“I’m Marla,” she lied. “And you are?”
No one answered, all giving each other sly eyes and knowing chuckles, until one on the end finally spoke. “I’ll be whatever you wanna call me.” Laughter.
Handsome moved to her, his chest inches from her face, speaking deliberately. “Call me
Robert.
”
She stared into his eyes. “Hello, Robert.”
He smiled. “Can I fix you a drink?” She nodded. He went to a full bar, shoveled ice into a glass.
One of the sofa guys, square-jawed and burly with slicked hair and a five o’clock shadow, patted the cushion beside him. “Welcome to the party. I’m Clive. Sit down here, let’s get to know each other.” She walked over.
“Nice boots,” someone proclaimed. She offered a smile and plopped down, careful to keep her legs together. “You can flash us, we won’t think less of ya,” one of the cigar guys said. More laughter. They ogled her like vultures. Music played low, but she didn’t see a stereo.
A ham hock of a hand slid over her knee. She turned to see Clive’s eyes on her cleavage. “You work out?” he inquired.
“When I can,” she replied.
He sneered, winking at the guys. “You like leg lifts?”
She looked around, couldn’t believe they’d favor such juvenile come-ons. The collective dopiness was a bit of a let-down. “Mind if I smoke?” she asked, pack already in hand. Clive giggled, but no one else did. She lit up and they all sat, smoking and staring. Robert returned, held a glass in front of her face. She didn’t ask what it was before taking it. He lifted her from the sofa and drew her close. They swayed to the music, her cigarette burning on his left shoulder, drink balancing on his right. He slid his hands over her hips, pulling her skirt up. The others grew sleazier by the second, if that were possible. She looked back, saw Clive unzip. “Let’s talk money,” she suggested, as her panties were fingered aside.
* * * *
Facil downed the last of his coffee and looked for the waitress.
Maybe she took a smoke break.
He eyed his phone, no messages. 10:17pm. Five hours down, probably five or more to go, if recent nights were any indication. He closed his eyes and the moment was suddenly shattered by a gruff yell.
“Everybody on the floor! Get the
fuck
down now!” He spun on his stool and was met by the twin barrels of a sawed-off shotgun in his face.
“Down, motherfucker!”
exclaimed a ski-masked thug. His double covered the entrance behind him, handgun waving, inadvertently stacked with his partner.
Facil couldn’t blame them for being amateurs—they likely had King Kong-sized monkeys on their backs and weren’t counting on resistance. He feigned compliance and lowered to one knee, then smacked the barrels away. The shotgun fired, blasting a hole in the counter that revealed the waitress cowering on the floor. She must’ve seen them coming at the last second and ducked. Screams peppered the room. Another bang, as a slug hit the thug’s chest and lifted him off his feet. Facil tipped his gun an inch to the right and fired twice more, dropping the doorman. Silence. He saw the patrons’ shell-shocked faces and stood up. Both thugs lay dead. He wondered about a refill.
* * * *
The fireplace raged, logs popping like firecrackers, embers dancing like fireflies, as Robert drew his belt tight around Scarla’s neck. He studied the various bite and claw scars on her back, smirking. “You like it rough, huh?”
She tensed as he entered her from behind, her fingers digging into the expensive rug. The others circled her—Clive in nothing but black socks, cigar jutting from his pursed lips, furiously stroking himself, another guy in socks and a button-down, the others in nothing but Rolexes. The thought occurred to her that she was outside the line of duty, but it didn’t matter. She was
turned-on
.
Unacknowledged rape fantasy?
She didn’t know and had no time to ponder. Robert thrusted her violently and Clive clapped like a seal, drooling all over his cigar and ready, she presumed by the condom he’d rolled onto his erection, to go next. That sounded as exciting as salt in an open wound, but she’d committed and was theirs for the night, like it or not. Robert smacked her ass harder and harder, leaving deep red handprints. Her face sank to the rug, hair plastered to her cheek, messy strands fluttering with each exhale. She took it like a trooper. The belt went slack. She lifted her head and turned, coming face-to-face with Clive. He held his cigar in one fist, took up the belt with the other.
“Good doggy,” he offered, and spit in her face. She wiped her eyes as he mounted her, humping mercilessly. Two knees hit the floor in front of her, hands pulling her hair back. “Batter on deck!” someone shouted. Laughter. She closed her eyes, opened her mouth.
* * * *
Silently-flashing red and blue lights. Traffic slowed to a crawl. Fucking ambulance chasers. It was a scene Facil knew well, and it was every bit the pain in the ass that it was from day one, but he was stuck in red tape. Two dozen eyewitnesses and video surveillance saw to it that he wasn’t going anywhere, and since it was unrelated to the
operation
, it was ok to stick around. He leaned against the building, checked his phone. Still nothing. Behind him, they chalk-outlined the thug’s body by the door. Patrons sat around the room, unable to leave.
The waitress emerged, coffee cup in hand. “Here’s your refill,” she meekly offered.
He took it. “Thanks. You okay?”
“Yeah.” She had a lousy poker face. He watched her walk back inside. A flatscreen on the wall caught his eye.
Jaws
was on cable.
How fitting.
Enter homicide detective Dom Turkovich, another twenty-five year veteran of the beat. Facil and Turkovich had been tight, until a secret internal affairs investigation—and a booze-soaked conversation about Turk’s tactics in a bar one night—drove a wedge between them that they’d never fully resolve.
Turkovich strolled to the door, eyed Facil. “Evening, LeTour.”
“You oughta be in bed, Dom.”
“Tell me about it. Prick.” He looked inside, saw the bodies. “Target practice?”
Facil shrugged, took a sip. Turkovich eyed the cup.
“Kinda late for coffee, isn’t it?”
“It’s noon, my time.”
“Good brew?”
“Very.”
He nodded. “Don’t run off. We’ll talk in a minute.”
Facil watched him step over the outlined thug and ask the waitress to pour him a cup. Turkovich always was a piece of work.
* * * *
Scarla stood in front of the bathroom mirror, dragging on a cigarette, staring at herself—nude, sweat-soaked, mascara-streaked cheeks, welts on her back and ass, belt buckle imprint on her throat. She could hear their laughter from down the hall, on the other side of the closed door. She took a deep breath and tried to shake off the feelings that were coursing through her like …
a drug
. She reached into her purse, found the pill bottle. She needed another one, she figured, to get her head straight. She was having difficulty spotting the signs, couldn’t feel the impending doom that preceded a transformation. But she’d felt it in the Lexus and was sure, at the very least, the driver wasn’t what he appeared.
Where did he go?
She popped a tiny white pill, swallowed. The department developed it for her, after testing it for months on the man she loved. Or, more accurately, on prostitutes they
fed
to the man she loved. Something else the news media didn’t know about. She felt the effect rise up the back of her neck and pop in her brain like soft fireworks, sharpening the senses, tightening the reflexes. She was suddenly overcome by deja vu.
The room was all white, lit by glaring fluorescence with no obvious fixtures. The blasting light erased any visible borders, nor was there a door to be seen, creating a feeling of infinite space. It would almost be hard to tell which way was up, if it weren’t for the naked man strapped to a table by his wrists, ankles, and neck. Gravity didn’t lie. He was Landon Caulner, and he’d seen better days. Forty-ish and fit, he was unshaven and obviously drained of spirit. He lay in silence, eyes closed. A seam suddenly cracked in the middle of the wall, opening wider and wider until finally becoming a yawning doorway. Scarla entered. She was somber in a form-fitting white jumpsuit that made her look like a floating head against the background. The door closed behind her. Lannie raised his head as far as the neck strap allowed. She watched him with sad eyes. A man’s voice piped through an earpiece hidden by her hair.
Approach the table.
She moved to the table, struggling to maintain her composure.“Scarla,” Landon rasped. “I’m thirsty. Tell them to bring water. Please.” She rolled her eyes—not at him, but at their indifference to his suffering.
“Can we get some fucking water?” she called. After a moment, the door opened. A masked officer set a clear pitcher on the floor, closed the door fast. She picked it up, held it to Landon’s cracked lips. He gulped greedily as she watched, conflicted in ways she never knew possible. He finished and laid his head back, letting his cells soak back to life. The voice came through her earpiece again.
Disrobe.
She cringed, reaching to her neck and slowly unzipping the suit. Landon watched her. “What’re you doing?” She let the suit fall and stood over him, nude.“Scarla.” She said nothing.
Arouse the subject.
She flinched, climbing onto the table to straddle him. The
subject,
they called him. It was the first time the thought entered her mind that she wanted them dead—all the motherfuckers—and it wouldn’t be the last. She reached down and began stroking Landon, deciding to do the job and get the hell out. He looked away, not wanting it to happen. But it was out of his control, and he knew it. They all knew. It had come to this. Two months strapped in a bright room, slaughtering and cannibalizing hookers who’d been “released” from custody. He was nothing but a lab rat and they’d begun using the woman he loved, putting her in danger for their research. For the endless battery of tests that only occurs when the powersthat-be have no clue what’s going on. Landon didn’t know why it had happened to him anymore than they did, probably never would. Or maybe it would come to him as he lay scattered around a lab in pieces. The last shred of consciousness of a twitching brain stem strapped to a cold hard table under bright white light. Well, if they wanted it, he’d give it to them. He knew Scarla would be alright, she’d survived him before. It was time to leave them something to remember.
Initiate intercourse.
She guided him inside her, hands pressed against his heaving chest. He looked at her with a softness she hadn’t seen in a long time, like the man she’d married. She closed her eyes, deciding to feel him for as long as she could, and if he turned … she’d deal with it when it happened.
Do you feel anything?
She winced, wanting badly to retort, “What does it look like I feel, motherfucker?” She hurled the earpiece across the room and it disappeared into the white, but she heard it bounce and clatter across the floor, coming to rest somewhere under them. The bastards would just have to watch and try to learn something. And just like that, it was over.
For better or worse.
Landon’s whole body ran ice cold, hurting her insides. His muscles tensed, an aftershock rippling under the skin. His right arm shot up, snapping the thick leather wrist strap like it was paper and swiping her hair with clawing fingers. She fell backwards off the table, landed on her head. In the time it took her to pop back up, he’d broken three more restraints, still lying bound by the neck. He reached up and tore the strap apart, springing off the table like a cat, eyes rolled-back, jaws salivating thick ooze, veins bulging blue with arctic blood.
In sickness and in health.
It wasn’t her husband, and she was helpless standing naked in front of him. It was the second time they’d danced that dance, the first being home alone, two months ago. She’d managed to escape and make the call and they drunk-tanked him that night, but the ghastly truth would soon be known—if only to the Chief’s inner-circle.
She stood frozen as Lannie stared at her, his body coiled like an animal ready to pounce. Then suddenly, he grabbed the table as if to steady himself. She barely heard the boots outside the door and the loading of magazines in semi-automatics, as it dawned on her—he’d staved it off just long enough for them to make the save. He white-knuckled the table until the door flew open. Two masked riot officers leveled their weapons on his face and chest, while two others hooked Scarla’s arms and yanked her out the door. She locked eyes with him in that last, wasted instant.
’
Til death do you part.
Gunfire rang out as they hustled her down a long corridor, her feet off the ground. The white wall turned red and a horrible silence took over. That deafening silence. So much worse than any rat-a-tat-tat she’d ever hear.
Scarla checked her phone. A text from Face.
Tied up @ crime scene on 26th.
She put it away, eyed the window. She’d have no trouble getting off the property. She could just ditch the party, call it a night. But she knew she wouldn’t. It was a feeling she’d never had on the job, couldn’t quite put her finger on. Someone banging on the door snapped her out of it.
“Still alive in there, honey?” It was Clive.
“I’m coming,” she responded, tossing her cigarette in the toilet and flushing. She grabbed her purse, opened the door. Clive stood naked, wagging his flaccid cock.
“Already?”
he sneered. She squeezed past him, brushing his furry gut.
“I gotta piss,” he snarled.
She hesitated. “Ok.”
“You want it?”
“No, I don’t go there.”
“Extra fifty for ya.”
She shook her head, stepping away. “No, thanks.”
“Hold on,
hold on,
sexy.” He grabbed her arm. “Stay and watch.”
For a split-second, she was sure she saw his eyes glass over milky white, like a shark.
Or maybe it was a trick of the light.
“I’ll be in the den,” she remarked, pulling away. He slammed the door.