Forgive Me, Father, I Am Sin: A Testament from the Vampire Bible

Ervin

~ CHAPTER 1 ~

Let Me Please Introduce Myself

Ivy crawled predatorily along the red brick walls of Claiborne University. The school was most renowned for Cranston Hall Dormitory. Half a century ago, the night before the pouring of the building’s foundation, an inebriated tramp wandered haplessly onto the site, then toppled end over end down into the pour frame. He was rumored to have regained consciousness upon the slapping of the heavy stone-filled cement that rose around him, but his sobered cries for help fell upon ears deafened by drills and hammers. Later, when the base had dried and work on the structure was well underway, the acting foreman happened upon a protruding hand whose fingers were curled in a final death throe, signifying the horrific demise of being buried alive. But to remove said body would mean tearing down the foundation, putting the project even further behind schedule, the canceling of contracts and advance reimbursement. Bankruptcy and bounced checks. Joblessness. The few that knew agreed to let sleeping dogs (namely dead ones) lie. A unanimous though reluctant decision was reached to draw straws as to who would be charged with the gruesome task of amputating the problem and disposing of the evidence.

To this very day, right around the month of October, the undead prisoner whose disgruntled spirit refused to rest would claw slowly on the walls of its tomb with its only hand.

Horseshit, maintenance would say, but the scratching could be heard. It was undeniable. Newly arrived freshmen were told the tale by seniors with flashlights beneath their chins. Share the story, but don’t confess the sound’s true origin. The noise within the north wall was a dangling telephone wire bobbing within the cinderblock wall, motivated by fall winds.

But the story was true.

According to archives of the time, a local town drunkard by the name of Terrance Falters had gone missing round about the start of the building’s inception. To quell the rumors once and for all, engineers dug down into the depths of Cranston Hall to remove said wire. Gutting the entire foundation, they found no body as they expected, but ominously no wire, either. Unbeknownst to many, they did find scratches along the wall’s interior that closely resembled ones made by human fingernails; marks that appeared to have been made over decades of time. They could find no cause, and the building was mended and the truth buried once more.

But still . . .

To this very day . . .

During the month of Samhain . . .

The scratching.

The discontent moans of Terrance Falters.

With a dresser moved to that wall and a crank of the radio dial, life moved on at Cranston Hall. There were more pressing matters to attend to, like curtailing surprise acne and attending classes with girls who were now women; though labeled men, they still felt like boys.

All but one.

Along the neatly arranged cobblestone path, another feeble attempt at an Ivy League impression, one student walked in the late afternoon, determined but torn.

Theodore to his father, who he tolerated for footing the bill.

Teddy to his mother, though he had protested otherwise his entire life.

Ted as he preferred.

Ted-ster by his annoying, overweight dorm master, who had been the lowest on the totem pole back in the day, and was now king of the roost at Cranston Hall Dormitory.

The place of another tragedy, only this one had occurred thirty days prior.

The memory of said event bore down on Ted and was far heavier than the red backpack slung over his shoulder that carried business calculus and tort law college texts.

The majority of students that whizzed by in their own worlds didn’t notice Ted, and he not they; however, on occasion, he would become familiar to one or two passersby.

Hey, is that . . . ? or Isn’t that the guy . . . ?

Few remembered Ted’s name, only his mug from the local news or the school paper. But at the very least, anyone that did not live under a rock had heard about what had happened.

That tragedy was what occupied his thoughts. His feelings were raveled in guilt over moral and legal obligations: a promise to a friend; a consolation to parents; recommendations from a counselor; orders from an attorney. None of them would condone what he was about to do now. Ted approached Martin Brice Lecture Hall, the psychological studies building, and began the arduous climb up the steps to the main entrance. His pace lessened, each foot becoming heavier than the last.

But what possibilities might lie atop?

Peace of mind?

Normalcy?

Such nostalgic dilemmas as whether to study or to videogame, how long would that condom stay in my wallet, and was the blonde in Business Management hopeful I would approach or fearful I was a perv were the worries he once had and would give anything to have again.

Reaching the entry, Ted was startled by rattling glass and steel as one student came running haphazardly out the double doors, chased by two others. Ted made use of the anti-slam mechanism, stepping through. Maybe the open door and the calming cool air that raced past him to escape was a sign that he was doing the right thing. The transition from light to dark widened his retinas and illuminated the soulless lobby that smelled of cheap floor cleaner.

A single voice echoed from one of the nearby auditoriums. Ted approached, readjusting his backpack, twisting, pulling down on its strap.

This is real.

Although no inclined steps this time, the walk to the lecture hall seemed much longer. Beside the door was a small placard: 115C.

This was hers.

He stood directly in front of the door, looking in through the small glass window adorned with wire mesh. Anyone observing this with all the facts would deduce that it was not a student looking in but a prisoner peering out.

Ted’s target stood lecturing before an audience where roughly twenty students were feigning interest; another twenty were asleep, and only one sat genuinely interested in the field of paranormal psychology.

Professor Emma Platt took her profession seriously, though the study of the unworldly was not her primary interest. The modern scientific community had put a gap between this field and that of hematology that rivaled the Grand Canyon. Emma, however, was dead set on proving that they were only an arm’s length apart.

Well, maybe two.

Just close enough that with her will she might someday pull the fields together and find herself in an elegant gown before an applauding crowd as she accepted the Pulitzer Prize.

Emma was a genius with her work, tolerable to her colleagues, but a complete failure when it came to relationships. First dates, where she said too much too soon about her mission involving the field of hematology and the supernatural, always ended the same: a half-smile that failed to mask the whisper for the check in lieu of that second glass of chardonnay.

She found herself most comfortable in her lab, gazing down into her microscope at the tiny world of jostling cells and organisms that had no idea a superior being loomed overhead, recording their every move, determining their fate. Maybe that’s God as He watches through the beaming sun of His own microscope. As good an explanation as any.

Emma’s groundbreaking discovery in the area of hematological research (to quote multiple national and international journals) was leverage for respect in the medical community, though such establishments she distrusted. Due to the pursuit of her second field, parapsychology, though para-biology, to coin the phrase, many thought she had cracked, and maybe that was true. If so, it was due to the weight of her expectations. Still, notoriety of her successes assured her tenure at Claiborne, and she even got her own lab. Originally the school board questioned why such a distinguished, private sector hematologist would want to teach in the area of paranormal psychology at their school, but when word spread that she had turned down a position at Harvard, taking Emma under her terms was a no-brainer. They even funded her to tour the country and purchase equipment, and endorsed her public-access program, a one-hour segment called The Other Side on which paranormal activity was explored. Professed witnesses were interviewed, and videos, sound recordings, and photographs were debated; in the end, they were always frauds. Emma’s favorite piece of evidence was a photo of a couple of Sasquatch in a three-way with a Douglas fir.

Now, whether Emma was ready or not, she was about to be granted what she always wanted. And as fate, luck, or Murphy’s Law would have it, her wish was to be granted in a way she had never predicted, certainly never expected. The bearer waited patiently for her presentation to end, but rather hoped it would continue on forever.

But it wouldn’t.

Murphy wouldn’t allow it.

Psychic abilities, near-death or out-of-body experiences, crisis apparitions, retro-cognitions, reincarnation, and regression memories, Emma said loud enough for the back row to hear. Prophecy, astrology, ghosts, and life-after-death, telepathic, and telekinetic abilities, a pause to give the words credibility, these are the fields and areas of inner space; the foundations for the discipline of parapsychology. And it is our job to find, investigate and ultimately prove their existence.

The silence amid the occasional cough was more from endurance than reflection.

Is the proof of these criteria and their existence what makes them credible? Are those aforementioned areas preposterous because modern scientific theories cannot support them?

A quick glance over to a girl in the audience: Marla Owens, twenty-four, blonde, beautiful. Father owned a car dealership in the Bible Belt. Spoiled, opinionated, and staunchly against Emma’s course criteria, Marla had voiced her spiritual woe to the dean of students when Emma announced the use of a Ouija board, listed on the semester assignments sheet as a spirit board.

I am a diehard Christian, Dean Harding! Marla had protested with her exaggerated southern accent. Daddy won’t have me using one of those. It’s a tool of the devil, it is! Told it was too late to change enrollment, Marla brought her dilemma to Emma. Emma reminded her that she did not have to use the board if she did not want to, and told her that she would be more than happy to grant Marla a class transfer. But by then there were no other three-credit courses available. Two, sure, but not three like Marla wanted. She would have to drop out of class or suck it up if she wanted that additional credit.

Marla did not think that was fair.

Emma felt an introduction was in order.

Life, Marla. Marla, life.

Lawrence Harding was dean of students.

Dean Harding to Marla.

Lawrence to Marla’s father.

Larry to Emma.

He absolutely hated for anyone to call him Larry.

When Emma first began teaching at Claiborne he treated her as any other staff member. Emma wouldn’t stand for it. Not with what she brought to the table. While other professors lectured, maybe got something published every two or three years, Emma’s work (not associated with the paranormal, of course) was being published once, sometimes twice a year. This brought funding to Claiborne from private and public institutions. Hell, even her kooky paranormal show got sponsors for its bizarre entertainment value alone, and that was public access.

So when Emma and Harding first started their working relationship he did what any boss is expected to do.

Don’t forget I need the fall numbers for your 132 lecture course, Emma, he would casually put forth, flexing his bureaucratic muscle. He knew they weren’t due for two weeks. Emma knew that as well. She also knew that she did not need a babysitter.

"I’ll get those to you right away . . . Larry."

After finding that her work arrived on time without him needing to be over her shoulder, Harding adopted a management philosophy rarely heard of on the North American continent: If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it. Deep down Emma suspected that he waited for the day when she screwed up and he would have the upper hand.

Lawrence was, on the whole, a good guy and a better boss; however, he was still a bureaucrat. So when he came for a visit to Emma’s lab to tell her she had to remove Ouija boards from her class curriculum she assured him it would be done.

"You got it . . . Larry."

So now Emma stood before her class, as Ted peered through his jail cell window, readying herself to announce that the use of spirit or séance instruments had, as of late, been found offensive by some, and were to be removed from the curriculum. Her previous intent, which fell on the deaf, politically correct ear of Larry and the self-entitled ear of Marla, was to have a class demonstration with the following options: participation, observation, or voluntary absence. Only reference to the Ouija board’s history and cultural significance would have been used for grade application. However, the southern belle from hell felt she was now charged by God to smother that which she deemed a ritual of satanic malice. She was to ruthlessly quell Emma’s blasphemy despite the ramifications of doing so; namely, others’ right to choose for themselves.

To Marla it had become a crusade.

To Emma, an inquisition.

The more things change . . . , Emma thought.

The Ouija board . . . , Emma began reluctantly. As it turns out, we will not be having the prescheduled demonstration here in class.

Sighs of disappointment followed, inspiring evidence that independent thought had finally surpassed evangelical manipulation in modern society.

Thank god.

Upon the surrounding students’ disappointed reactions, Marla allowed a smug, wide, curling smile that began from the center of her face and extended from ear to ear. It was a clear message to Emma.

You lose.

Big mistake.

Turn the other cheek? How about eye for an eye?

Had Marla shown even the slightest degree of indifference, Emma might not have chosen the latter. But she had dealt with piranha before, and with far sharper teeth.

I know you’re all disappointed. After all, signing up for my lecture assures the promise of a ‘contacted the dead’ badge of honor. Therefore, I give you the following, she said, handing a small stack of papers to the nearest student, who took one and put the rest over his shoulder.

As you all know, I give out very few A’s in my classroom, Emma began. I feel that the curriculum should be a reward in itself, but let’s try something different this time.

A small, subtle smile and a quick glance to Marla revealed a new expression of uncertainty.

The brat smelled a rat.

For the extra credit needed, you are welcome to partake in your own experience with the notorious spirit, or Ouija board, outside of class.

A few smiles were born.

Report your findings. Give your interpretations, however favorable or skeptical. Put them into a one-page summary and receive twenty extra-credit points.

Joyous claps followed.

You may work in groups if you wish and turn in one summary for each of you.

A reaction just short of roaring applause erupted from all except Marla. The ritual being out of class removed the issue from Larry’s jurisdiction. Making it a group project allowed one person to contact the spirit world, while the rest could make up their findings and get an easy twenty points.

Oh, hells yeah! a young male voice cried.

Indeed, Emma said with complete satisfaction.

For the belle this meant that although she could write a bogus report for the extra credit, doing so would be giving written testimony that she partook in that which was unholy.

Checkmate.

Marla’s mouth opened but could not find the words, especially since speaking would publicly announce her as the instigator.

Let lying lips be put to silence, Psalms 31:18, if recollection served, though Emma herself was agnostic.

Now get out of here, Emma proclaimed.

Students grabbed their belongings and exited excitedly. Marla slammed her books one on top of the other in protest, glaring at Emma as she stormed out.

Have a good weekend, Emma announced to all. Stay safe, damn it.

As the students filed up the side aisle along the wall towards the door, Marla moved quicker than most, darting past Ted who was making his approach through the crowd. Emma, unaware, put her items into her carryall before taking notice of the young, solemn man who stood timidly across the room. His peculiar body language was difficult to decipher. Emma couldn’t tell whether he was waiting for the students to leave or wanting to go with them.

Professor Pratt?

Platt.

Huh?

"Platt. With an L."

Oh. Sorry.

That’s okay. Used to it. What can I do for you?

I’m Ted Robinson. I’m a student here.

Ted Robinson? Theodore Robinson? You were Daryl Gosling’s roommate? Emma asked, having stepped out of professor mode into genuine empathy.

Yeah, I was.

I’m very sorry for what happened. How are you holding up?

Okay, I guess, he said, his voice being one part sincere, the other tired of having answered the same question for a month since his roommate had killed himself.

What can I do for you?

Well, to be honest, I’m not really sure.

Is it regarding Daryl?

Yes.

Alarms sounded in the back of Emma’s mind. Hello? Ouija suicide? Student advice? Trouble—Larry!

I’m truly sorry for what happened, Mr. Robinson, Emma said as she clasped shut her leather bag, but this is something you need to take up with your parents or discuss with your counselor.

But you’re the only person that can help me.

Ted, I’m not that kind of psychologist. I’m sorry.

Daryl wasn’t depressed, he said as she passed by.

I can’t help you, she said as she continued up the stairs towards the small windowed door. I’m really sorry.

He was scared, Ted pleaded.

Every educated fiber in her being told her to take one hurried step after another out of that room. Get as far away as possible from this traumatized kid.

With her back turned, he shot her not with a bullet but a word.

Vampire!

Moments of silence passed in the empty lecture hall. Emma, not amused, turned and inspected the young man.

I beg your pardon?

He saw a vampire, he said, and that was what killed him.

They watched one another a few moments. Finally she came down the steps and stood before him.

Now, Ted, she began, putting both hands on his shoulders and looking him square in the eye, I want you to listen to me very closely. I want you to go home, get a good night’s sleep, preferably with the lights on.

Ted’s eyes rolled as she continued.

Then I want you to call your parents, therapist, priest, anyone but me, first thing in the morning. Do you understand?

No.

Good, she said, then turned and walked away once more.

You don’t even want to hear what I have to say?

Goodnight, Mr. Robinson, she said over her shoulder.

Ted’s eyes scanned empty space for a solution, and he said the first thing that came to mind.

Proof!

Emma, halfway up the stairs, stopped dead in her tracks.

What if I said I had proof? Proof that one actually existed?

The word vampire, followed by the word proof, equated to the thunderous boom of a battleship cannon. This time Emma turned with the expression of a small child that had just been promised candy.

Proof?

The tables had turned. The professor was now the student.

As she came back down the steps, his expression turned grave.

Not here.

~

In an office building that housed a division of the Los Angeles Police Department, street officers in their brown uniforms shouldered CB radios whose cords spiraled like snakes to their leather belts bearing handcuffs, mace, and holstered pistols. The remaining personnel wore suits. If it weren’t for the street cops, one wouldn’t even know they were on the Decs floor, the term the detectives of the LAPD called their floor high above the detention and booking center below. Decs floor to them, Dicks floor to the hard-working men and women below who had to deal with the trash firsthand every day.

Almost everyone on that floor was a policeman.

All but one.

Martin Globovich was not with the police department. In fact, he didn’t even carry a gun, though there was a badge in the vest pocket of his Italian suit. He had an air about him like a man strolling through a park. Anyone not familiar with this floor might guess him to be police chief or mayor. Pretention squeaked from each step made by his Italian leather shoes that grinded the shine from the linoleum floor. He strode along reading the different names on the blurred, opaque door windows that were the signature of any detective’s office. He slowed as he approached one open doorway. Glancing in, he found a man sitting behind the desk, legs up, a hand behind his head, the other holding a magazine.

Excuse me? Globovich asked.

Yo! the man replied, not taking the time to look up.

Globovich was hesitant to enter, but when an invite never occurred he stepped in and looked to the door window; Michael Collins, Detective was printed in black letters.

Ah, yes. Mr. Collins. My name is Martin Globovich. I’m with the FBI. Do you have a minute?

This introduction made the article less interesting. Yeah?

Globovich scanned the room and found it to be meticulous. Well kept. Neatly organized. Hardly the behavior of the man before him. Moments passed and Globovich gestured to a nearby chair. May I?

Sure.

Globovich removed stapled papers from a single manila envelope. Mike . . . May I call you Mike?

Why not?

Right, Globovich said, doing his best to conceal his disdain. I have your application here . . . .

Application?

Yes. From when you applied for a position at the Bureau.

I did?

Uh . . . yes. I would like to talk about it, or more to the point, around it.

Do tell, Marty.

Disdain turned to loathing.

Not far down the hall, shoes not nearly as expensive as Globovich’s grinded the floor, worn by a clean-cut man in his late thirties baring the subtlest of Italian features: light skin, black hair, blue eyes. First impression was everything, he thought, though not always enough. And being a detective in the LAPD was all he ever wanted.

Well, almost all.

He was content, loved his work, and it showed. Street savvy and experienced. Certainly not the most seasoned, but his confidence and intelligence put him on an equal playing field with even the most senior of badges.

This was Michael Collins.

Detective.

As he approached his office he slowed upon hearing the conversation Globovich was engaged in.

No, Mr. Collins, he heard Globovich protest. There is no promotion. No company car. No time share. No indoor swimming pool. And no, you cannot borrow fifty dollars. I am with the Federal Bureau and we work. Do you know what work is?

I was just asking, the impostor said animatedly.

Michael recognized the voice as that of John Boehm, fellow detective and notorious prankster. His greatest infamy was when he sprinkled itching powder onto the toilet paper rolls in the women’s bathrooms. There might not have been such uproar if he hadn’t chosen Valentine’s of all days. There was no proof of his involvement, thus no suspension or departmental reprimand, though everyone knew, especially the victims who banded together in estrogen vigilantism. They filled John’s desk with horse manure packed so tight he had to haul the reeking piece of furniture to the parking lot and use a garden hose to loosen the excrement. It made for quite a show at lunch hour. To add insult to injury, they hid a boiled egg in the bottom of his planter. Over the next week he had to endure the harsh smell until the canine unit was called in to find it.

Witnessing all this taught Michael two things: hell hath no fury like a woman’s scorn, and it was no wonder so many crimes went unsolved in this city.

Chill, Mr. Gorbachev, John said.

"Chill? Did you just ask me to chill? And it’s Globovich! the voice thundered. I think I made a mistake coming here."

No, John said, the mistake was that tie. Damn, dude.

Michael entered, having heard enough of the heated volley. John sat up, alarmed.

What’s going on here? Michael asked.

The two men stood and looked back and forth at one another, perplexed.

Well, now, who are you? Globovich asked.

I’m Michael Collins. Can I help you?

"Oh, Michael Collins? John said. I sure wish you had said so, rather than wasting my time. He moved toward the door like a man ready to evade a predator. Well, here he is. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ll get out of your hair. Pointing at Globovich’s mostly bald head, John redirected his statement to Michael. Your hair."

Sorry about him, Michael said, attempting to diffuse the situation. He placed his coffee on his desk and extended his hand.

So am I, the Fed said, taking the detective’s hand reluctantly.

Please, Michael gestured for him to sit, what can I do for you?

Mr. Collins, I’m Martin Globovich. I’m with the Bureau.

FBI? A half-cocked smile emerged through Michael’s indifferent countenance as he turned in his chair and opened a file cabinet behind him. How can we help Big Brother?

Globovich read Michael’s body language. You don’t like us much, do you?

Don’t know any of you well enough to say.

You’re familiar with our recruitment office?

And your denial letters as well.

Being an FBI agent isn’t all it’s cracked up to be, Mike.

"I wouldn’t know, Martin. And it’s Michael or Detective Collins."

Ever heard of Megan’s Law, Michael?

Sure. It’s an informal name for legislation requiring any U.S. state to disclose sex offender information to the public.

That’s down here. At your level. Ours is the Jacob Wetterling Act of 1994, specifically regarding crimes against children across the nation. See the difference?

Martin stood, dropped his hands into his pockets, and casually moseyed around the room. With the info he had from their brief conversation, he was sizing up Michael and determining the best way to get whatever it was he wanted from him. He glanced at Michael momentarily, then peered out the window. It was a textbook tactic and rather insulting; the persona of a parent debating whether to hand over the keys to their newly licensed adolescent. Michael wasn’t impressed, but the Fed was clearly here with a bigger issue than agent recruitment. Michael sighed and the Fed spoke.

Remember the Reece Killings case?

Of course. Everyone does. That’s the one you boys pulled and made federal. How’s it going by the way?

Globovich turned. Both men knew where it went. Both knew it went nowhere.

Martin’s smile passed over to Michael.

What do you know about it?

Raymond Reece’s son was murdered by a known sex offender, Michael said, and as a result Raymond started wackin’ guys from the registry, hackin’ them up with garden tools or something like that.

"Something like that, yes."

Martin wandered about the room a second time like a drill instructor inspecting the barracks. Head lowered, he looked towards Michael in jest.

You sure you’re Michael Collins?

Michael might not have what it took to become an FBI agent, but he had enough common sense to know when a suit was fishing to learn more than what their file could tell. He crossed his heart and held up two fingers.

We didn’t take the Reece case because we had nothing better to do. We took it because of the source of the killings.

I’m not following.

"The Reece case was state when it was believed he was killing sex offenders from your registry. When it was believed he was using ours, we had to step in. Not by choice."

Globovich went back to the desk and removed a picture from his envelope.

Have a look at this. Look familiar?

Michael only had to glance at the photo but took longer on purpose, absorbing the details. He had a photographic memory and learned long ago that in most cases you had only moments to look at something before the owner promptly reclaimed it.

This photo was of a homicide. A man was sprawled out on a living room floor, his stomach practically torn out; however, the coroner had confirmed that at the time of death his body was missing nearly all its blood. There were no puncture wounds on the body other than the large tears. It was as though the blood had just disappeared.

Yeah, Michael said, this was the third victim. The papers got hold of this picture.

This one the press didn’t get, Globovich said as he removed another photo and slid it over the desk.

A man in a trailer sat postmortem against the wall with his pants down. The colorless photo was almost entirely blackened out, the negative having incorporated so much blood and carnage. Jesus, Michael whispered. Gardening shears did that? Looks like a shark tore at him.

Globovich handed him another picture as if this one were the prize of his collection. Now here is one that neither the public nor your department has seen.

This one was of the same victim from another angle, with one new detail.

What is that? Michael asked, putting his finger to the deceased man’s shoulder. That looks like a child’s handprint.

Globovich concurred with a slightly audible huff.

Congrats. Michael nodded conclusively and handed the picture back to its owner. You had a contaminated crime scene.

We thought that too, Globovich said confidently. That some child had tampered with the body before we could get to it.

There’s an image for a kid to take to bed with them.

Globovich’s smile preceded the next picture that he put in Michael’s hand.

What’s this? Another male victim at another site. A warehouse, perhaps. Similar wounds, but in the plaster dust nearby was a small shoeprint. Wait a minute . . . , Michael said, looking for the answer within the riddle.

Globovich was enamored, the devil excited at a new prospect to damn. He moved in to hover just over the young detective’s shoulder. Yes.

Same . . . ?

Same M.O., Globovich said. Same crime but both victims were miles apart.

Small hand, small shoe print . . . Oh my god. Mr. Globovich . . . . Michael was struck with an epiphany that mirrored Globovich’s anticipation. Am I to understand you have happened upon LA’s first midget serial killer? Michael could no longer contain his smile.

Globovich produced a scoff of disapproval. If you take all your work this seriously, Mr. Collins, he said as he traveled back around the desk, then perhaps our initial recruiter’s assessment was correct.

Globovich, cut the crap, all right?

Excuse me?

No, I won’t, Michael said, leaning back casually in his true demeanor. You come in here carrying a copy of my application which, my bet is, you haven’t even read.

Oh? he replied, pulling at the knees of his suit confidently as he sat. And what makes you so sure of that?

Because the paper isn’t folded and it’s not dog-eared at the staple. You or your receptionist threw it in the folder just for your little visit to cover your ass in case someone asked why you were here; and it is safe to assume there was not anything in my file or application that would warrant an error or omission from the first go-around, otherwise you would have brought that up first. I don’t have any family or friends upstairs and I’m not a former Navy Seal. And while I do consider myself a more than suitable candidate for your organization, I have no doubt you have more than enough applicants that are far more qualified than I. How am I doing so far?

We don’t call them receptionists anymore, they prefer executive assistant, but aside from that, you’re batting a thousand.

We had it, you took it, and now you’re back here hitting up a three-time-rejected applicant to your organization with it? You’re avoiding the spotlight. Why not go top-down?

A sensitive case like this? Child offenders being murdered from information that is legally provided to the public but is potentially impeding the safety, ergo the civil rights of the registrants? Voters don’t like to see their tax dollars protecting those who might harm their children, but lawmakers don’t like rights being violated no matter whose rights they are. Your department had it, press got wind of it, the powers that be handed it over to us. How would it look, us handing it back openly?

A serial killer of sex offenders, Michael said.

When you had it, Globovich added. When the majority of victims turned out to be young adolescents, it was assumed—

They were using the Jacob Wetterling, Michael finished.

"Which made it federal, but that’s where it started getting even more bizarre. You see, not all the victims were registered."

The fish was hooked.

So you’re saying that the perpetrator is someone connected with child sex offenders? Michael inquired. Like a state worker?

Perhaps.

A cop?

Globovich leaned forward, his folded hands on the table before a brief open, then close. We just don’t know.

Yeah, but that still doesn’t explain why you came down to me.

Because it’s not from up top and it’s not someone in John Q. Public looking up peds on the Internet. We don’t want to look like fools by handing it back down for everybody, namely the public, to see. We can’t take it to the street on your level and we can’t go through ours up top. Your skill set was not needed at the Bureau at that particular point in time, Globovich said with a gesture expressing value, but your track record warranted a second look. I have an open case and possibly a position to fill, which is why I am here.

What exactly do you think I can do?

Your best, Globovich said, standing. Just look into it. That’s all. Look out for us and we’ll look out for you.

No promises, Michael said, giving all the pictures a quick look-over.

Likewise.

Can I hold on to these?

No, Globovich said as he reclaimed them. Sorry. He removed one of his cards, put it on the desk, and slid it forward before heading for the door. Michael only looked at it, suspicious.

Oh, cheer up, Globovich said, seeing Michael’s uncertainty. Look at it this way. Before I came through that door you had no chance of getting into the Bureau. Tomorrow? Who knows?

A few moments passed. Michael seized his stress ball. A single squeeze and a slight turn in his chair inspired a thought. With the press of a button a woman’s voice sprang to life from the speakerphone. John Boehm’s office?

Debbie, Michael began, "tell your boss to get his ass down to see me. Now."

Hang on . . . . Her voice drifted as she failed to speak discretely to someone nearby. The sheer absurdity of being able to hear John whispering in the background sent Michael’s eyes rolling.

Debbie returned. He said he is going home . . . then was corrected. "Gone! I mean gone. He’s gone home."

John, Michael said casually, I know you can hear me. Do that again and I will shoot you, understand? On the practice range. I will say it was an accident. Got it? And, Debbie?

Yeah?

You didn’t hear anything.

Hear what?

Good girl.

Just before Debbie disconnected, John could be faintly heard. Hey, you work for me, goddamn it.

Michael chuckled at John’s ruse, then fell serious over his first one-on-one encounter with the FBI.

Globovich. Even the name reeked of distrust.

Michael reclaimed his stress reliever and looked out the window as he slowly compressed the ball. There was nothing special about the trinket; he just knew that squeezing it thirty times somehow always conjured up the best ideas.

Thirty.

The magic number.

~

A lot of strange things went down in this area of East LA. Especially so close to Mayberry Street. But three women in particular were familiar with the occasional passerby: the drug dealer, junkie, or wino. This included the specter that dwelled in the darkness at the corner of the block, far from the mainstay. Any of the girls that worked this area knew of the woman that stood all alone. She wouldn’t be as uncharacteristic if they saw in her any of their own behaviors, but she didn’t act like them. Truth be told, she didn’t act any way at all.

Lifeless.

Not the brightening of a cherry, much less any subsequent smoke. Not a cough or a sneeze. No sitting, pacing, cell phone call, nothing.

She was not there every night. Rarely, in fact. About once a month.

Every thirty days.

Thirty.

So her presence became routine, though no one could help giving a glance or two to see what they could see. And it was the same every time. They couldn’t make out what she looked like, and they stopped trying to approach her long ago. The last person to do so was Fats. He never would say what they talked about, but he told everyone, shaken, Stay cleer of dot beetch, mon!

Some claim the crazy Jamaican bastard used the word witch. That was the label that stuck.

Those new to the area might presume her a cop, because no one had ever seen her in booking. She was either snitching or busting johns somewhere else. But more importantly the girls were never arrested when the witch was there. Like the woman had some kind of clairvoyance to sniff out cops. Many girls would show up just to see if the witch was working. It was a sure way to not get nabbed turning tricks.

Marla, Terry, and Boom Boom (the latter believing her given name of Gertrude harbored connotations of obesity) stood advertising their carnal goods. The women held themselves to be as cheap as the clothes they wore. What little they had on.

What you know about TJ? Terry asked, taking a drag of her cigarette and blowing it away to avoid getting the smell on her gaudy sequined top.

He’s young, Marla said, chewing gum obnoxiously. Little hot-headed.

Well, that means he ain’t gonna be lastin’ long, Boom Boom countered, looking into her makeup mirror.

They never last long.

Terry approached with her fishnet pantyhose stretched beyond manufacturer limits and a tear in the back of her thigh. Better watch that, girl, she said. Shane gonna carve you a new one with that big-ass blade of hers, you try findin’ out how fast her man is.

"Not that! Marla said. I’m talkin’ about how long he’s gonna be around to pimp your stupid ass!"

Who you callin’ stupid?

You, motherfuckah!

Boom Boom laughed just as Shane arrived, talking on her cell, the confident click of her pumps making her presence known.

I’m here now, baby . . . I know . . . I said I know, Shane said before hanging up. She dropped the phone into her shiny golden fake-expensive purse. Shit, boy.

Well, speak of the devil, Terry said.

Devil want your soul, ladies. I just want your money.

Fuck, Terry scoffed, opening her purse. Already?

Each ransacked their tacky purse for bills they hoped to find.

‘Already?’ Shane jeered. "Don’t give me any of that. You already went rent free between TJ and Fats, and you’re lucky he don’t charge yo’ asses back pay for that."

As they offered up their cash, Shane took quick inventory, but stopped abruptly, finding Boom’s offering light.

Boom?

I know . . . .

‘Know?’ Shane said, paying respect to the Egyptians with the movement of her head. What the fuck you know?

Marla and Terry shared a look between them, knowing all too well how badly things could go. They had never worked under Shane before and they were about to get a taste of what new management was like.

Shane’s glare was of zero tolerance, striking fear into Boom.

You know what happens now, don’t you?

Shane, Marla began, her kid . . . .

Was I talking to you?

Shane, look, Boom began, "I swear, I ain’t gonna lie to you. I have been working."

Damn, girl, at least lie about it, Terry whispered to Marla. Dumb bitch.

It’s my kid. I found out he got that ADD stuff, Boom’s voice squeaked, and his pills . . . they’re like a Benjamin eighty a month. I even quit smokin’ to save what money I can.

Uh-huh, Shane said with a slight turn of the head.

I’m tellin’ the truth, Boom pleaded. I ain’t tryin’ to play you. I swear.

Shane looked to Terry.

Girl hasn’t borrowed a smoke from me goin’ on a month now, Terry said. Fuckin’ blessin’.

It’s true, Marla added. The cigarette thing, I mean.

Whatever, Shane said, curling a finger between Boom and herself, bidding the trembling woman to follow her into a nearby doorway of a closed business. Come with me.

Smaller steps were never taken. Looking back, Boom got only sympathetic looks from Marla and Terry. The hooker arrived to stand with Shane out of earshot. She flinched when Shane reached into her bag, but was taken aback when all she produced was a business card.

This is a doctor I know, Shane said. A preferred customer, if you know what I mean. You tell him to set you up on this prescription . . . .

Shane, I got a doctor.

Would you shut the fuck up for two minutes? He’ll put you on this government plan with the pharmacy so that you’ll pay ten, twenty tops. I get it for my son, Shane finished, handing over the card.

You serious?

I’ll cover you for this month’s difference.

Oh my god! Boom Boom said, jumping up and down. Oh my god!

Don’t get too excited, Shane said. You still gotta pay me back.

Yeah! I will! I will! Boom wiped away tears. I promise!

Shane chuckled, a slip of her true nature. It was short-lived, however, as the pimp-ette opened a large knife between them, causing Boom’s eyes to widen. Shane spoke loudly, the message intended for all.

"Listen closely, sister! You got one chance and one chance only. We will not have this discussion again, and you will not give away the details of our little conversation, otherwise your payback doubles. Are we clear?"

Absolutely!

Good, Shane said, closing her knife. Now get your ass curbside. Make some money.

The rapid clicking of heels signified obedience.

Shane let her three employees shake their moneymakers at what few passing vehicles there were. She had been doing this long enough to sense that it wasn’t going to be a very busy night, but one never knew. That was the thing about the street. It was full of surprises. Shane stepped away to the corner, taking a moment to enjoy her cancer stick in private, admiring the night sky and its beautiful full moon. She sent an exhale of defiant smoke to its majesty. When she looked back down, she saw her in the distance.

The ominous figure.

The street had obliged.

Hey, Shane said, just loud enough for the unproductive three to hear. Who’s that?

Oh, Marla said, we don’t know her.

You never seen her before?

Well, Boom said timidly, not exactly.

What? You have or you haven’t.

She ain’t around that often to worry about, Terry said. We hardly ever see her.

I don’t care if the bitch dropped out of a plane yesterday, Shane said. She ain’t standing on my block for free. She walked up the sloping sidewalk toward the figure. Hey . . . !

That ain’t a good idea, Marla said, and Shane turned back.

And why not?

Because . . . , Marla began. Well . . . .

Why, damn it?

Cause she’s a witch, Boom said. That’s why.

I beg your motherfuckin’ pardon? Shane searched their faces for the punch line. You bitches crazy or what?

What she means is, Terry said with a whirl of her hand, ain’t nobody been able to collect from her yet. The last was a dare Terry knew Shane would be unable to resist. Terry hoped to lead Shane into a situation that might let her go rent free a little while longer.

Concrete jungle, baby, Terry thought as she meandered with Marla back to their curb.

Nuh-uh, girl, Shane finally said. I ain’t havin’ that.

Shane, don’t, Boom said, but she was too late. Shane was well on her way.

Uh, excuse me, young lady? Shane cried out to the mysterious woman. Shane was strutting in that street-confident fashion: one hand planted on the hip, the other holding up a finger with a nail painted in one color too many, baring tiny, glistening rhinestones. She approached the figure that stood motionless beside a weak and crooked streetlamp. Having never been maintained or updated, the light held on with a dull, gray hue, making the poorly illuminated area that much more isolated in the night.

I am here to inform you that we are under new management, Shane proclaimed for all to hear. "That is TJ Incorporated, and like everybody else you will pay sales tax for that booty!"

As Shane got closer she slowed. She couldn’t tell if the woman was even looking at her.

Leaving the light of the corner, Shane found herself in darkness only a few yards away. Doubt crept in when the woman never turned, never looked at her. She acted as though Shane were not there. With each click of her pump Shane began to wonder if the girl was a mannequin.

Don’t you ignore me, Shane barked as she got closer. What? You deaf or somethin’?

Coming into view, the girl was nicely dressed, almost too classy for this neighborhood. She appeared to have a body for great pay, but she must be mongoloid having to work this part of town.

Only a few feet away, Shane could see the side of her face in the moonlight. She was an amazing beauty with high heels, a short skirt with a zigzag pattern, and a low-cut blouse topped off with a dusky blue leather coat. The girl was immaculate and familiar.

Do I know you?

But something wasn’t right. This woman’s demeanor was all wrong. The goose bumps Shane got with each step told her this was not right. The vibe was above and beyond any normal street encounter. And Shane had experienced them all, from undercover cops to crackheads.

The statue looked forward, remaining perfectly still, waiting for some event that no one was going to interrupt, including Shane.

Shane regained her composure and overcame her fear.

This was one creepy-ass white girl, fine, but she ain’t never dealt with the likes of me. I don’t play, and school is motherfuckin’ out.

This mantra had gotten her through every sticky situation imaginable.

For her kids.

For her man.

Herself.

Uh, hello? Shane asked defiantly only a few feet away. You and me’s gonna have a little heart-to-heart.

Placing a hand on the woman’s shoulder, Shane stopped abruptly when the being whipped its gaze upon her. She had gone unnoticed thus far, but physical contact was not without consequence. The transformation itself was not of this earth, having gone in an instant from such a picturesque beauty to an undead mask of horror: deathly pallid skin, sunken eyes, and matted, wet hair. A fiendish ghoul whose retinas were aglow, similar to a feline in the night whose eyes ignite into that unworldly emerald. The demonic look slashed Shane’s cocky demeanor in two. The secondhand pimp was stopped dead in her tracks, and fearfully took her hand back to the safety of her own personal space. But the low, guttural growl that sounded as though it came from the mouth of a beast remained. Its teeth were splayed to reveal their pointed, flesh-tearing purpose, causing Shane’s jaw to drop. All of this occurred within a mere moment, but it was enough to send the fear-stricken prostitute pivoting acrobatically on her heels in the opposite direction.

Aaaaaaah conversation you and me gonna take up first thing in the morning! Shane said over her shoulder as she fled. Know that!

Shane passed her three clueless employees who followed behind, their combined stilettos mimicking a suburban equestrian stampede. If at any time Shane had looked back, she would have found the being had not pursued, but in fact had returned to its human, statue-like state once more.

What happened? Marla asked, following close behind.

Yeah, Boom inquired. What did you see?

Nothin’! Shane barked as she stormed off. Get your asses curbside!

Marla and Boom looked to one another wide-eyed.

Shit, Terry huffed, back to payin’ rent, I guess.

Damn, woman, Marla scolded.

Boom wasn’t quite as sensitive. Any y’all got a cigarette?

No! they answered in unison.

The three returned to their workspace and the world of the street. Not witnessing what Shane had, they put out of their minds the being that dwelled around the corner atop the small incline. The place where, at that very moment, no one except for a marmalade alley cat, Cisco, saw the streetlamp flicker. What resulted stood feline hair.

In only a fraction of a second, the sleek, sexy woman changed into a small, light-skinned, seven-year-old girl.

A child.

Simple dress.

Long, straight black hair that went down to the middle of her back.

Just as quickly the enigmatic street woman reemerged.

Cisco splayed his teeth with a hiss and vacated, darting between debris.

~

Shane hurried home, locked every door and checked every window.

Grandma had put the children to bed and retired herself.

Shane checked the locks and latches a second time. She had to get some sense of security beyond that of Grandma’s bible, crucifix, and rosary. She removed her shoes and crawled into bed with her sleeping little ones. The only heaven she knew was not the one her grandmother preached about or found in a building or a book, but the one beside her: children slumbering blissfully. Her two angels whose faith was in the mother they worshiped.

Their God.

But God now knew the devil roamed the streets outside.

Dread would keep her up all night.

~ CHAPTER 2 ~

Bring Out Your Dead

At an isolated, grassy area just off the main quad of Claiborne U, Emma was finishing her transaction with Al, the hot dog vendor. On these nights when the campus was mostly empty, he was there for her. Friendly, reliable service after her late-evening lectures. At her favorite bench she would grade papers and catch up on the latest research and discoveries in her field, and always with a diet soda from Al.

He found Emma kind of odd. Not anything specific, just in general; like her sitting alone on a park bench beneath a streetlamp into the late hours of the night.

But what the hey. To each his own. Business was business, even if just a soda and the occasional bag of pork crisps, though nobody ate pork crisps anymore, only Emma. When Al would stock up for the day, he would make sure he always threw in a pack just for her. Happy customer, returning customer and all that.

This evening was special.

A seven-year first.

The kooky professor was not alone.

Some melancholy kid stood nearby and looked as if he had seen a ghost. He had something to share, and whatever it was, it couldn’t be good.

That kid’s gloom wasn’t the only thing Al noticed. Emma herself seemed almost giddy. Not noticeable to anyone else, but Al had seen her twice a week for seven years, always tired from a full day of lecturing, never in a hurry to go anywhere, much less home.

She must be married, Al deduced. I know that’s why I work late. Then another, more controversial idea crossed his mind.

She ain’t . . . ? Nah. Doc’s too classy to rob the cradle.

Thanks, Al, Emma said.

No problem, Doc.

For the last time, it’s Emma.

Emma, he said, turning the cart. Have a good un’.

As Al pushed his cart away and disappeared around the corner, Emma approached Ted and handed him bottled water that he wrung his hands nervously around. Emma was biting her tongue, eager for him to begin, and gestured for them to sit at her park bench several yards ahead. She had no idea where to start other than to let him make the first move.

Then he did.

I know it’s not cool to talk unfavorably about the dead, but I hated Daryl when I first got here.

It’s okay, she said abruptly. Just say what’s on your mind. She let another long drink of her soda be his cue.

Daryl was one of those guys that didn’t study and didn’t make good grades, but did enough to get by. But that wasn’t what bothered me, Ted said. Regardless of how he scraped by academically, the rest came so easy to him.

The rest? Emma asked.

"Talking to girls. Or even not talking to them but