Beyond Nocturne Ch. 02

Sweeping away the hanging blankets, she found a shoebox. Lydia sat it on the bed, almost afraid to open it. On the lid was a Nike logo and written over the top of the logo in permanent black ink was the word "TAXES." Lydia touched the top of the box, her fingertips grazing the cold cardboard suface. She could feel so many echoes and screams of pain from this box, and she knew what was in it before she even opened it.

Lydia took a deep breath, not ready even as she took the lid off.

Inside the box were fifteen to twenty mementos, trophies from Larry's previous kills. Locks of hair, all colors were neatly stacked together in one corner of the box. In three small zip lock bags were several fingers, neatly cut, cured and preserved. They were like pieces of petrified wood. There were wedding rings, necklaces, earrings and a pair of glasses, all sorted and labeled in plastic bags. Tucked inside the bags with the grisly trophies were what looked like corresponding newspaper articles about each woman's disappearance.

Each bag label had a hand written name and date on it; Josephine (12-25-2004), Mary (05-06-2000), Jennifer (02-13-1998) and so on. Lydia choked back tears as she was overwhelmed by the pain of the women all these things had belonged to, their final moments of life washing over her. Underneath the hair, she noticed a small glass box. She moved the locks of hair aside and found it contained a set of eyes. They were beautiful, emerald green and preserved for all time.

"Oh God," she whispered.

Lydia looked away from the box, and left it on the bed, open and exposed. She made sure to leave Maricel's purse there beside it. Better the police not be sure of her whereabouts and suspect a gang rape gone bad than a third party being involved. She would probably be considered dead, but either way, Larry's name and reputation, whatever it might be, would be damned for what he had done. At least the families of these poor women might at last know what happened to them and who did it. To be certain, Lydia paused and wrote with Maricel's own lipstick on the wall above Larry's corpse:

"This man is a murderer, he killed a prostitute tonight as he has many other women. Now he's burning in Hell."

Lydia gathered Maricel up as though she weighed nothing, and flew out the window and into the night sky. Morning would crest soon, and with it the promise of the evening to follow, when Lydia would learn more about her new friend. For the first time, she felt overpowered by hope, that there was a promise of something good coming her way and that loneliness would not hold sway over her forever.

***

In the city morgue, Michael Wolverton looked at his brother's corpse, anger and sadness coursing through his body. Steve looked terrible, his face contorted and in shock. His skin was pale like the belly of a dead fish, his eyes half way shut and glassy. Michael wanted to touch his brother's hand, but could not find the strength to do it. He looked at the crimson wound on his neck, repulsed by the twisted hole that had been gnawed into the flesh. He stared at the empty shell of the man who, when they were kids, would give him Dutch rubs and yet beat the holy hell out of anyone whoever threatened him.

"Goodbye big brother," Michael said as his voice cracked, tears burning his eyes, "I'll find who did this Steve, I promise."

"Detective?" a voice inquired from behind. Dr. Standish waited by the double doors of the sterile room, patiently smiling. Michael composed himself and left his brother behind for the last time.

"Yes, I know" Michael said as he straightened his jacket. His brows furrowed together as he fought back the tidal wave of sadness. He managed a smile, "Time to go, right?"

"I'm afraid so. I am so sorry."

"Call me after the autopsy, the minute you and your people are done," Michael said, feeling his at-work, no-nonsense attitude saving him from a breakdown.

"Of course."

Michael turned the corner to head for the elevator. His hand rested on the butt of his gun, fingers rapidly drumming. Bill Rossetti stood in front of the elevator doors, looking sad and uncertain. Rossetti was a junior detective, and Michael's right hand man. They had been working together for three years, and through all the shit this city had to deal out, Rossetti had stuck by him through thick and thin. He was a portly man, shorter than Michael at 5' 7" and was going bald on top. His thick mustache coupled with his appearance had garnered him the nickname "Franz" after Dennis Franz off "NYPD Blue."

"I'm sorry, Mike," Rossetti offered.

Michael nodded.

"I didn't want to tell you over the phone," Rossetti sighed as they waited for the elevator, "You know?"

"I know," Michael nodded again and squeezed his friends shoulder, "You did right."

The doors opened with a muted musical chime and they stepped in. The elevator car was empty and smelled like it had just been cleaned. Cheesy generic jazz music filtered in through small speakers above them. Rossetti leaned against the wall and put his head back against the cool metal plating. Michael only looked at the floor, hand on his gun and quietly thinking. When the doors closed and the elevator began moving up, Michael looked to his partner.

"I want the fucker who did it," Michael finally said after a long silence.

"I know," Rossetti nodded, "But Hollins has us on a murder that happened this morning downtown."

"My brother lived downtown," Michael said impassively, "Why aren't we on this?"

"I don't know man," Rossetti shrugged, and then said, "But I do know Hollins is going to fry our asses if we go making waves. I know this is going to sound cold, but lets just go to the crime scene we're assigned to and deal with this when we get back. Okay?"

Michael bit his lip.

Rossetti was right. Don't make waves.

"Fuck," Michael shook his head.

***

As Michael and Rossetti made their way to the parking garage, and as Lydia sped towards her home with Maricel in her arms suffering the beginnings of her transformation, Dr. Standish took a scalpel to Steve's chest, preparing to create a Y-incision. The elderly doctor pressed the sharp blade against the dead flesh of muscular chest gently and then began to cut. The skin opened slowly as he made he lengthened the incision. The doctor was so thoroughly concentrating on his task that he didn't notice the corpse dead hand flex and uncurl.

"This won't hurt a bit, sir," Dr. Standish smiled and then was cut off as Steve's hand pistoned out and grabbed the doctor by the neck. In his last moments, Dr. Standish felt his throat pop, crack and give way to the power in the dead man's grip. Steve tossed the doctor aside, sending him crashing into his cart full of implements, scattering them everywhere.

Steve stood tall, naked and angry as a security officer busted the doors open, his gun drawn and cocked. He gasped as he saw Steve, the rage in his blood red eyes contrasted by the blue hue to his skin The officer fired, and only saw a mist of his own blood spray the face of the creature that once been Steve Wolverton. The monstrosity bit into his neck and with both hands, tore his head off with a single violent motion. The ripping sound of flesh, bone and muscle echoed though out the room as blood erupted from the decapitated body.

In a crimson pool gathering on the blue tiled floor, Steve turned his head upward and bellowed with an unholy rage.

...to be continued...