Authors: Sezin Koehler
Lily, The Cyclops
T
he nurse was so thoughtful to bring you some fruit. A couple apples and an orange. She says not too much citrus, it’s bad for your perfect teeth. She’s so nice. You don’t mention these aren’t for eating anymore.
You set up the orange in front of you, trying to turn it to stone. No luck. Your half-eaten Jack In The Hat spicy chicken burger sits beside you, its greasy aroma a welcome change from the sterile hospital air.
You stare, and stare. But no matter how hard you try, you cannot find the anger in you that turned that perv at the orphanage to stone. The orange is so pretty in its casing, a helpless piece of fruit. You’ve got nothing against it, even when you pretend, even when you think about what its acids could do to your teeth.
Frustrated, you fling the orange across the room and it splatters against the wall. Now you’ve done it. Add guilt to the emotions that aren’t anger you’re feeling. You get paper towels and clean up the mess. The nurses have been too helpful to trash the room they’ll have to clean.
You crawl back into bed and finish your sandwich, enjoying each spicy bite and the cooling mayo on your tongue. Anything not to think about your mother. The mother you will now never know. Wondering if you can put an end to the father who hurt her. That familiar rage bubbles in you. The remaining apple on the table petrifies into your version of marble. You smile. This is how you become wrath.
11:00 AM The Wreckage
T
he former mansion site of Charles Wallace Crane, not-so-fondly known as Mr. Motel Chain, is different in the light of day. Now that the dust has settled, it looks like an empty plot of land awaiting construction. There’s nothing to remind anyone that not only was there a mega-estate on the premises, there also used to be a Hollywood Hill. The wreckage remains ringed off by crime tape and makeshift memorials. A handful of patrolmen are dispersed along its border to maintain the scene’s integrity. Not that there is much left to maintain. Even the paparazzi have gone elsewhere in search of their next capture, like the riots underway over at the Beverly Center. Grief, shock, sleeplessness, and a lack of answers make for an unstable Molotov cocktail that has since blown up.
Assistant Chief Gabriel Ortiz, early fifties, Cuban-American, a face pockmarked with acne scars but handsome nonetheless, walks along the perimeter, thinking not about the survivors, but about all the lost. Thirty thousand plus lives gone. Just like that. How would this country ever recover from a loss this big?
A black and white pulls up and out steps Special Agent Rosario Quatro, clad in a knock-off designer suit from Ross, sensible black Payless flats, her long curly hair being tossed about by the wind. As she walks toward Ortiz she twists her hair and fashions it into a makeshift bun that hangs loosely at her neck. Ortiz sees she has a harelip scar that was the result of either a deficient surgeon or poor access to medical services when she was born. She wears no make-up to cover it. She wears no make up at all, not even lipstick, and yet Ortiz imagines that men (and women) often turn to stare as she walks by. In one word, the woman is stunning.
“Special Agent Rosario Quatro. You must be Assistant Chief Ortiz.” Quatro still fiddles with her hair.
“Guilty as charged.” He can’t stop himself from an uncustomary flirtatious smile for this
guapa
.
Quatro returns a small smile, grasps his hand, closing her eyes as she does.
“Nice flight?” Ortiz asks, unnerved.
“I fly all the time. The glamour has definitely worn off.”
“I heard you basically live on your plane?”
“You heard correct. I have a house near Langley, but I’m never there.”
“That’s tough.”
Quatro shrugs, “Comes with the territory.” She turns and surveys the ruins. “Fill me in?”
The assistant chief takes a deep breath, wondering where to start. Everything seems like it happened so long ago.
“Just start at the beginning,” Quatro says, her gaze penetrating.
Ortiz nods, unsettled at her intuition. “On October first, tickets go on sale for a ‘rave party’ to be held in the mansion of Hollywood eccentric Charles Wallace Crane. You’ve heard of him?”
Quatro nods.
Ortiz continues. “Unlimited tickets. Vendors were given a number to call when they ran out, more would be delivered.”
“How many were sold?”
“35,486 to be exact.”
Quatro whistles through her teeth. “
Dios mio,
that’s a lotta tickets. How much each?”
“Fifty bucks a pop.”
Quatro whistles again.
“Go on,” she says, visualizing as he speaks.
“At approximately 12:30 AM there is an explosion here,” Ortiz sweeps his hand over the vaporized site, “so huge that it wipes out not only the mansion, but also the hill. Witnesses report seeing a funnel-like shape in the sky, like a tornado, except all the debris was going up instead of coming down.” Ortiz waits for a reaction. He gets none—Quatro maintains a steady gaze.
“1:00 AM and we get a tape delivered to Hollywood PD from a group who call themselves the Bad Vibe Kids claiming responsibility for this act of terrorism. Said the rave scene, whatever the hell that is, was corrupted and they blew up the party quote ‘For their own good.’”
“The press got a hold of it?”
“Sadly, yes. The group leaked it just after.” Ortiz shakes his head. “We got three of them in custody. But one of our detectives went rogue and fucked up an interrogation. He’s suspended. Captain Anderson would’ve been too if he hadn’t keeled over. Heart attack. The chief is out doing the press gauntlet with the mayor. That’s why you got me here. Truth told, I always did prefer work in the field.”
“Shame about the captain. He gonna be okay?”
“He’s stable. Won’t be surprised if he puts in for early retirement. This thing is so huge. Heads will roll at every mistake, intentional or not. Nature of this monster.” Ortiz looks around the site. “Now’s when things get weird. There were four survivors. And we found some body parts. Here. On site.” The wasteland around them punctuates the impossibility, but Quatro does not look surprised. Ortiz finds her stoicism unnerving. “You don’t find that strange?”
“I reserve judgment until I have all the facts, Assistant Chief.”
“Well, one woman was missing a leg. The others were basically unharmed. I mean, not a scratch on them. Just dirt. We also found a dozen or so body parts here on site. And then the body parts started growing. Took a couple hours and we had twelve more survivors. One of them was the DJ from the rave. Ran bloodwork through our database and got a few hits. Some of them are persons of interest in ongoing cases. Three of them appear to not be human.” Ortiz waits for a reaction and again gets nothing.
“Feds deputized two of our best homicide detectives, who’re interviewing them now, starting with the ones we were able to ID. Your boss figured it was best for the sake of continuity. They’re over at Spruce-Musa.”
“Sensible decision. Can you give me a recap of what they’ve reported so far?”
“
Claro
.” Ortiz is surprised that his native Spanish slips out. He clears his throat.
What is it about this woman?
“Of course. Three of the survivors claim to come from a place called the Roswell Institute. Allegedly it’s some top secret government agency that deals with extraterrestrial issues and the manufacture of genetically-modified humans.”
“Super soldiers?”
“That’s what these three survivors claim. Our lab tech got a glimpse of their DNA before it encrypted and confirms the three are not human.”
“Interesting.” Quatro’s heavy bun comes undone and she begins fixing it.
“I’ll say. These so-called aliens claim that Charles Wallace Crane was at the party and tried to kidnap and kill a young girl who was with them. A young girl with only one eye, I might add. A cyclops.” No reaction. He continues. “One that that allegedly can turn people to stone. At least according to the orphanage from where she escaped.” Nothing. Ortiz rushes through the rest.
“The survivors claim that one of the women in their group produced some kind of pink ooze which then devoured Mr. Crane.” He can’t bring himself to say the ooze allegedly came from her vagina. “They returned to the party to find attendees on the floor with blood coming out of their ears. The DJ was manipulating the music to cause strokes or embolisms. Three other girls in their group produced fire and tried to shoot the speakers down. The ooze woman did her ‘thing’ again and it went after the DJ, swallowing him whole. Then BOOM. Lights out.”
“How very bizarre. I’d like to speak with them if I may, and sit in on a few of the interviews.”
“’Course. Shall we go now?”
“Give me a moment. I’ll meet you at the car.” Special Agent Quatro turns from the assistant chief.
Ortiz bristles at the obvious dismissal.
Fucking CIA
. He nods and clears himself from the scene.
Rosario Quatro takes her shoes off and does a lap around the site, Ortiz watches her stopping in different spots where she kneels, putting her hands to the earth.
She closes her eyes.
She lets the ground talk.
Madre mía
, does it have a lot to say.
11:30 AM Spruce-Musa Hospital
R
ed Feather and Günn look over the file of Karma Devi, listed as a person of interest in the death of one Kevin Danville, dead of castration-related sepsis. Günn knocks on Karma’s door, introduces herself and her partner. Enters.
Karma Devi has long dark hair, dark skin to match, and striking eyes the color of milk chocolate. Her hair is in a thick braid resting on her left shoulder like a python and her handshake is formidable. Günn holds back a wince. Karma is watching
Iron Chef
, a sweetbread challenge, but turns it off after the detectives get comfortable.
“You mind if we ask you some questions about the rave last night?” Red Feather asks as Günn turns on the video recorder.
“You can ask, but I’m afraid I don’t remember anything. It’s unsettling to have this hole in my memory.” Karma strokes her long sheath of plaited hair, Cleopatra holding court.
“What about before the rave? Any holes there?” Red Feather flashes a pointed look.
“I’m not sure. I don’t think so. Why?” She fingers the end of her braid.
Red Feather hands her a photograph of a man, clean-cut frat-boy type, blonde, broad white smile. Red Feather can read in her eyes that she recognizes him.
“Do you know this man?”
“Dunno. He looks like a lot of American guys, you know?” She tries to hand the photo back.
Günn smells burning flesh, a singed scent. She gives Red Feather the signal that Karma Devi is lying.
“Take your time, Ms. Devi.” Red Feather urges the photo back to her.
Karma sighs and stares at the photo. She remembers him all right. He’d been particularly delicious, probably because he attacked her first. A satisfying meal indeed.
“Well, maybe. I might have met someone who looks like him, couple weeks before Halloween I think. Is his name Kevin something or other?” Karma pretends to study the photo some more. “Oh man, now that I’m thinking about it, I totally remember this dude. Danville. Kevin Danville. I met him at a bar in Hollywood. And he was cute, seemed harmless. So yeah, I went home with him. Turned out to be a piece of shit asshole.” Karma fakes sheepishness. “Excuse me. Sorry. I swear like a sailor.”
“No problem. So you went home with him?” Red Feather says.
“Yeah, and he slipped something in my drink. I could smell it, chemical-like, so I refused to drink it. Then he attacked me. I kicked him in the nuts and got the hell out of there. Called a cab, went home, tried to forget about it. Had until you put his face in my hands.”
The look in his eyes after I injected him with morphine. So shocked. The smell of his blood when I made the first incision in his testicles. His teeny tiny little penis, so sad to be alone.
Karma tosses the photo back at the detectives, feigning disgust. The cooking flesh odor makes Günn want to hurl.
“Did you report the attempted assault to the police?”
“Are you fucking kidding? Why the hell would I? They would have looked at me and said ‘You went back to his place?’ and, ‘My, that’s a tight top,’ and they’d say I asked for it and regretted it, blah blah bullshit bullshit. They’d have done nothing and I would have felt like
I
did something. When I didn’t.” Karma wears righteousness well.
“That’s not necessarily true,” Red Feather says. Even Günn scoffs.
We’ve already had this discussion with alien girl Chamelia.
“Come back to Earth, Detective. It’s something like one in five women are raped but only ten percent of them actually report it. And usually those are the stranger rape cases, not date rape, or domestic rape. Women pay for their own therapy. They kill themselves. They live with the emotional and physical scars because they don’t want to be put on trial. Secondary victimization. Look it up.”
“Have you ever been raped, Ms. Devi?”
“Hell-motherfucking-no.” Karma’s lie sounds convincing, but Günn smells otherwise. “I’ve got a black belt. Jiu jitsu. This was the first time a man ever got close to forcing me. But most of my friends have been raped. The only one who went to the police got reamed because the dude was her fucking boyfriend. Even though he broke her face, the police were not on her side since apparently being in a relationship with someone means a woman’s his property. Pricks. She had to get plastic surgery and you can still see the scars. So no, Detective, I did not go to the police after I was assaulted.”
“You’d think you’d remember the one man who ever got close to assaulting you.” Red Feather raises an eyebrow and throws some side-eye.
“Meaning what?” Karma’s eyes are mean slits. Günn sees this is a dangerous woman hiding under a beautiful mask.
“When I showed you the photo, you said you didn’t recognize him. I would think that the one man who ever assaulted you would be a vivid memory.”
Karma laughs, a cruel sound. “You are too fucking used to dealing with victims.”
“I don’t get your point.”
“Of course not. You think women live in fear and one bad thing happens and so we spend the rest of our lives dwelling on that shit. Maybe some do that, but I don’t. I got out of his apartment. Got a good kick in for my trouble. Put it behind me. That’s the long and the short of it. So why you asking me all these questions about him anyway.”
“He was murdered. Died of blood poisoning after someone removed his testicles.”
Karma’s mouth twitches upward in a suppressed smile.
“Someone cut off his balls? Wow. I guess I wasn’t the only one he tried to roofie, huh? And this concerns me because…?”
“Your DNA and fingerprints were found at his apartment.”
“I already told you I was there. And?”
Red Feather and Günn both know she is lying, Günn from the smell of burnt flesh and Red Feather from Karma’s pleasure in hearing about Danville’s death. But the evidence is purely circumstantial. Günn’s hunches don’t hold up in court, and neither do Red Feather’s suspicions, accurate though they may be. According to the file, Danville’s apartment was alight with his own semen and bloodstains belonging to multiple donors. The only reason Karma was identified at all was because of her Crane Massacre survivor status. They’re gonna have to let this one go.
“Thank you for your time and sharing what happened to you. If you should think of anything else about Kevin Danville or if memories about the rave return please call us right away.” Red Feather hands her his business card. Karma takes it and nods.
“Sure thing, Detectives. Sorry I couldn’t be more help.” She pauses. “Hey, when are we gonna get released from these digs? I’d sell a kidney for a chicken curry about now.”
“I’m not sure yet, but we’ll be sure and keep you posted. The nurses have been taking food orders all day so I’ll send them in.” Red Feather forces a smile, hating to leave when he knows she’s guilty. Günn has to give Karma props for true grit.
Karma looks Detective Red Feather up and down, wondering what he would taste like as he screams. But he doesn’t fit the code: He’s been mostly polite.
Red Feather feels chills up his spine catching her gaze. Her hungry look is far from sexual.