Of all my abilities, mind reading has proven to be the most useful. I have to admit that without it, I probably would have gotten killed or destroyed a long time ago.
Reading people’s thoughts is like reading a secret letter or breaking into somebody’s e-mail account. You have all the information, but you need to know whom the information is coming from and for whom it is intended; otherwise, you will end with up with useless random knowledge.
The vigilante was a tormented soul filled with hate and regret. There was something about him—better said, in him. At first, I didn’t know what to make of it. I picked the scent that very first night back in Orlando. There was something odd about it, something not quite human.
His name was Maximillian Hunter. Born and raised in Virginia, he was an all-American in every sense of the word. He was not tall, and neither was he too big. But he was smart, strong, and willing; and that by itself is enough in my book. He didn’t have relatives or friends. He was, just like me, alone in this life.
I saw fragments of a lonely childhood. Apparently, Hunter’s parents were not together when he was growing up. He had fond memories of friends and athletic activities, especially football and hunting. He didn’t do well in school—not because he was slow but because he was stubborn and that would serve him well later in his military years. He got used to loneliness, but he never meant to become a loner.
I was taken aback by his memories. I have always been fascinated by my ability to learn about other people’s lives. In this case, I was aware of the soldier, but seeing the lonely child and then the insecure young boy he became gave me a clear image of the man who was sleeping a few steps from me.
Hunter decided to enlist right after college. He had always wanted to be a navy SEAL, but he chose the Marine Corps instead at the last moment. It seemed that his hunger for action turned out to be detrimental in the end. He might have had a chance to be a fine executive; after all, he had a BA in foreign policies. Instead, as a marine, he was groomed to be an auto-soldier. But there was a problem: His brain was not wired like that. The military got very enthusiastic with him. He had every qualification they were after. He was young, idealistic, and, more importantly, he was alone. His father had died by the time he turned sixteen, and his mother, shortly before he graduated from college. He had no siblings or close friends. By all accounts, if the military was looking for suitable subjects to be part of their special ops, Hunter was one of those who should have been taken into consideration.
He had served in Iraq back in 1991, proving his courage by taking charge of his unit after their captain was gunned down by a sniper. Then came Somalia. There he got a taste for genocide carried out by a cleansing party sent to wipe out an entire village. He acted as he always had, motivated by the desire to protect the weak; instead, he found himself gunning down children dressed as soldiers sent to do the killing.
That was when he started to get detached from human emotions, when the real nightmare started.
Right after 9/11, Hunter, now a captain, was recruited as part of an obscure elite force called CYKOS. These men were going to be the subject of an experiment involving a new, enhanced cocktail of steroids and chemicals aimed to improve their mental skills and physique. Over 500 men were selected, all of them with the same profile: proven soldiers, young and alone in this world. By the end of the program, only 117 remained. By the year 2003, only 25 were left; and out of all of them, Hunter was the one who didn’t exhibit any of the side effects of the chemical cocktail. Apparently, the super soldiers had a tendency to turn into psychopaths. By the time the program was shut down, the last 12 healthy CYKOS spent much of their time decommissioning the others who had gone mad. The use of the enhancing cocktail was then suspended for messing up the physical and mental balance of the subjects, accelerating dementia in most cases, and causing chronic depression and suicidal tendencies in the lucky few.
The Pentagon ordered the complete destruction of all records, including those of the program’s participants.
Hunter was kept on a tight leash and under the influence of the cocktail. He was then ordered to hunt down the remaining members of his unit, but he couldn’t do it. He had joined the CYKO program under the impression that the participants were going to be the models for the soldier of the future. The program was designed to be the perfect marriage of technology and military supremacy.
They were supposed to exist to end all wars, not to kill each other.
Like I said before, Hunter was an exceptional soldier; but unlike the “perfect” soldier, he had the most dreaded quality a soldier could have—he had an opinion. He had recurrent nightmares about the war. He had been in three tours, two of them back-to-back ones in Iraq. He had killed men, women, and children in the name of America, democracy, and freedom.
In this present world, after 9/11, he had more reasons to hate the government than the Arabs did. He was part of an evil game set by the chain of command and backed up by Washington. He loved his country, but he rebelled when he found out that the order was to take out Saddam and kindly disregard intel reports of Bin Laden’s location in the Pakistani border. For that, he walked away, leaving everything behind. He was ordered to hunt down his own men, his brothers, the ones he never had; and he said no.
The gods of war unleashed their dogs on him, and he had to taint his hands with blood again; so he escaped into his own private war, and to me.
Hunter risked turning into a real psycho due to the lack of drugs but something unexpected happened. His body began to produce the substance by itself. Now by all accounts, he had become the CYKO the military had always hoped for.
He was faster and stronger than most men; and with his expertise, he was a true lethal weapon.
I was intrigued when I found out not only what he was planning but also his motivation. I guess that I took him on as my pet project. He was in his midthirties, white, athletic, and not too good-looking, which served him well, as he could ease his way into places without standing out; and that’s something any killer would appreciate. You could tell by his posture that he was a man who wouldn’t back down from anything or anyone.
He had been taking pictures of and following a group of Russian mobsters all over town; apparently, the Cubans no longer ruled the underworld in Miami. The Russians were going to meet up with a group of Dominicans to discuss some bad blood between them. No pun intended.
I had witnessed how Hunter was the architect for the entire scheme, setting everything up for an ambush. I admit feeling jealous as I watched him operate. His plan was diabolical, and it bothered me that it was not my idea. It was simple, really. The same game. He set them up to a meeting in a specific place. Once there, he would cause havoc. With a little luck, they would take each other out while he watched. Taken from the pages of Sun Tzu, no doubt; and as the ancient Asian general would have said, “There’s no such thing as luck.”
Now a traitor, a fugitive, and a criminal, he had to declare war on others. But why?
Many nights I contemplated the possibility of turning him. What a great vampire he would have made!
But this night was the night I had been waiting for, for the last couples of weeks. Tonight Hunter was on.
I opened my eyes at 5:15 p.m. and waited for the end of the twilight, watching the news. Flying too early would put me on the spot. Then the stories would spread of a mysterious flying object over the Miami skyline, but I had no choice because, to my despair, my vigilante had set the time of the meeting for 6:00 p.m. The fact that this was March and nighttime would arrive perhaps ten minutes before 6:00 p.m. worked in my favor, but still, I would have only about ten minutes before the show. I knew my thirst would be unbearable and I would be eager for a kill after having invested so much energy covering such a long distance in such a short time. But that was fine with me, because tonight, Hunter and I would get acquainted; so I thought it was only right that he had a chance to see what a real killer can do.
*******
It was past 8:00 p.m. when I got back to the apartment. I had to hurry to go meet up with Lucy at the museum. She had finally finished her collection, and I had helped her get an opening for an exhibit.
It was a success. She sold one of her paintings, The Southern Pearl, for over $200,000 to an anonymous buyer.
Not bad for her first time.
Tonight we got to celebrate that success. I had other reasons to celebrate: My trip to the beach and my encounter with Hunter were exactly as I expected.
I arrived at the empty lot near the beach shortly after 6:00 p.m., and they were at it. I kept my distance for a few moments, watching the mobsters kill each other. Hunter, however, had a surprise coming. A girl, from out of nowhere, decided just then to make a sudden stop at the exact moment and right in the spot where the meeting was going to take place.
Hunter didn’t disappoint me. I saw him set the mobsters up before considering the life of the girl. I had to intervene; otherwise, my chance would have been spoiled by the police. I took eleven of them. Hunter took three. I made sure he saw me. I even called him vigilante to his face. He didn’t try to attack me or run away. Again, I felt his odd, alien scent, as well as his fear and his anger. Before he could react, and without containing myself, I took the girl. Not the frenzy from all the killing or from all the blood, or the fact that I was satisfied could have stopped me from taking her, in a fluid movement, shooting up to the heavens, leaving my vigilante behind.
*******
Moments later, after I got rid of my victim, I had another episode. Once again, I felt weak; and again, I heard the damn voice. By then, this had been happening more frequently, almost every night, and the voice had grown stronger. I couldn’t hide my annoyance; but whatever it might be, it wouldn’t show itself.
I still considered the possibility that it might be Kamille or Amorgos trying to communicate with me, but why like this?
Why was it that neither invoked me with the voice of silence?
Why was it that they didn’t just use the phone?
I had all these questions, but no explanation; and I knew I needed a third opinion.
I landed in the backyard of Frank’s house. The smell of flowers and his scent were all over the yard—a repulsive combination.
I saw a dim light inside and decided to invite myself in.
Chapter 53
The God and the Monster
March 7, 2005, 6:45 p.m.
Miami
It happened right after I took the girl, the same girl whom my vigilante tried unsuccessfully to save.
I was flying over the sea, falling in love with the night all over again when “the voice” talked to me; but this time, the message was different, very familiar and personal. It made me suspend my body in midair for a moment, so I could digest it. It called me in a way that I hadn’t heard in more than a lifetime, a way that only the few who knew me well used to do; but they were long gone now, dead, all of them.
I kept looking, waiting, but then it kept its silence.
I was not imagining things. I knew what I heard was true. That voice, no longer a whisper, clearly called me “the thief of all thieves.”
In my disappointment, I ended up at an empty highway bridge near the sea. Feeling dizzy and mad, I screamed for the voice to show itself but got no reply. Finally, I had had enough.
I need to see the old man, I said to myself.
It had been years since we last saw each other, not because of lack of time—if there’s something I have, it’s time—but for lack of interest. I don’t like the old man. I can’t quite say what it is about him that I can’t tolerate, there are so many awful things; but I guess it’s because I believe he’s a monster of the worst kind. The kind who never realizes that he is a monster.
I had stopped for over a decade in the West Coast, visiting. I thought he had died, until a couple of years back when I picked up his scent. Somehow, he had followed me to Florida, and even bought a property in Miami-Dade County.
There’s almost an obvious unwritten rule about those we choose to turn. They need to have certain qualities; experiences; and, above all else, the stamina and courage for immortality.
The old man didn’t want to admit it, but I knew he was seeking the opportunity to become immortal. Our “friendship” has always been one-sided. He always waits for my call, and I would seek him out only as a last resort. That’s fine with him, but it bothers me. I will admit that beyond all the things we have disagreed on throughout the decades, he has proven himself by assisting me on more than one occasion. Still, I can’t forget the things he has done. There are minds that I should never get inside, because the dark secrets they keep are too horrible, even for someone like me.
I will also never forget that he once saved my life. I don’t owe him anything. We are not friends. We are two dark forces that use each other from time to time. At that moment, though, I needed him. I needed his uncanny skills as a spirit master, or as people nowadays call his kind, a necromancer.
I found him in the semidarkness of his living room. How appropriate, I thought. He almost had a heart attack when I emerged from the shadows of his modest living space. Beethoven was playing, Sonate Für Klavier und Violine N.3 Es-Dur Op.12, the melody was king inside the room. For all his flaws, the old man has exquisite taste when it comes down to the arts.