God of the Dead (Seasons of Blood #1): A dark paranormal crime thriller novel (6 page)

“New developments tonight in a series of strange and morbid thefts involving the bodies of the recently deceased in the greater metro area,” the anchorwoman said. “As we rerouted at the noon area, the county morgue reported the disappearance of a body that was awaiting autopsy to determine cause of death, which we have been told was of a suspicious and possibly criminal nature. There has been another instance of that
same
crime
today, this time from a city hospital. When asked if he believes the crimes to be related, the official police spokesperson chose not to comment—”

What the fuck, AJ thought, clicking the TV off. He wanted to move, to go, but at the same time didn’t know what to do or have a destination to head to. He wanted to talk to Clover, but he'd just seen her this afternoon and he didn't want to come on too strong. He didn't really believe in the three-day rule or whatever the fuck it was; if he liked a girl, he called her. She'd told him at breakfast that she was busy this evening, though, and he didn’t want to interrupt her time with her friends.

AJ sighed and picked the joint back up.

There were a few more clumping steps in the hall and this time he heard a kind of groan and someone scratching at his door. His heart sped up in his chest at the surprise. He put the joint back down went to the door, looking through the peephole.

He recognized the woman on the other side after a moment; he didn’t really know her but he lived down the hall from her, and he’d sometimes hold the door open for her when she was bringing in a load of groceries, or they would exchange polite nods and awkward smiles when they were checking their mail at the same time.

It took him longer to recognize her than it should have, but then again, he’d never seen her naked, soaking wet, and covered with blood.

“Holy shit,” AJ said, scrambling to unlock his door. He opened it and she stood there, covered in blood like an extra in a horror film, her hair in wet tangles, her skin pale.

“Oh my god, are you okay? It’s Karen, right? Are you—”

Then her hands were up and she was coming for him. The cold, somehow fishy feel of her fingers scrambling around his neck and glancing off his cheek as he turned his head made his flesh crawl. He took a step back and almost fell over the coffee table, and she came into his apartment, her mouth hanging slack.

She barked out a single syllable, her voice thick and gurgling, like she was speaking around a throat full of infected phlegm. It sounded like she said “
Book.”
She held her hands up again and came for him. Her hands gripped his shirt and one of her cold, soft fingers hooked into his mouth. He gagged and resisted the urge to bite only because he didn’t want the taste of her flesh and blood in his mouth. Instead, he grabbed one of her wrists and twisted it away, looking down at it and seeing for the first time that a wide, black mouth opened on her inner forearm. Inside that dark, meaty cavern he could see tendon, he could see the insides of her wrist, layers of skin, and a thin, yellow layer of yellow fat and red muscle, slit almost down to the bone. He screamed and she turned her hand, the skin around the wound somehow loose, slippery with blood and water, and he lost his grip. His hand slid down her wrist and his thumb went
inside
her arm
. It was cold and gristly, like when he would help his mom as a kid by reaching inside the half-thawed Thanksgiving turkey to get the giblets and the neck out.

She lurched forward another step, once more groping for his throat. He put his hands up to block her seeking fingers and now he could see those black, gaping rings around
both
her wrists. She was clutching him for purchase now, hugging him close like a lover, her bare breasts pressed against him, wetting his shirt, sticking to his skin. They tottered a few steps across his living room in some obscene parody of a slow dance. AJ surged forward and used his height and weight against her, finally knocking her back. Her bare, white feet slipped in the pink mixture of water and blood on the floor and she turned enough for him to see her back. It looked like one giant bruise, not just on her back, but the back of her arms, legs, her ass. He came forward again and shoved her out into the hall, slamming and locking the door behind her.

“Oh what the fuck,” he said, his voice high and keening. He grabbed the phone and dialed 911.

“911, what’s your emergency?”

“Hi, yes,” he said, out of breath and panting. “I was, I’m being attacked, this woman, I don’t know, she’s covered in blood and—”

“Sir, is your call coming from 1524 Clarkson, Apartment 3B?”

“What? Yes, yes it is.”

“Okay, Mr. Lancaster, we have an officer on the scene—”

“You what?”

“—I’m sending him in now. Is the intruder still in your home?”

“No, I shoved her out into the hall.”

“Lock the door and wait for the officer to knock, it’s Officer Fenster, he’ll identify himself. Do
not
open the door for anyone but Officer Fenster, do you understand?”

There was a pounding on the door and his name being screamed.

“Oh shit,” AJ said.

“Is your door locked?”

“It is.”

“Okay, the officer is entering your building now—”

AJ dropped the phone with numb fingers and collapsed back onto the couch. He heard footsteps running up the stairs and a surprised cry of disgust.

Another howl of his name came from the hall.

“Ma’am, put your hands above your head and—back! Get back!” Officer Fenster screamed in the hall. “
Back or I’ll shoot
!”

There were two more dragging footsteps and then a gunshot.

AJ covered his ears, though it was too late as they were already ringing, and just sat there for a while. He didn’t know how long Fenster had been pounding on the door to be let in when he finally stood from the couch. AJ only knew Fenster was now threatening to break the door down.

AJ unlocked it, his hand dropping from the lock to his side with a clap. He didn’t have the energy for this. He turned the knob and pulled the door open just a little, and this seemed at that time a monumental feat. It drained him. His throat ached with thirst and from being throttled for the second time in two days. He ignored Fenster’s questions and padded slowly, like an injured, old man, into his kitchen, for a glass of water.

Ten minutes later he was sitting in the back of a police car, watching the city roll past around him, headed once more for the police station uptown. The neighborhood he’d come to call home rolled past, meaning nothing. The landmarks through which he’d navigated the last few years of his life were no more to him than stock footage in the background of an old movie.

He hadn’t grabbed a jacket when he left and his shirt was still damp, and with what? Water? Blood? He didn’t know and he didn’t care enough to look down at himself to see. The cold seemed to revive him a little, bringing him out of his stupor, and it was only then that he started to wonder why there had been a cop already at his building, deciding it would be the first—well, maybe not the
first
—question he would ask, but one of them.

* * * * *

John stood in the apartment of Karen Rosenthal, the woman that had attacked AJ in his home, the woman that Officer Fenster had shot.

There had been blood on the kid, and in his apartment, on the floor, a long trail of light spatter leading from his place up the hall to Karen’s apartment.

John had followed that trail, the hallway now completely taped off, the floor of the building evacuated for the night, the lower men on the police totem pole had been given the unsavory duty of going to door to door, every apartment on the floor, and asking people to pack up their stuff for a night and hit the bricks.

More blood had led from Karen’s front door to her bathroom, where John now stood.

The tub was full of blood. The tub was an old one and it must not have held water well, because most of the bath Karen had drawn to sit in while she slit her wrists open had drained. Some of the blood was still wet and red, but most of it, especially along the sides of the tub, had dried to a black crust.

John sat on the closed lid of the toilet and scratched his head, trying to put it together.

Okay, he thought. She draws the bath, gets in, cuts her wrists, bleeds
a lot
, then climbs out, walks down the hall, wet, naked, and covered in blood, and attacks AJ, who says they’d never passed anything but a friendly word now and again?

He wanted to think that the kid was still keyed up from the other attack, that maybe the neighbor had come over, panicked when she felt the life really start to rush out of her, and had been looking for help…but the circle of bruises on the kid’s throat and the way he croaked when he talked didn’t jibe with that…nor the way she had come after Fenster.

This was nothing, though, all these things were just noise when he thought of her body, laying in the hall, face down on the old, grey carpet that was worn through to the padding in most places. Her back, ass, calves, the backs of her thighs and arms, they had looked dark. Bruised.

Not possible
, Lubbock told himself. There had to be an explanation other than what he was thinking, because what he was thinking was fucking crazy.

He once more pushed thoughts of Todd Bowden and Jin Makoto out of his head. He sighed deeply and carefully picked his way out of the bathroom, making sure he didn’t step in any of the blood splattered on the floor.

* * * * *

Vito was pissed. He’d called everyone who worked for him, excluding AJ, and the earliest anyone would come in was midnight. That left him with couple hours to kill before they showed. He sat behind the counter, thinking of all the things he could be doing instead of being here. Like kicking the shit out of that junky Billy. The little prick hadn’t even bothered to call.

The bell above the door dinged and Vito looked up. In walked a man dressed in black: trench coat, pants, and boots. His white hair was pulled back in a long ponytail that ended between his shoulders. Vito stared at himself in the mirrored shades, wondering if the man was half-blind. There was a nasty scar running from his forehead to just above his upper lip. It looked like it went right through the middle of his eye.

“Can I, uh, help you?” Vito asked, not really caring if he could or not. In his experience the customer was never right and was usually an asshole.

The guy shook his head slightly and grunted a negative. He looked around the store then quite noticeably sniffed the air. He looked around some more. He knelt and picked up a piece of dirt off the floor and sniffed it. Then he crumbled it between his fingers and stood.

“What is this?” Vito asked. “Fuckin’ health inspection?”

Finally, the other man spoke. “Can you answer a couple questions for me?”

“That depends on who the hell you are and what the hell you ask me.”

“I’m Detective Quidman. I just got transferred over to work this case. You know, what happened last night?”

Vito stared at him, running everything through his Bullshit-O-Meter, picking his teeth absently with the ever-present toothpick. This guy didn’t look like no cop to him. “You, uh, got a badge there, Detective?”

He pulled his coat to the side. Vito saw the unmistakable gold shield attached to his belt. Maybe the guy was vice.

“Whatcha want?”

“The kid that was attacked, how well do you know him?”

Vito shrugged. “All right I guess. Why? He in some kinda trouble?”

Quidman muttered something that sounded like
I hope not
.

“Excuse me?” Vito asked.

“I said no, no trouble.” Quidman shook his head.

“Anything else you want?”

“Yeah, what’s his last name?”

“Lancaster.” What the fuck is this? Vito asked himself. What kinda cop doesn’t know the name of the victim in a case he’s working?

At the mention of the name Lancaster, Quidman’s eyebrows hopped up a little.“His name isn’t Munroe?”

“What is this shit? I didn’t say ‘Munroe,’ did I? Jesus.”

“Do you have the tapes from those cameras up there? With what happened on them?”

“
Tapes
?” Vito asked, snorting. “Where you think we are? 1986?”

Quidman stared at him for a long moment, his head cocked to the side a little. Vito shifted from one foot to the other.

“DVDs, then?” Quidman asked.

“Yeah, I got ’em. Why?”

“Give them to me.”

“What for? I already gave ’em to the guy last night,” Vito said. “Officer whoever the fuck. Andrews?”

“We need another copy. The one you gave us was scratched.”

“And they sent a
detective
all the way back here for one? You must be
really
lighting up the force, to have them trust you with such an important job.”

“Get me the discs,
sir
, or I’ll run you in on obstruction charges,” Quidman said.

Vito held his hands up in acquiescence. “Oh, hey, no need for all that, friend. Never let it be said I was the cause of a wagon to be unhitched from so bright a shining star. I’m nothing if not a friend to my fellow working man. Please. Allow me a moment.”