Well, the
cracker
—Octagon—has apparently been active in the underground again.”

Casey nodded curtly. “Interesting.”

“And we've managed to secure some fragments of the work,” Prishna continued. “I've been showing it around and the consensus seems to be that the programming language is rather shall we say…
unique
. No one seems able to interpret it, however your name keeps coming up as someone who might.”

“You want me to look at it?” Casey asked.

Prishna shrugged.

“Possibly. There is something curious about it, though. I've been doing a little comparison study of my own.”

Here it comes.

“The programming language appears to have many of the characteristics of your own.”

Casey retracted her head. A sardonic smile lifted her lips. “Look, Prishna, I'll ask you once more: what do you want?”

“I'm just thinking out loud, I suppose. I like you, Casey, and I know that you've been one of our finest assets. You have helped us solve more cases this year than we have at any other time in Cyber-Crime's history. But…I'm not convinced that you're completely untainted.”

Prishna stepped forward into the doorway until she was very close to Casey's face. “I think you and this Octagon have more in common than anyone is willing to admit,” she whispered menacingly. “You might have the favour of the Commissioner right now but I'm going to see about changing that. You will slip up and when you do, I will be there. Your parents won't be able to help you.” In an action that she knew would antagonise Casey, Prishna reached out with a slender finger and ran it down the centre of Casey's T-shirt, right over the scar that lay underneath.

“You leave my parents alone,” Casey snarled, slapping Prishna's hand away.

Prishna smiled as she turned on her heel. “I'll be in touch.”

“I mean it, Prishna!” Casey shouted after her, unwilling to step through the doorway. “Leave them alone!”

Prishna was already gone.

Retreating back into the warehouse, Casey closed the door and held onto the handle, frozen where she stood as she tried to process what had just happened.

With a sudden snarl, she banged her fist against the door.

CHAPTER 6.

I
t begins with utter blackness and silence.

A cocoon that envelops everything and reveals nothing.

But it does not last.

A low, rhythmic thump becomes audible, rising in volume. A beating heart. It exudes comfort and security.

Soft white light coalesces, bending and separating, forming distinct shards that pierce the blackness, spreading out across colourless clouds, absorbing light and transmitting hues of blue.

The awareness of herself emerges from the sound of the beating heart. She is comfortable and safe. She allows herself to exist.

Her awareness expands to include her body. She moves her arms and legs. She floats, unrestrained by gravity. She does not know where she is but she is completely free. It is invigorating.

She stretches her arms wide, spreading her fingers as far as she can. She uncurls her legs, extending them out before her; stretches her toes and lets herself go. Soft tendrils of light caress her naked skin, the tips of her fingers, the soles of her feet. She feels a tactile warmth and pleasure that gently tickles her and she laughs silently. Her hair crackles. Her skin prickles.

It is a pleasure unlike anything she has felt before.

Where is she?

It is not water. She can breathe comfortably here. But it is neither air nor space. There is density to her movements as she twists her body around, tumbling and turning gracefully in this cloudscape.

Is she even alive?

Blinking at the cloudscape, she watches as one of those billowing forms shifts, sending out a long, finger-like projection that approaches her, seemingly sentient and aware. It spirals inquisitively around her body.

She extends her hand towards the fluffy blue mass.

A crackle of electricity flickers from her fingertip and dances across the billowing form and it recoils sharply, retreating as though startled.

The colours in the clouds shift abruptly. Black tendrils stream from her finger and quickly slither across the mass, consuming light and colour. She blinks again, this time in alarm. Dark tendrils expand greedily across her field of view, heralding this new malevolent presence.

Hues of yellow and orange seep from the mass where they coalesce and bind themselves to the cloud forms, darkening and transforming into deep and thickening reds.

It is happening.

Her body is grasped by a force unseen. It brings her into an upright position, then she feels herself descending.

The heart beats faster, louder.

Her naked skin twitches and shivers. Biting cold replaces the serene warmth. Clothing coalesces over her body: harsh denim that scratches her skin. A starched cotton singlet that quickly becomes sopping. The wet clothing clings to her cold skin, and looking up, she realises it is raining.

Her bare feet touch a hard surface and she looks down, seeing bitumen all around her. She is standing on a road, a lonely outback road in some desolate wasteland that is unfamiliar. She looks around her, searching for a landmark, something familiar that will identify her surroundings. Another disembodied flash lights up the sky nearby and thunder rumbles through the thickening clouds. In that moment, she sees a road sign—not on the road before her, but in her mind's eye. The lightning reflects off it so brightly, the lettering is too difficult to interpret. Squinting in the fading light, she tries to see.

‘Laster…' is all she can make out before darkness swallows the image.

Searching around her, she tries to find the sign as it exists in her immediate environment. But it is nowhere to be seen.

Eruptions of light flash from within the cloud mass above. Rain falls harder, denser. It splashes against her skin and runs sticky and viscous, like honey.

Dread seeps into her.

The thunder rumbles towards her again, carrying with it a deep, guttural moan that vibrates through her. Her breath quickens. For the first time, she is compelled to move.

She turns, stretches her legs, tries to run. But gravity bears down, making movements incredibly heavy.

A flash of light erupts and in the moment of disorientation that follows, she witnesses something: a scene from her mind plays out in front of her.

A lone figure, shrouded in shadow, stands there—an evil presence. Unnaturally tall, masculine but unidentifiable in the dissipating flash.

The low moan gains in volume and pitch. It is filled with torment and pain.

FLASH!

The shrouded figure steps forward and slaps her with an outstretched hand. She crashes heavily to the road, opening wounds in her shoulder and legs. She cries out, but it is a silent cry. She tries to get to her feet but slips on the slick bitumen that streams with the falling rain.

The figure pounces, pinning her body to the road. She feels her hands being lifted above her head in the grip of the stranger who remains shrouded in darkness. Again, she cries out in pain as her hands are shoved against the road.

The figure sits back on its heels. With its free hand, it reaches out and hovers over them both for a moment. Then, balling it into a fist, the figure smashes it down, striking her chest with all the force it can muster.

FLASH!

She screams as pain blossoms through her entire body.

The thunder and the moan meld into what is clearly a female voice. It cries out in terror. Is it her own voice?

The hands disappear into the cavity in her chest. Her fractured mind is curious, despite her terror. She struggles against the grip of the figure. The bitumen tears at her skin as she flails impotently. The hands of the figure squelch about inside her. The moans grow more shrill now. They are wails. They are screams.

The viscous rain turns a deep, ruby red and she tastes the metallic flavour of blood. She lifts her head skywards. The sky is bleeding.

The screams become unbearable and then she realises that it is she who is screaming.

The hand retracts from her chest and hovers above it. The assailant leans forward to show her the contents within. A disembodied cackle rips through the air, swallowing the horrified screams. Rivulets of crimson course down over a masculine jaw.

She is consumed by terror. Drenched in blood, too paralysed to move.

Then, suddenly, she is free.

She is now standing a few feet away from the figure, yet it is still straddling someone underneath.

She looks at her hands, staring at them. She cannot understand. She wants to turn and run but the figure
's silent magnetism holds her in thrall. The figure turns its face towards her, but the darkness shrouds its features.

The figure beckons with what is held in its hands.

She leans forward to see.

It is a heart. A beating and bloody heart, crawling with maggots so numerous that she can hear them squelching over the muscular tissue. A black slick oozes from the severed arteries and veins that feed into the disembodied organ and drips over the hands that hold it.

Lightning flashes and in that instant, she becomes aware of the presence beneath him.

That presence is moving on the ground between her and the figure, struggling to free itself—as she had struggled just moments before.

She tilts her head, confused.

Her eyes drift down.

A face, contorted in anguish, disfigured by ragged slashes, thrusts itself towards her and howls in terror.

The face of a woman.

“HELP ME!”

___

Casey erupted from the nightmare and thrust the blankets from her as she scrambled back into a sitting position, punching at the air with her fists. She screamed into the darkness as she fought against disorientation and fear. Her breaths came in ragged gasps and her pulse was racing. Suddenly, nausea gripped her and she whipped her hand up to her mouth just in time to catch the bolus of vomit that shot forth, which then sprayed onto her singlet.

The last vestiges of the nightmare dissipated and Casey realised that she was in her own bedroom in the apartment and safe. She was free from the grip of the horrible dream—yet another horrible dream.

Feeling pins and needles prickle her hands and fingers, she fought to slow her breathing and she blinked into the darkness, afraid to close her eyes again in case the nightmare returned. Slowly, steadily, she prevailed. She brought her ragged breaths to heel. She began to think again.

Flipping on her bedside lamp, Casey cast a cursory glance down, spying the mucous vomit that now clung to her singlet. She scowled in disgust.

“Fuck.”

Gingerly lifting her arms, she prepared to extricate herself from the offending garment when she froze and looked across the tousled blankets she had thrown off just moments before. There were blood stains all over them.

The nausea threatened again as Casey looked about herself in desperation, searching for the source of the bleeding.

Scrambling from the bed, she went through into the bathroom and peeled off her top, tossing it aside as she flicked the light switch and approached the mirror.

A series of angry welts criss-crossed over her sternum and oozed blood, despite most of it having congealed and dried.

Casey gasped, lifting her hands up and inspecting her fingers, her nails. There was blood on them, caked and dried around her fingertips and underneath. There were ragged tags of skin as well, her own skin.

Gazing into the mirror at her own reflection, fingers of horror crept up her spine as full realisation dawned.

Slowly, Casey reached out to the tap and turned it, filling the basin with cold water. Taking a flannel from a rail she dipped it into the stream of water then touched it to her chest, wincing as she wiped away the caked blood. Then she began to shake involuntarily and felt her head begin to spin. Trying to concentrate, Casey dipped the flannel into the basin. Ribbons of blood billowed out in the water as Casey lifted the material and continued to clean. The shaking did not stop.

She leaned over the basin cradling her head in her forearms as she battled to calm herself.

She plunged her face into the cold water until her entire head was submerged.

In the ice cold, with her eyes squeezed shut, Casey saw incoherent flashes. Holding her breath, she allowed them to assail her all at once. Then, suddenly, an image from her nightmare emerged.

A face. A young woman's face.

As quickly as she'd plunged her head into the basin, Casey yanked her head up and blinked as rivulets of water streamed down her face. The image hit her like a blow to the gut. Her emotions froze. Her mind stopped.

A single question remained.

Who was that?