"You sick fuck," Crater said with the knife against his throat.
Bob looked away as bile rose in his throat. His gray beard was long and he had seen many atrocities in his life, but for the first time, he had seen more than he could bear.
For the first time, he stood face-to-face with the man who had eluded him for too long.
Jim Traverse was tall and thin, his arms wiry, his face a marble, unblemished mask of features that didn't animate when he spoke. A swath of black hair was combed neatly to the side, and with his cold, blank eyes, he stared right back at Bob.
"Like I said," Traverse began anew, "I've already called the police. We only have three or four minutes, at best."
"I talked to these people," Crater eked out a tremulous sob while Traverse held him.. "Those kids were little… I saw them smile! Shit! Shit!"
"Look at them," Traverse nodded at the display. "The perfect little family. I'm an artist, Bob. I hope you like my work. It took me all day to get it just right. Homicide is a craft that must be perfected over time. It's no laughing matter. The masterpiece, of course, would be the complete murder of the entire species at my hands. Why don’t you have a seat at the table here, so I can share my vision with you?"
"I don't give a shit about your vision," Bob refused to look into the living room again. He hated needless bloodshed. He always differentiated between combat and murder. He had always wondered, since he had started following Traverse's bloody trail, if he was doomed to end up like the madman when the contracts stopped coming in.
"All the same, I'm going to talk," Traverse insisted while Crater attempted to wrangle free.
Bob spat on the kitchen floor.
"Kill him," Crater said. "Just kill this piece of shit. I don't care what happens. Just kill him."
"You're so angry now," Traverse said flatly, "but what about all the poems I composed with the edge of a blade? Did you enjoy them, or did they anger you? You kept following, so you must have enjoyed my handiwork."
Traverse removed the knife from Crater's throat and pushed the man aside. Crater instantly drew his Beretta and pointed it at the maniac's chest.
"It's really quite easy to get a hold of the nuclear stockpile and blow everything up," Traverse put his hands in the air to placate Crater. "The internet, the command controls, the computers… nothing is sacred, anymore. The entire system is right there for the taking. But that's not what I want. One of the gates to the inferno has opened, gentlemen. Yes. You know what I'm talking about. A gate to Hell! I've seen it. It's a paradise of pain. The screams are forever. I've been looking for the gate, and I've found it, here, in Detroit."
"You shut the fuck up, just shut the fuck up," Crater blubbered.
"I think not," Traverse insisted. "Our government is not naïve. They know about the gate. In fact, they know it's here. They don't know how to open it, but they want to try. They're the ones who've built a new asylum right here in the city, called Eloise Fields. I'm going there. They're going to lock me up and do a battery of tests. I'll be committed, and they'll call me insane."
"You're a joke," Bob said. "You got spooked in Egypt. If you could hear yourself talk, you'd be pretty amazed at the bullshit."
Traverse smirked. "I'm not insane. I'm an artist. I believe in the beauty of torment. Without suffering, there could be no cathedrals, no literature, and no music. Death is a celebration of life, and it should be just as wondrous. I recommend that while carving up human flesh, you should consider listening to classical music. Soothes the nerves. I know it sounds rather cliché, but truly…"
"Shut up!" Crater shouted. "Shut your damn mouth!"
"The Nazis knew about the gates," Traverse continued. "In the beginning, I thought Charles Manson might know something, but he's just a hack. The first gate, once it opens, is really quite interesting. The dead… well… the dead…"
Thunder and lightning shook the house, and the blast was accompanied by a thousand flashing red and blue lights outside.
"Play time's over, jackass," Crater said.
Traverse smiled awkwardly, his lips splitting over rows of pristine teeth that were perfectly arranged in their rows. "For you, maybe, but not for me. I'm a very patient man. As patient as the dead."
"The first gate," Bob said, "Finish your damn sentence."
"You're interested? Great! Like I said, it's in Detroit, and when it opens, the dead will…"
"Jim Traverse!" said a voice through a megaphone outside. "We have the house completely surrounded. Please come out slowly with your hands up! Do not harm the hostages!"
Traverse chuckled. "They must have misheard me. I told them over the phone that I butchered the entire family. I would like some credit for my work, at least."
A bright white light pierced through the veil of madness within the house, and Bob inhaled deeply, tasting the blood of innocents on his lips. He wished that he hadn't found Traverse. Regret was hardly something he mused over, but now, all he could think about was that his life had changed forever. He felt old and overmatched, beaten by a force he could never understand. He couldn't hear the voices outside; he was frozen in front of Traverse, and he watched Crater's lips move while he denounced the killer for all his atrocious crimes.
He heard Traverse mock them, "How does it feel now that you've finally caught me? Was it everything you thought it would be?"
Crater continued to shout, and Bob lowered the Beretta as light flooded the house.
"The end of the world will be beautiful," Traverse whispered.
Ever since that night, Bob had nightmares.
DESMOND
Stars sprinkled across the summer evening sky reminded Desmond how much time passed since he began his day at the office, and how little time he had to enjoy an evening with his beloved, Bella, in Windsor. He couldn't wait to see her; if he was lucky, Bella might become his second wife. Bumper-to-bumper traffic on the bridge to Canada did little to damage his sense of relief—a long, bizarre week was coming to an end.
He was too tired to be frustrated by the odd jam on the Ambassador Bridge. He was impatient, but lacked the will to poke his head out the window or turn on the radio for a traffic update. Coltrane's saxophone poured through the speakers controlled by his satellite radio, and the music soothed him. He loosened the collar on his shirt and thought about texting Bella to tell her he was going to be late, but he was too lazy.
He always wanted this life. His law career was blossoming, and he spent his hours away from the office entrenched in long phone calls that often drained the battery to its last sliver of life. There were nights, like tonight, where he looked at the phone as a device that had cursed him, an artifact from a society that once tried to bury him in the rot and dust of poverty. He was a busy man, and when he was in college, he used to think success looked like the speed-walking businessman with a headset attached to his ear; an important man was always on the phone.
Desmond should have turned down his latest client, but it presented a unique challenge for him. He already suffered a setback, and he was waiting on the phone to buzz once again with good news. He'd entrusted an important piece of evidence to a reputable psychologist yesterday morning, and he hadn't heard back from him yet.
The pain from a lingering headache refused to fade from behind his eyes. All day, he was nagged by the feeling that he made a critical mistake by agreeing to take on the client. He needed a breakthrough case that could help launch his career into the stratosphere; he needed notoriety, and even if it was a losing cause, he needed to earn the respect of his peers by taking on the more challenging fights.
While the traffic ahead of him refused to move, he tried to let Coltrane calm him. He picked up his phone and obsessively checked for another text message or a missed call that hadn't come.
All day, he regretted not watching the video on the flash drive himself. He trusted the psychologist, but too much time had passed. The video had never been released to the public before, and it apparently provided incontrovertible proof that the cannibalistic porn star recorded herself eating another man. The porn maven, who was suing the state because they shut down his studio, was out to prove that he had nothing to do with the murder, and he didn't know the woman was unstable.
The small-time, independent porn maestro was a former homicide detective. The first time he met the man, Desmond could understand why the man had been kicked off the force. Desmond did a bit of research on Patrick Griggs, and discovered that his wife divorced him not because he spent long hours in search of killers, but because he was addicted to pornography.
Desmond felt dirty thinking about the meeting with Griggs.
Middle-aged with salt-and-pepper hair that had thinned on the top but had grown long and curly in the back, Griggs looked like a man who was used to driving through Michigan's pot-holed streets and watching shitty Detroit Lions football games on sleepy Sunday afternoons. He wore a brown sport jacket over a gray shirt, and a cheap pair of Kmart jeans that squeezed his potbelly over his beltline.
"You don't exactly have a waiting list for your services, buddy." Griggs pointed out.
Desmond hadn't wanted to seem desperate, but he needed to be in court for something,
anything,
and a cannibalistic psycho-porn star might be just what he needed to jumpstart his firm.
"The state has an injunction on the movies that star this Mina woman, because…" Desmond shuffled his papers and pretended to skim over them, although he already knew exactly what he needed to say.
Griggs stopped him. "I know it's fucking rocket science. Maybe a bit over your head, but hey, you're an educated man, right? You can figure this one out. Mina's movies are being pirated all over the damn web after what she did, and I can't see a cent of that action. Just because she happens to like human flesh with her caviar, doesn't mean I should be penalized for it. The state owes me, and if you can't squeeze 'em, then I'll find someone else who will. I'm suing them for damages, because people are out there profiting off her movies while I'm not allowed to sell them."
Desmond leaned back in his chair and crossed his left leg over his right thigh. "You're telling me this video that you have was never admitted as evidence in court? They already declared her insane… she's in Eloise Fields, now. I don't understand what your angle is."
"I've never seen the video myself," Griggs smirked. "That woman… I think about her. I remember her. She recorded herself, because she was afraid to hurt me. We were in love, you know."
"How did the police miss the video?"
"Pocketed the camera's memory card," Griggs said. "I was the one who called it in. I had her arrested, and I did all the right things. They didn't search me."
"You withheld evidence," Desmond pursed his lips.
Griggs clenched his fists while his face reddened. "She was declared unfit to stand trial for the wrong reasons, and I'm the one paying the price! She told me that in the video, she explained the nightmares that caused her to eat people. I can't sell her videos because they said she's a psychotic cannibal, but it was all beyond her control, and mine! They're studying her nightmares at Eloise Fields!"
"And it's in the video?"
"Yup."
"You’ve never watched it yourself?"
Griggs stood. "You'll file the paperwork and you'll get us a court date. I'm losing more money every day because of copyright infringement, only I can't do a damn thing because they stripped me of ownership. Mina… she was a good performer. You might even like her videos, yourself."
After Griggs left, the flash drive with the video sat on the edge of the desk, daring Desmond to pop it into his computer and watch it. Instead, he called the only psychologist he knew who owed him a favor.
Desmond couldn't imagine himself watching a video of a woman killing and eating a living person, but he was the one who decided to take on the case. He should have watched it, first. Now, he waited for the doctor to return his phone calls; he needed to know that the video was still secure.
He'd sent his secretary out to the doctor's home in the wealthy Grosse Pointe suburb just outside of Detroit, but that was hours ago. Why didn't she call him back yet? Did she finally give up on him? She was more than generous enough to forgive him for not paying her last week, and she was all he had left.
This afternoon, there had been news reports of a gruesome murder in Grosse Pointe. Maybe Elaine was stuck there? Desmond cursed himself for not trying to learn more. He was anxious to go home, and upset with himself for taking on the lawsuit.
With his hand on his brow and his elbow on the armrest, he sighed when his cell phone vibrated.
It was Bella.
He picked up the phone and immediately told her, "I'm stuck in bridge traffic. Be home as soon as I can."
"Stay on the phone," Bella quickly demanded.
He sighed again. "Look, it was a long-ass day. This case I took is too wild, even for me. It's been wearing me down, and this traffic isn't helping. I'm just tired and I really want to be with you."
"You mean the porn director? You agreed to take it?"
"Sure. He's got a case. Can't believe the guy used to be a homicide detective. And the girl he was involved with…well, anyway, I hope to be home soon."
"I called because I'm worried about you."
"Well, I'm fine. Everything's fine."
Her voice became hysterical. "Are you even watching the news?"
"Um, well… I'm driving…"
"Turn on the damn radio! Something! There's a riot in Detroit. I can't tell what's happening. The web is going crazy with live videos. I'm just glad you're okay. The bridge is actually safe because you're not downtown—"
"Slow down, babe. I'm here, and I'm okay. I don't know what's going on. Why are you watching the news?"
"I know, I know. They skipped all the murders and political stuff and went right to the riot. They still did sports and weather, but no cats stranded in trees."
Desmond laughed. "You know me too well. You can't trust the news. If there's a riot, the Guard will put it down. Anyway, look, I'll be home soon."
"Listen to you. If the world were ending, you would find something positive about it. I called because I'm worried about you."
She was starting to try to his patience. "Like I said, I'll be home soon…"
"There's nothing? I mean, you don't know if anything's happening?"
"I don't know! I'm stuck in traffic!"
"Oh my God, the president is coming on—"
The phone signal dropped. He tried to redial because he knew she thought he hung up on her.
He still didn't have a signal. He shut it off completely. It was just like Bella to overreact to a news broadcast; it was an endearing quality of hers to worry about him constantly.
Desmond needed to relax. Listen to Coltrane and drown out the day. Wait for traffic to finally start moving past whatever catastrophe stalled movement into Windsor.
His entire Cadillac shook and the thundering helicopter which flew overhead drowned out his thoughts. A large spotlight skimmed the roofs of cars ahead of him.
Desmond's survival instincts kicked into gear. Unlike his younger brother, he managed to survive the madness of their crack-headed single mother. He had fought tooth and nail to pass the Bar exam and become one of Michigan's most promising young, African American lawyers, because he was a survivor. He relied on this instinct in the courtroom as a public defender, because the odds were always stacked against him. Nothing ever came easy for him.
Now, his instinct told him something was wrong. His arms suddenly felt stiff and the collar of his shirt stuck to his warm neck. He turned down Coltrane and pushed the button to lower the window, while icy air from the vent between his steering wheel and door cooled his neck.
In the back seat of the Sebring parked in front of him, two boys were distracted by something on their laps, likely handheld video games. A woman in the driver's seat frantically dialed put her cell phone up to her ear and checked its signal repeatedly. She wanted to protect her boys, and Desmond knew it would have been
him,
and not his mother, that would have had to help protect his family if he and his brother had been just like those two boys. It was something he could never forget, because this impulse to survive and struggle defined him.
The helicopter thundered away, and Desmond couldn’t see it against the star-mapped sky.
A woman's sudden shriek distracted him from his search. His neck stiffened.
His right hand gripped the steering wheel tightly, and a single line of sweat trickled along the side of his jaw.
Another scream echoed along the corridor of stalled cars, and a chorus of horns drowned out the distant helicopter.
Still no signal on the phone. What the hell was going on? Coltrane lacked the power to calm his nerves. He decided to turn on a news station, but before he could reach for the buttons, his attention was diverted.
A thin man walked tiredly between the cars, dragging his feet against the concrete while a Detroit Tigers snapback hat with its bill unbent obscured his face, as his head his head hung limply between his shoulders. Both hands hung at his sides, though the fingers were twisted and haphazardly positioned.
The man stopped beside the Sebring, and in the backseat, the pair of young heads were turned toward him. The woman in the driver's seat scrambled to the back to shield her kids from whatever horror she beheld.
A concert filled Desmond's head all at once: the helicopter, the car horns, and the screaming woman confused his aching head. While the strange man turned and slapped at the car window weakly, he could see a mess of blood on the man's left side.
Desmond opened his car door and stepped onto the bridge, and felt himself awash in the light and noise.
He squinted and reminded himself to breathe. Hundreds of people stepped out of their cars all at once—women with children and teenagers looking for a fun time in Windsor, where the drinking age was nineteen. All of them steered clear of the odd man with the twisted hands, who beat upon the Sebring with more diligence.
In the rear seats, the boys stared at the attacker.
A woman and two boys. He had to do something. He was never good at standing by and watching shit hit the fan. Desmond had been the caretaker of his family, though he failed to protect his younger brother, Jerome, who'd succumbed to the same demons as their mother.
"Hey!" Desmond shouted. "Asshole!"
The man slowly turned to Desmond, and his grip on reality finally slipped away.
The wound on the man's left side was a gaping hole in his flesh, and the exposed bones of his rib cage protruded out of the shredded shirt. His entire body teetered off-balance while turning toward Desmond, and he leaned forward as if he were on the verge of collapsing from exhaustion.