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IF THIS SOUL
by
Disclaimer:
For full disclaimers, please see part 1
Chapter Six
Fever
She was disoriented and partially blinded by the sunlight filtering into the room through the open blinds. She tried to sit up and immediately gasped at the sharp pain the abrupt movement caused in her lower abdomen. With a groan, Kat fell back to the bed weakly. She was hot, unbearably hot. She brought her right hand up, lying the back of it against her clammy forehead and then snatched her hand away, startled by the intensity of the heat there. Her throat was dry and scratchy, and her mind felt hazy.
Crazy images flitted through her mind like a bad acid trip. "God!" she whispered weakly as nausea gripped her. Ignoring the sharp pain this time, she bolted for the edge of the bed and leaned over the side, her head aimed for the small bedside trashcan. "Oh, God." She closed her eyes as the nausea passed and then weakly eased herself back down, to lie on the edge of the bed. Curled into fetal position, Kat hugged her knees to her chest in an attempt to ease the pain. She took a deep ragged breath and re-opened her eyes. They darted nervously around the living room. She felt the beginnings of anxiety and panic as her brain registered confusion. 'How did I ... Oh god!' The cramping in her stomach was intense. She held her breath for a moment and waited for the pain to ease, then slowly relaxed as the cramping eased until it was barely tolerable. "Jesus, what's happening to me? How did I get here?" She tried to focus but the pain kept her mind swirling in a dense fog as she tried to make sense of the haphazard pictures that floated around her brain.
'Kellingher.' She held onto the disturbing images of him. 'Yes, I went back to see him, to talk to him.' She cried out this time and pain stole her breath. "Unh." 'What day...'
She turned her head weakly to gaze at the clock on the nightstand. Her vision blurred for a moment and then came sharply into focus. "Eleven-thirty A.M. What day is this?" Pain allowed only deep, shallow breaths but she was fighting the disorientation and pushing through the fog. 'I went to see Kellingher at 5:30 PM. Sunday. Sunday. Yesterday, was that yesterday?' Her eyes snapped shut. She clutched the bed sheets and muffled a sob as another sharp pain ripped through her. 'How long was I ... How did I ... get home?' "What day is this?"
She forced her eyes open and gazed once more at the clock, her eyes finding the small digital date and day indicators over red digitized numbers. 'Too small to read.' She moaned again but kept her eyes on the clock, looking for the abbreviation day that was lit. 'Second. Second word lit.' "God. It's Monday. I'm late." It wasn't the first episode in which she'd lost time. But still, this particular occasion frightened her. "I must have come straight home and gone to bed," she reasoned to ease the mounting trepidation.
Taking a deep breath, Katerina clenched her teeth and forced herself into an upright position. She remained still, letting nausea and dizziness pass before she attempted to move again. After a moment, she pushed herself up from the bed with her left hand, her right clutching tightly at her lower abdomen. 'Okay. I can do this. I can do this.' She took a step and breathed. 'Take another step. Breathe.' She lost her balance but managed to steady herself. Kat shook her head, fighting off the lightheadedness, and took another calming breath.
She tried to recall her visit with Kellingher, hoping the busy mental work would distract her from the pain. Kat frowned with worry, unable to recollect a single moment in the man's presence and nervously contributed it to the fever she was running.
She was moving more steadily and managed to make it to the bathroom. Kat switched on the light and immediately fell heavily against the sturdy oak door. Shock and revulsion preceded a piercing scream of terror, as her eyes remained riveted to the pile of bloody clothes - her clothes - in the corner of the bathroom, beside an equally bloodied tub. She pushed away from the door, this time unmindful of the pain and stumbled backwards, nearly falling over her own feet. Pressing her hands to her mouth, she muffled another scream.
'Oh God, what have I done, now?'' She glanced around the room in panic, her eyes searching for some kind of answer. There was a brief flash of a candlelit room and hooded figures who stood around her as she drank from a silver cup. Kat whimpered and closed her eyes, stumbling about blindly.
She spun around, reaching out for her bed or anything to steady her as another picture flickered in her mind of a dingy hotel room and herself in bed with a man, a stranger. "No!" she screamed at the next image of herself naked, her body painted in blood. The room began to spin and Kat found herself welcoming the inevitable darkness. "What did I do? Oh, God help me. What did I do?" Pain and fear warred for dominance, but it was the loud banging on her door that drew her attention.
"Damn it, Kat! Open the door. Please!" O'Neill's voice penetrated Kat's hysteria. "Katerina! Please!" Kat heard the rising panic in the ex-cop's voice and she opened her mouth to speak, but found her parched throat cracking under the attempt. "Katerina, please listen to me. I know you're in there. I heard you scream..."
"Please go away!" This time she found the voice to speak out loud.
"Kat, I'm not going anywhere until I've seen that you're okay."
"O'Neill! Please!" She nearly choked on a sob.
"Kat, so help me," O'Neill's voice now bordered on hysteria at the sound of Kat's sob, "I'll kick this goddamned door in if I have to!" Kat backed away, frightened by the desperation in her partner's voice. Eyes wide with fear darted to the open bathroom. She shook her head adamantly, ruling out letting the woman in. She couldn't. 'God, please just make her go away.'
"Kat." O'Neill's voice softened with pleading. "Whatever it is, I just want to help you. Don't shut me out, Kat, please." Kat closed her eyes, her heart aching. The roaring in her head persisted, and the pain in her abdomen was threatening to bring her to her knees.
"Katerina, I have to know that you're okay. You don't have to say anything. But Christ, please let me in." Connor waited anxiously, tears streaking her cheeks. Something was wrong: terribly wrong, and she couldn't leave. She just couldn't walk away. "Oh Jesus, Kat! Please, let me help you." She leaned heavily against the door. "I need to see you."
The door opened abruptly, almost causing the tall woman to stumble in, but she caught herself. Her eyes moved rapidly over the smaller woman carefully. Kat was naked and shivering almost violently. Her flushed skin looked clammy, and Connor knew it would be hot to the touch. Her blonde hair was matted with sweat and clung to her head and the sides of her face. Kat's eyes were almost luminescent green and a strange red glow outlined the pupils. The woman swayed suddenly, and Connor caught her, gently scooping her up, arms under her legs and back.
"Connor. Please help me." Kat's voice was weak and pleading. "I think I've done something terrible." She shuddered and then gasped in pain. Connor clutched the woman against her tightly as she carried her to the Murphy bed. "I think I've hurt someone."
Chapter Seven
The First Front Angel
Mac's red and white broad striped Ford Bronco was a familiar sight on the First Front. The strip was badly run down. But she knew it could get worse; at least the structures weren't condemnable, as were buildings in other sections of the city, such as this. Strip clubs, massage parlors, and adult bookstores lined both sides of the street on the First Front. There were a few businesses of a less seedier nature on the strip: a few discount clothing stores, a grocery mart, a hardware store, and a small coffee shop at the end of one corner.
Most of the middle and upper class of Four Oaks avoided the Front, at least during the day, when they could too easily be identified. Mac smiled and returned waves to the scantily clad prostitutes. Most of them, men and women alike, looked tired, work-weary, and barely awake. They came alive only for the occasional passing car. Business was slim during the day, but at night the place came alive with lonely men and women searching for a quick thrill and a moment of companionship.
Mac was at home here, among the city's undesirables. This was her neighborhood. She'd lived on the Front for most of her life. She cruised the road at a cautious thirty-five miles per hour as her eyes, scanned the area for trouble. It wasn't her beat. She was off duty, but she liked to make her presence known day and night. It made the hookers feel a little safer and gave would-be troublemakers cause to think carefully about starting anything in her territory.
Most of the First Front denizens thought of her as a sort of avenging or dark angel. She had trouble viewing herself as such. She hated seeing men and women selling their bodies for a bit cash or for the next fix, but she wasn't some rosy-eyed dreamer who believed a profession as old as hooking was going to be wiped out. One way or another, the desperate would make money. As long as there were customers for sex, there would be men and women willing to sell it. And Mac believed that those men and women deserved protection, and deserved to feel that somebody gave a damn.
She'd met Heather on the strip. It had been late on a Saturday night; Mac had been making her usual rounds, talking to a few of the girls when her sixth sense (what she had often called the Tingle as a child) had picked up on trouble. She had allowed her intuition to lead her to a dark alleyway between one of the bookstores and a strip club. The john had struck the girl, knocking her to the ground and was about to continue the beating. Mac stopped him. She'd nearly killed him before the girl had placed a gentle hand to her back, and had begged her to stop. "He's not worth it. I'm not worth it." She had spoken in hushed tones.
"Don't ever think you deserve what he was about to do to you." Mac had snarled, frightening the girl. Realizing that she had been scaring the hooker, she had given the unconscious assailant a cursory glance, and then spoke to the girl. "Come on, let's see how badly you're hurt." They'd become friends and shortly after that, occasional lovers. No one gave much thought to it on the Front. Mac was one of their own. They respected her and were grateful for her presence.
She glanced at her watch and noticed she was running only slightly behind. Mac figured she'd be about fifteen minutes late. She knew Connor hated tardiness, but in spite of the importance of this meeting, at times the lure of pissing her ex off was too irresistible. It was petty. She agreed that it was also childish. But she didn't care. She pulled up to a curb and parked. Stepping from the Bronco, she walked around the red and white trimmed vehicle and approached two prostitutes leaning against a store front beneath a sign that read 'Live Nude Girls All the Time.' The two women, both sporting platinum blonde wigs, grinned broadly as she approached. One of the girls gushed playfully and squealed, "How's my Angel?" She moved towards the detective with an exaggerated wiggle. "Umm. Umm. Umm. Damn! You looking fine, Mac!"
"And you look good enough to eat, Dakota." Mac flirted playfully, allowing her eyes to make a slow perusal up and down the unhealthily thin body of the prostitute.
"Girl, you ain't nothing but trouble." The hooker laughed and slapped playfully at the detective's arm.
Mac nodded at her in agreement then looked around curiously. "You seen Precious around?" she asked using Heather's street name. She glanced at Dakota and then looked to the other prostitute, including her in the inquiry. The two hookers exchange a meaningful glance, avoiding Mac's eyes nervously. Mac immediately began to worry, a frown wrinkling her brow. "She's alright isn't she? She hasn't been hurt?"
"Ah. Damn it, Mac." Dakota faced the detective and her dark, brown eyes softened compassionately. "I'm sorry."
"What?" She looked at both women fearfully. The smaller woman, known as Sassy, stepped up to the detective.
"She left for the bus station half an hour ago." She placed a comforting hand on the taller woman's arm. "We told her to at least give you a call or something Mac, but you know Precious." The hooker smiled sympathetically. "She said it would be too hard and she was never good at goodbyes." Mac nodded.
"Thanks, ladies." She offered them a small smile, quickly returned to her Bronco and sped down the Front. Her hands gripped the steering wheel tightly. Somewhere in the back of her mind was a small child's voice. "They always leave." Dad, Mom, Sarah, Connor, and now Heather. She clenched her jaw tightly at the raw pain in her chest. Her eyes began to tingle and she smacked the dashboard angrily. "Damn it! Not now!" The Tingling persisted, alerting her to trouble. She ignored it, throwing the Bronco into fourth gear as she headed towards the bus station.
Mac spotted her immediately, seated by a window and staring out at nothing in particular. There were people scattered about, some leaning against walls, putting distance between themselves and their would-be fellow travelers. Seated in a far corner on a wooden bench chair was a young couple making out. There were a few people standing at the attendant's counter waiting to buy tickets. They glanced at Mac curiously. Mac approached the young woman quietly, stopping when she was standing directly over her. "Heather?" she questioned softly.
"Fuck." The girl whispered and stood. She looked up into Mac's wounded expression then glanced away in shame. "I'm sorry, Mac." She spoke softly. "I just can't do this anymore." She shoved her hands into the pockets of her Levi's.
"Okay." Mac spoke calmly. "You don't have to. You never had to, you know that." Mac looked away, her voice raw with emotion when she spoke. "I told you I'd take care of you, that you didn't have to . . ."
"I know that, Mac. I know that." Heather reached for the detective's hands and squeezed them gently. The curious glances cast in their direction became wide-eyed, open mouth stares
"Then why, Heather?" Mac gestured with a glance to the battered mismatched luggage beside the woman's chair. She looked closely into soft gray eyes, needing to understand why it was so easy for the young woman to … just leave.
"Because I want more. I need more." Heather told her earnestly. "Mac, you're a good person. You've got a wonderful heart," She released one hand, brought her free hand up and placed it over Mac's heart. "You're so beautiful, inside and out. And gentle, and you're the first person in a long time who made me feel like maybe I deserved better than the streets." She smiled sympathetically at the detective's confusion. "But I want more than that, Mac. I want to be loved. I mean really loved and I don't think you can do that."
Mac looked away, defeated. A soft hand caressed her cheek. She took a deep breath and turned back to look down into young woman's face. "Where, where will you go?" Heather's face lit up with such genuine happiness; it chafed the raw ache in Mac's chest.
"I took your advice. I called my mother." Heather released a sigh. "I told her everything, Mac. I told her I'd been surviving as a prostitute all these years. I told her why I ran away, that I was lesbian." Heather's eyes teared. "And you know what she said, Mac?" Mac shook her head, slowly. "She said that none of that mattered. She said that I was still her baby, and she wants me..." her voice broke on a soft sob. "She wants me to come home. She said 'Please Baby, come home'." Heather threw herself into Mac's arms and the detective held her tightly as the young woman wept. "I'm going home, Mac. Please be happy for me." Mac nodded and pulled away slightly, planting a brief kiss on Heather's lips. She looked about the station with a glowering stare, causing their audience to suddenly find the floor tile or wall graffiti very interesting.
"I ... uh. I have to go." Mac told her abruptly. She planted another quick kiss on the woman's forehead and stepped away. Nodding sadly, Heather watched the woman turn to away and whispered a soft "thank you," at the detective's retreating back.
Mac felt numb as she climbed into the Bronco. She sighed heavily, resting her head on the steering wheel. Heather was right; Mac couldn't give her the loving relationship she needed. She was still aching inside over her break up with Connor. Still, she cared deeply for Heather and knowing that the girl had made the right choice didn't lessen the sting of being left again. "Fucked up piece of work I am," Mac muttered with self-deprecation.
Her eyes tingled again and she reached for the cell phone just as it rang and quickly answered it, her head still resting on the wheel. "Macmillan here." Only half listening at first, she suddenly came alert and sat up straight. Her eyes narrowing, she tightly gripped the steering wheel with her free hand. "Are you sure?" she ground out. "Any witnesses?" She stared out the window, barely paying attention to people passing by and chancing a curious glance in her direction. "Yeah. Yeah. Thanks for the call, Captain." She hung up the cell and put it away, a deep frown creasing her forehead. She turned over the engine and pulled out of the parking lot. She would deal with the storm brewing inside of her later. She tapped her emotions down into her mental holding room and drove in the direction of Milford's Maximum Security Facility.
~~~
The Twelve were anxiously waiting for progress on what was becoming an increasingly alarming situation. The servants of their adversary had nearly completed their tasks, and the Twelve were still unsure of the identity of the vessel. So far, the runes had pointed them in the direction of two women, but such high profile women, that killing either would prove risky and would be certain to raise public interest. The Twelve could not afford to act without being sure. When they struck the adversary, it had to be quick, like striking off the serpent's head.
The warehouse that the Twelve had sequestered themselves in appeared abandoned. The windows had been replaced by special metal plating that would be near impossible to penetrate. The same metal had been used in the construction of the heavy doors that enclosed the two entrances and exits. Candles lit the wide spacious inner sanctum of the Twelve's lair.
The elder of the Twelve, Randall Duffy, paced about solemnly, his youthful and beautiful face marred by an angry scowl. The others watched him warily, waiting for the eruption of his volcanic anger. His white-blonde hair fell in soft gentle waves to his shoulders and feathered back around his face, giving the near impression of angel's wings.
He was impressively tall, standing a near 6 foot-seven inches. His muscular body was hidden beneath the dark suit and a white collarless shirt. He'd once been the adversary's beloved. As fair as the adversary was dark, they'd made a splendid picture whenever together. He was seething now. Anger sparked from him in a series of electric currents that bolted outward and struck various objects within the enclosure.
He halted his pacing abruptly. He and the others turned their heads with one accord to the rear entrance. Carl Madison partially opened the doors of the warehouse and then slipped in, quickly closing the door behind him. He was aware of their eyes on his back. Sometimes it unnerved him, the way their minds would suddenly merge and their thoughts would become a single entity of tightly reined control. They were probing his mind, trying to gather whether his mission had been a success or failure. They couldn't read thoughts, not anymore; they'd held human form for too long. But when they focused collectively, they could pick up images. At times, they could exert their will on others and force them to do their bidding.
Madison turned around to face their intense questioning eyes. "Well?" Duffy questioned sharply. Madison looked at the elder, trying to foretell possible reactions to his news.
"Kellingher is dead."
"The information?" Madison shook his head twice. "You fool!" Duffy was upon him seconds, grabbing Madison by the lapels of his jacket. He shook him furiously. "You killed him before we could procure the identity of the Vessel?" Duffy bellowed; his voice shook the scaffoldings that hung above and rattled the doors in their frames. "I've warned you!" Madison looked to the others who stood barely hidden in shadows. None spoke, nor moved. He looked at the face scowling at him in rage. Duffy's eyes were bright red, and Madison saw his death in them.
"No. My Lord, please." Madison squealed. His legs floundering about as his feet desperately searched for solid floor. "He was dead when I got there. I didn't..."
The elder tossed the man away from him, smiling with satisfaction as Madison fell a few feet away from him and slid across the room into the wall. "Who?" He snarled.
"I don't know." Madison climbed weakly to his hands and knees. His body ached from the abuse. Standing shakily to his feet, he met the elder's dark eyes and spoke again. "He was killed sometime yesterday, before I got to him. There were no written records of visitors. No one saw or heard anything."
"Then why did you wait so long to return with the news?" Duffy eyed the servant suspiciously.
"I wanted to return with hopeful news." He cast his eyes downward in abasement. "I'd hope to discover the killer, so I slipped into the security room to view the security cam tapes." Duffy's eyes widened with interest. "The tapes show nothing but blue screen during the times the authorities believe Kellingher's death took place." Madison shoved his hands into the pockets of his suit pants. "The guards are all being thoroughly questioned. None of them seem to remember anything out of the ordinary." He paused for a moment, and then spoke more confidently. "Two of the guards on duty yesterday did not report for work today, and seemed to have disappeared." He smiled, pleased with himself. "I have managed to get copies of their badge ID pictures." He breathed now more evenly. "I've had them enlarged and circulated. Our people are on the hunt."
"Good." The elder rubbed his smooth chin absently. "Come with me." Duffy nodded at Madison brusquely. Madison fell quickly into step with the elder, matching his pace to Randall Duffy's longer strides. "I think it's time we paid the good detective a visit. I've stayed hidden long enough."