Touching Evil

Chapter 1

It is simply a matter of patience, being a collector. He has to wait and watch for just the right thing to wander by – it can’t be exactly like any of the others, but it needs to be in the same vein, have the same tones. The same flavors. He knows -- he knew when he saw his most current acquisition, he knew that was the next piece, the next bit of perfection.

The new ones were always the most perfect, the most pristine.

The surge of electricity when he sees them – through a window, in a store, in a library, in a grainy photo in the newspaper – it can make him weak in the knees, make his mouth water and his heart pound.

He turns the light on over the worktable, the single bulb swinging idly as he hand-primed the grinder, starting it moving. The little sparks as metal met belt remind him of fireflies and picnics on the Fourth of July, sitting on the sand on Wrightsville beach and watching the lights in the sky, the answering lights in the glass jar he carried with him.

Firefarts, his father had called them, lighting another cigarette, eyes staring out over the ocean. Friggin’ firefarts.

Nothing permanent. Just seconds of beauty. Like his collection – pure distant beauty, just for a moment, captured forever before they were ruined, spark gone.

His fireflies.

His to collect. To keep.

Dark. It was dark; how could it be dark already? Unreasonably dark, dark enough that it seemed to cling to his skin like oil.

Greg walked forward, bare feet splashing, landing on smooth, slick flooring. He took one reluctant step at a time, hands held in front of him, fingertips stretched back as if recoiling from what they were going to encounter. Nothing he would find here would be good. Nothing could be, covered with this slime of darkness.

He could hear things, muffled cries and mutters, soft words.

If he was a stronger man, he would turn, would turn around and run toward the door and the light and the...

Oh.

He fought the urge to cry out as his hands brushed a curtain, slick and warm like a shower curtain in a public bathroom, fingers curling into it even as his instinct was to pull away, let go. He wasn’t a stronger man. He hadn’t been able to fight this then; he couldn’t now. He took a breath, breathed in the heaviness, the black, the ink of the air.

Then he wrenched open the curtain, eyes wide, and stepped into someone’s nightmare.

Hours later, when the dawn was breaking, Greg Pearsall found himself crumpled on the floor of his bookstore, drenched in sweat even in the chill of a late October night, a book clenched in his hands like it was a life preserver. His cry startled him, surprised out of him by the pain of unclenching his hands. He wouldn’t be able to move them tomorrow, the knuckles already red and swollen. It was no easy task – God knew he wasn’t twenty anymore – but he unfolded himself, and found his glasses, before fumbling for the phone on the counter and dialing a number he knew better than his own. He waited until the machine picked up, listening to the laconic voice telling him to leave a message or hang the fuck up, then he left his message.

It’s me. It’s happened again. You know where I am.

Or where he would be in an hour, after he stumbled upstairs to his loft, showered, and changed into something less... atrocious.

Greg left the book on the floor, among the wrapping and the rest of the mail that had fallen, and pulled out his elevator key, listening to the creak and rumble of the old girl. Alice would get whatever was still on the floor when she opened The Candle’s End in a few hours, sorting the pamphlets into psychics wanting clients, the latest improvement in herbal supplements that increased libido – trash – and publishers’ catalogs – his in-box – and the new tarot samples – display counter. He couldn’t care less.

He wanted the man off his skin, out of his blood. He wanted heat and steam and…

Oh. Oh, thank God he had a sliding glass door on his shower.

Thank God.

He turned the stereo on, New Age music filling the air and his head, pounding through the empty space, keeping him company as he let the water pour over him. Relax him. Ease him. Home. Safe. Home.

Safe.

Be at peace.

When he got out of the shower, though, he almost jumped out of his skin, tension slamming back into him in a rush. The only reason he didn’t was because the brick shit house sitting on his toilet was one he knew. Artie. Detective Arthur McAdams.

Jesus fuck, the man was quiet.

You made good time. He grabbed one of his towels and started drying off, sluicing the water off his own skinny-assed limbs. He knew he’d eventually regret giving Artie a key, but...

Hell, some things were necessary.

Artie was necessary.

The baseball cap came off, Artie running his rough fingers through that straw blond hair, too early to be in work mode, still blinking slow. I came ASAP. No traffic. Wanted to make sure you were... Well. Last time I found you on the floor, man.

Artie’s shirt was inside out and the short-cropped hair looked vaguely like the cat had been wallowing in it. Artie needed a hat in the worst way.

I just got up off the floor. I need to start opening the mail on the sofa. He should have known when the package came in with the Candle’s End mail, no return address, no nothing. After that fucking reporter wrote that article on him a year ago, there was no telling what came in. Christ, he was tired of old rings, old letters – can you find this person, what can you tell me about that? Like he was a side-show freak, something from daytime TV.

You all right? He could feel those cool gray cop’s eyes all over him, sizing him up.

It wasn’t pleasant. I left... the book and the packaging are downstairs. I won’t touch it again. There’s blood on the cover. He slipped into his sweats and sighed, drying off his hair. He sent it to me, directly.

So he knows who you are. What you do. Artie stood up and almost...almost reached for him. He could feel the warmth of that big hand hovering just below his elbow. Let’s go out and sit. Get you orange juice. Get my notebook.

Shit, he must be looking shocky. Artie wasn’t giving him any hassle. He was feeling shocky, even after the shower, even now in his own little sanctuary. His hidey-hole. His neat, pristine, nicely decorated, feng shui-approved prison.

He nodded to Artie, letting the detective lead the way. Ten years. Ten years since the accident -- one misstep, one head meeting concrete stairs, and three days in a coma and nothing ever went back to normal. Not a thing.

Damn it.

There’s coffee. I started it before this all started . French roast. Good stuff.

Heavy cream and sugar, then. Artie led the way out, waving him toward the couch. I’ll get it.

He nodded, sitting on his sofa, fingers sliding over the white corduroy and finding a blissful silence inside. This one had only ever been his, the cloth and wood telling him nothing at all. I saw your partner on the television yesterday. Congratulations on your arrest.

Thanks. Cups clinked together, the refrigerator door thumping open and closed as Artie moved around his kitchen like a man who belonged there. It was good to wrap that one up.

Leah looked tired. Tell her I have some of that tea she wanted. It came in with the last shipment of astralagus and that hideous diet tea that smells like old bed sheets. Honestly. Diet tea. Retail could be most foul. Of course, he could always close the Candle when something... untoward happened. It had been much harder to explain during his basic anatomy seminar lectures.

Panicky freshmen.

I will. Artie came back and handed him the cup, Artie’s fingers very carefully not touching his. She likes that stuff. Not the diet. The other.

Greg nodded his thanks, drank deep, the coffee warming him inside, burning all the way down from his lips to his toes. God, he could sleep for a month.

Waiting until Greg’d drank halfway down, Artie sat back and got his notebook out, a steno deal, simple and plain. Kinda like Artie. The pen was nice though. He’d used it once. It had been a gift from Artie’s sister, Agatha. Agatha used to think Artie was a pain, but she loved him dearly now, adored him. Thought he was the best brother ever…

Oh, fuck. Stop it. Stop. It.

He rubbed his forehead, thinking, trying to focus on the last thing on earth he wanted to focus on. Old book. Heavy. The blood stain looked like a flowering tree branch, just drooping... The package was plain. The book was old. Hardback. From a library. There was blood on the cover.

They always started like this. Simple things. Normal things. Things anyone could see.

Back up. Did you save the packaging? Scribbling, Artie glanced up at him and back at the page, cagey. Judging his mood. He was getting used to the man knowing him almost better than he did, even if it chafed like hell.

Yes. It’s downstairs with the book. On the floor by my desk.

Okay. I’ll have a look. You know the drill. He did. They’d take it in for evidence, etc., etc. What kind of book was it?

A medical text. Surgery. I didn’t get to open it. The spine was broken, torn up. It had smelled bad when he’d torn the paper off -- rotten, spoiled. The words had been gold once, but they were still raised. Embossed.

Fuck. Something you’d be interested in. This guy is scary. The pen scratched loudly for a minute, the only other sound the tiny noise of his fingers on the couch, rubbing. His home. His place.

Greg nodded, head feeling a little like a bobble-head doll, the memories starting to slide along his synapses. She’s young and somewhere very dark, underground maybe. Warm, even now. The only light is red. She was still alive when he sent the book. It’s her blood on it, not his. It’s his book. He loves his books. He sent it because she ruined it. There was water. His knife is short, curved, like a claw.

He put the coffee cup down. He hated this part. Remembering this was like a dream, something that couldn’t be real. Shouldn’t be real.

She. Okay, so he’s got a girl. Young how? Baby? Kid? Teenager?

Greg frowned, drawing his feet into Indian style, ankles dragging along the sofa fabric. Her. It was a her. A girl. Painted and primped and crying. I... Not a baby. She’s got makeup on, though.

Yeah? Is she old enough to have boobs? So delicate. Lord.

It was dark. Maybe? She’s not naked. He wasn’t going to rape her. He wanted to cut her. Fix… fix her? His fingers moved faster, pushing the memories away. Not in him. Not in his head.

Those eyes peered at him over the top of the notebook, Artie’s blond brows drawing together. The chair creaked as Artie got up and came to squat in front of him, hand resting next to his right knee.

‘S’okay, man. We don’t have to think about that right now. Just what I ask, remember? One little bit at a time.

Right. He took a deep breath, looking right at Artie. Home. Safe. Sanctuary. The man knew how to help him, how this worked; he just had to trust in it. Trust Artie. This was old hat. One detail at a time.

Let’s go around the girl right now and break it down. You said red light was the only light. What kind? Emergency tunnel lights? Stoplight lights? Construction lights?

They moved, swinging or blinking or something. Dull dark red. They went slow.

‘Kay. What about the water? Deep or shallow? What did it smell like? Yeah. Yeah, he could do it this way.

He leaned back, eyes on the mural painted on the ceiling – blue and grays and white, all swirled and peaceful and... He could see hints and whispers, remember the way he’d stared and gagged. Remember the water on his bare feet. Between his toes. It was enough to get your feet wet. Enough to splash. The place smelled dead, foul, like rotted flesh.

Decomp, huh? Gross. His coffee cup got a push, right under his nose so all he could smell was java and cream, and the gag reflex he hadn’t even noticed eased. But it wasn’t deep. Not like an underground feed?

I don’t know. It was definitely under the ground, but it was a place, a man-made place, not a cave.

The floor. Was it metal or stone?

Not metal. It didn’t ring. It echoed. Concrete? The book didn’t echo when he dropped it, just his footsteps. Her blood had dropped on the book, fat drops from her fingers. She bit her nails.

Then we ought to be able to get a good sample. Sometimes it made him crazy that Artie compartmentalized. Sometimes it helped. What about the knife? You said it was custom?

I said it was little. Curved. Like a finger. Like his fingers, held against his hand. He held up one finger, curled it like a claw. A shiny, sharp claw. He touches her with it.

Close your eyes and tell me what it looks like. Silver? Black handle? Does it have any chasing on the blade?

The blade is silver, sharp, shiny shiny shiny. There’s no handle, just a blade with a hole in the bottom. He could almost see the man. Almost. Weird, because he didn’t. Not usually. Not usually, but he could almost see, even if it didn’t work that way.

The guy’s a regular ball of fun. Okay. All right. Did you see anything else? Her clothes? His? His hand? What did it look like?

He must be looking edgy. Artie was wrapping up. They’d do this again and again, he knew.

Yeah. His fingers were crook... He frowned, a flash from last night hitting him deep and low, bending him over his own hands. Blonde. She was blonde, Artie. All of them have been and the next is going to be, too.

Artie caught his coffee cup as it fell. Then we’ll look for more. Try to find his pattern. That’s enough for now.

The stubble covered the little scar right above Artie’s upper lip. The scar Artie got when he fell off the jungle gym in Mrs. Marsh’s fourth grade class and Janie Potts laughed at him and made him cry.

Greg nodded. Yes. Yes, okay. Enough. Enough. He’d washed, but he could feel the blood on his fingers, in the ridges of his fingerprints. Why didn’t he send the book to the police, the media?

Because they can’t do what you do. You want some food? Joints popped as Artie levered up. You caught me just as I was about to share a TV dinner with Duke.

Those things are atrocious and not for breakfast. He stood up, stretched as tall as he could go, the loft spinning around him. I should have real food in there.

Grinning, Artie nodded. And I can even cook it. What do you want, man?

Yeah. It was good to have someone to pull him out of it. To make things normal.

Grilled cheese and tomato soup. He winced, but refused to take it back. It was comfort food and it was going to comfort him. Damn it.

Comfort.

Hey, that I can do. You want that fancy-pants cheese? Okay, it was one thing for Artie to know where the cups were, but the frying pan? Either he was predictable or Artie was here more than he thought.

No. I want the stuff with the crinkly plastic wrapper and white bread, and if you tell anyone else, I’ll deny it. Alice and Mitch are being organic, and I said I’d try.

He could only be so good, and he felt like he had run a mile. Two. Underwater.

Processed cheese food and gooey white bread fried with butter coming up. Soup can, pot, frying pan, can opener. Artie really was gonna make them grilled cheese and tomato soup. For breakfast. Damn.

Then he went and grabbed Artie a cherry cola and himself a cream soda. Cherry cola. He had cherry cola.

In his fridge.

He used a dishcloth to set Artie’s on the table, open his, and pour it into a glass. No reason to beg for trouble, his brain was blown right open today.

Thanks. Before long he had four neatly cut triangles of oozy cheesy bread and a bowl of an-orange-not-found-in-nature soup. There you go. Eat up.

Thank you. He waited for Artie to sit, and he did eat, and it was delicious and comforting, soothing. This is just what the doctor ordered.

Excellent. Man, Artie slurped his soup. That shouldn’t surprise him. Didn’t surprise him. Been a long day.

Tell me what happened? He nibbled, leaning back in his chair. Artie wouldn’t have bothered cooking if there wasn’t something to say.

Just a lot of crap. They grilled me and Leah about where we got the information to track Galloway down.

Galloway – big and Irish, hated women, hated cops, left a gun at one crime scene and Greg had held it. Actually traveled across Raleigh and held it, sitting in the passenger’s