The Immortal Harvest (12 page)

Baxter stood staring at the bloodied corpse shaking his head; he spoke in a quiet voice.

“I want the forensics on this as soon as it’s processed. There has to be enough DNA evidence to get this prick.”

“Samples have already been sent to the lab. I’ll get a copy of the report out to you as soon as we know anything. That’s best I can do Derek.”

Baxter left the scene of the carnage as soon as he could. His stomach churned from his repeated efforts to suppress his urge to vomit.

He felt like his body had been drained of blood and knew that he had to sit down before he did the unthinkable and pass out in front of his team.

He sat on the bottom flight of stairs and pulled off the gloves as he waited until the two agents had finished their assessments.

He stopped them before they could speak and motioned them to follow him outside. With great stoicism he stood and walked briskly past the agents and waited for them out on the foot path near their van.

“Well, what new information can you give me on this?”

He watched as the newest member of his team Agent Alicia Cambridge pulled out her note pad from the pocket of her jacket. She looked nervous and she spoke quickly to cover her anxiety.

“We have determined that the victims knew their assailant.”

Baxter briefly raised an eyebrow but quickly let it fall. He wanted to appear nonplussed.

“Really and how did you arrive at this conclusion?”

The young agent paused and looked at her partner for a rescue. He seemed to understand the signal and continued.

“Well boss, after we surveyed the scene we noticed a couple of things. First of all, the door had not been forced that meant that the victims had let the assailant into their home and…”

“That probably meant that the ‘unsub’ had a good cover story. He could have pretended to be a salesman or a Jehovah’s Witness,” Baxter said interjecting his hypothesis.

He noticed the young agents as they looked at one another and flushed slightly.

“Come on guys, what else have you got?”

“Well we weren’t able to get any forensics boss. If we had access to some DNA or fingerprint trace we could get you something more definitive.” Thompson said defensively.

Baxter shook his head and turned and moved towards his car. He leant in through the window of his car and pulled out a report. He walked back and handed it to Thompson.

“Lucky for you two we’ll get all the forensics we need in a couple of days. In the meantime I want you two to get over to George Washington General and find out what you can about Sylvan Peters.

Apparently she was a patient who has mysteriously vanished.

If you read that report you’ll soon realise how imperative it is that we find her. I’m sick of all these dead ends. I want results! Find her!”

As he sped off down Kennedy Street, Baxter tried to wash the gruesome images from his mind.

He had a gut feeling that Cambridge was right; the victims did know the ‘unsub’ and he would put money on it that he was the same guy who had assassinated the Senator.

A single thought burned through his brain.

If this ‘Stringer’ prick has a twin brother we need to find him before he kills again!

“Stringer, where the fuck have you been? You’ve been sloppy,”
the voice on the phone was metallic and inhuman.

Stringer was distracted as he listened to the voice. He was busy scrubbing the blood off his hunting knife and arms.

He cradled the phone in the crook of his neck.

He said nothing whilst he finished his task and had dried his hands and the blade on a filthy tattered piece of towelling. He threw down the towel, shoved the blade into its sheaf and angrily grasped the phone.

“What the fuck are you talking about? The job went off perfectly. The senator’s dead. His brains were splattered half way across the fucking city.”

His hand shook as he spoke, he needed another neural infuser. He grasped the bottle of whisky and took a long gulp. It would have to do. He waited for the response to be patched through several gateways. The anti tracing mechanism was necessary.

“You were seen.”

Stringer took another swig from the bottle and then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He paused as he studied his nails. Remnants of blood lined the edges of his nails. He clenched his fist and shouted into the phone.

“Again Mother fucker, what the fuck are you talking about? I made sure that the room was unoccupied; the shithole that I set myself up in was practically fucking falling down around my ears. There was no one else there.”

He slammed the phone and the bottle down beside the sink and started scrubbing the blood from around his fingernails.

He could hear the clicks and beeps as his burst passed through the scrubbers. He waited for them to stop and then put the phone back into the crook of his neck as the signal changed and the response was passed back through to him.

“There have been too many mistakes. You have gone off mission. I have decided to freqlock you.

Stringer froze as the gravity of the punishment sunk in.

“Look, ok, I’m sorry alright. Just don’t freqlock me.”

He held his breath whilst he awaited the reply. The sinking feeling began when he heard the chilling reply.

“It’s too late – it’s done.”

He said nothing as he stared at the phone receiver. He absentmindedly rubbed the now dormant TDI on the back of his neck. The voice broke through again.

“From now on I will use your neural interface to contact you. If you want to be unlocked you will have to clean up your mess.

Turn on the TV and check out the news. . . you need to fix this!”

Stringer felt an upsurge of anger and betrayal.

“Look Motherfu…” Stringer stopped when he realised that the phone had gone dead.

He slammed it down onto the sink, picked up the bottle and took another long swig. He could feel the warmth and numbing effects of the booze as it seeped into his bloodstream. He staggered slightly as he made his way from the bathroom to his Television.

He grabbed the remote and channel surfed until he found a news channel. He slumped down onto his couch and trampled the coffee table with his feet.

He pumped up the volume when he saw the headline on the screen. The newsreader possessed the typical no nonsense visage as he presented the top story of the day.

“The main story today concerns the death of Senator Trent Baker who was gunned down several days ago.

So far the FBI has been unable to find any leads in this brutal slaying of one of this city’s finest philanthropists.

However, we have just received breaking news from one of our investigative journalists Trudy Davis, who hopefully will shed some light on this case.

Trudy – are you there?”

The image on the TV changed to show the image of the petite reporter standing in front of the ubiquitous statue of the tribute to the Marines in Iwo Jima. She had a sullen look as she spoke.

“Thanks Jim, I have just spoken to a representative of the Child Protective Services, Ms Ellen James. She has confirmed that she has enlisted the assistance of the FBI in tracking down the whereabouts of a young boy who is believed to have been the only eyewitness to the Senator’s assassination.”

“That’s interesting Trudy – can you tell us anything more about the boy, like where he’s from, what’s his name, his last known whereabouts?”

“Jim, all I’ve been able to determine is that the boy’s name is Justen Peters, he’s only six years old and that his Mother, Sylvan, is also missing.

She disappeared from the George Washington General Hospital after talking to Ms James. I have been led to believe that there is an amber alert in force and that an FBI team are investigating this as we speak.

Back to you Jim.”

“Thanks Trudy. That was Trudy Davis our investigative journalist live from Quantico.

Now in other news the Washington Police are currently investigating the brutal murder of an elderly married couple…”

Stringer powered off the television and took another swig of the bottle. He downed the last of the whisky and threw the bottle at the wall. The bottle exploded on impact, sending a shower of glass shards and whiskey droplets across the room.

He slowly pulled the hunting knife out of its sheaf and stared at the blade that gleamed under the harsh light of the living room.

As he stared, he thought back to his surprise visit on his doppelganger parents.

He thought of their reaction to having seen their long dead son return from the grave.

He smiled when he remembered their look of joy turning to one of terror when he finally exacted his revenge. He revelled in the sheer thrill of finally making them pay.

However, he did harbor a slight feeling of remorse. He was angry that he had been sloppy. In his haste to exact revenge, he had not been properly prepared.

He had not taken his briefcase which contained the necessary equipment to clean up. He had left behind too much evidence.

I should have vaporised the whole fucking neighbourhood,
he thought as he thrust the knife back into its sheaf.

He knew that he could no longer make the same mistake again. He needed his TDI to be restored so that he could leave this fucked up world and get back to his own life.

He knew his time was limited before his molecular structure completely synchronised to this Universe. If that happened there would be no going back.

Stuck forever in this shithole!

He slowly shook his head. He had been enjoying his drunken stupor, unfortunately he realised he had work to do. Now he had to find the boy and clean up the loose ends and then shut down the FBI snoopers.

He stood and pulled a bottle of blue pills from his pocket and placed one of the pills under his tongue.

As the pill dissolved he could feel the fuzziness and warmth of the booze begin to retract from his synapses.

After ten minutes he was completely sober.

The only side effect of the pill was that it caused an instant throbbing headache that meant that he was reluctant to call up his neural search protocols, so he decided to go ‘old school’.

He picked up the well worn voluminous telephone book from the coffee table and started flicking through the pages.

Having found the section starting with P, he started methodically scanning through each name. He frowned when he saw that there were literally hundreds of
S Peters
.

He picked up the book and threw it across the room, scattering several torn pages that hung in the air and fluttered to the floor to join the cheese encrusted pizza boxes and other extraneous items of filth that formed a pile in the centre of the room.

Stringer clenched and unclenched his fists; he paused as he thought of an alternate solution.

He realised he had to get smarter.

He picked the book back up and looked up the address of the George Washington General Hospital. He found the page, tore it out of the book and stuffed it into his pocket.

Rubbing his throbbing temple, he strode into his bedroom and opened a black leather briefcase. He placed the sheaved knife in the case and pushed aside the fake passports, the wads of cash, assorted rounds of ammunition and microelectronic devices.

He pulled out a sleek silver pistol and ammunition clip. He swiftly clicked the clip into place and shoved the pistol inside the back of his pants and pulled his shirt tail over it to conceal its presence. He then picked up a small black device that looked like a standard USB computer memory stick and another slim silver stick which he kept in his hand. He put the USB stick in his pocket and then closed the briefcase.

“Oh yeah I’ve got Just one last thing to take care of”, he mumbled to himself as he turned to leave the room.

He flicked a small cap off the top of the slim silver stick that contained a micro antimatter explosive and tossed it onto the pile of rubbish.

He slammed the door behind him and hurried down the stairs of the apartment and leapt into his Camaro which he had parked on the street.

As he drove away he glanced in his rear view mirror.

He smiled when he saw the massive explosion erupt and engulf the entire apartment block. Seconds later the explosion reversed and the entire complex disappeared, leaving only a smouldering vacant block.

Someone has to start cleaning up this dump of a world;
he thought as he slammed the car in gear and drove towards the hospital leaving a trail of blue smoke from his squealing tyres.

He smiled to himself as he felt the anticipation of another kill and the prospect of tying up this loose end.

He was a professional; he did not like loose ends.

Susan Smythe struggled to contain her revulsion as she watched the human pig engulf his burger. She struggled to ignore the fat greasy fingers, the rivulets of spittle cascading across the grease slickened jowls.

The man’s a fat disgusting piece of shit
, she thought as she slowly sipped her cafe latte. Squatting opposite to her was her temporary business partner, Albert Dacquiri.

She eagerly waited for the day that she could dispense with this piece of human trash. However, at the moment she needed him. The idea filled her with revulsion.

Dacquiri may have been the scum of the Earth, but he had all of the necessary connections. He was part property developer, part drug trafficker, money launderer and knew his way around loop holes. She had no allusions that the man was anything but a complete arsehole.

My god, no wonder this Earth is in such a mess
, she thought as she placed her cup down and leant on her elbows, interlocking her fingers together.

She leant her chin on the top of her fingers as she patiently waited for Dacquiri to finish his lunch. Patience was one virtue she had accrued within her two century lifespan.

Realising that it would be awhile before the beast was satisfied, she sat back and reached down to retrieve her handbag.