Dancing in Darkness: The Damned
by
Kassandra Alvarado
Copyright 2014
Covert art contributed by author with special thanks to Miranda Hedman: https://mirish.deviantart.com/
Table of Contents
Chapter nine
Chapter ten
Chapter eleven
Chapter twelve
Chapter thirteen
Chapter fourteen
Chapter fifteen
Chapter sixteen
Author Note
Dedicated to the memory of James Martinez
Angelos vero qui non servaverunt suum principatum sed dereliquerunt suum domicilium in iudicium magni diei vinculis aeternis sub caligine reservavit: And the angels which kept not their first estate, but left their own habitation, he hath reserved in everlasting chains under darkness unto the judgment of the great day. - Jude 1:6
Chapter 9: Cross
The ride in the patrol car was fraught with silence. Ears still rung from the renting of metal, the shatter of glass; tempers were frayed over preventable accidents. “You were the first,” the sheriff’s deputy said gravely, keeping his eyes on the road. The low hat brushed the upper roof of the cruiser, the brim shadowed the sallow cast of his skin indicative of sleepless nights. “Others were runoff after you folks crashed into the guardrail.”
“I don’t doubt it.” Blackwood said quietly, leaning back.
Zac was inclined to comment what a night, or day, whatever brought the light to a dark sky. Had the storm broke? How many hours had they been out there? His head was confused, he couldn’t make sense of it all. As if reading his mind, Blackwood asked, “how long?”
“A few hours,” the deputy answered, “closing off the area on account of the other accident, we saw the broken guardrail and figured someone else needed help.”
Blackwood settled down, displeased with the answer. “How many were involved?”
He was surprised at the slight tone of sorrow.
“Three cars, plus your jeep.” The man sounded strange, almost choked with a kind of trained anguish withheld from his voice. “Th-there was a fatality, a child died in the final pileup.”
***
Zac had been inside a police station three times in his life. Once for a press conference when he was ten years old, two times for parking tickets. He was wary of police stations, uneasy seated in the hard plastic chair, filling out the required report. He kept waiting for them to slap the cuffs on him and read off his Miranda rights. A ludicrous idea since he wasn’t the jerk who had caused the accident. His eyes slid around from Blackwood’s sullen face to the taut, worried lines of the grizzled sheriff’s mug; still, he couldn’t shake the feeling the boys in brown were no better than NYPD’s finest when it came to automotive violations.
- I’m fine -
- I’m cool here, no worries -
- standard - ...his litany of soothing thoughts shattered with a man’s shout. He twisted around as Blackwood did, searching for the cause of the commotion. Several officers had started from their desks, hurrying to separate two men struggling toward the front of the lobby. One was a youngish Asian male with frosted blond hair whom looked dazed and confused in the broad, older man’s grip. He was throttling him, screaming obscenities in the other’s rapidly turning blue face.
“Is that him?” Zac heard Blackwood ask. She had gotten up with a slight limp and grab of her dominant left shoulder, her shooting side, observing the fight. Zac puzzled over her sentence for a moment before realization struck. “It is!” He exclaimed, jumping up to his feet. Seconds before the crash, when they were closest to the truck that hit them, he had seen the man’s face. That same dazed, almost day-dreaming look turn to stark terror in the glare of headlights - but, there was something wrong with the image. The truck had started to swerve with better handling - but the guy’s expression had changed - what had he seen?
“You’re both right,” the deputy replied calmly.
The older man whom Zac assumed was the father of the dead child, was being pulled from the other. It wasn’t a pretty sight, his face was a blotchy red distorted in anguish and rage. He strained to get away from the arms of the two officers holding him back, while another helped the other guy up to his feet.
“Sir, please calm down.” One of the officers recited in that same dry tone used to direct traffic. Zac hated that patronizing tone even then, feeling a surge of sympathy and understanding toward the victim. Nothing would ever be alright, once a child was lost. Wasn’t that the worst thing that could happen to a parent?
“...child was autistic. Father’s statement was that the child had unfastened his seat belt and he, the father had turned around to fix it.” The deputy mumbled uncomfortably. “He just didn’t see him coming.”
“God, I can’t imagine.” Zac murmured more to himself, shuddering. He didn’t want to imagine. Losing a family member was difficult enough when they went missing, not knowing was maybe the worst he’d ever felt; but losing them to a death that was preventable - he could say nothing else other than worthless exclamations.
The officers led the father into a separate room, still guiding him by the shoulders. The other they left alone, standing there bewildered. Zac was little surprised when he and Blackwood headed in the same direction. He knew it was probably useless words, but they weren’t exactly strangers -they’d been in the same accident, struck by the same person. They’d lost the jeep but no life. He wanted to think that could count for something.
He expected Blackwood to follow him into the room where the older man had disappeared in; she turned left and went out the station doors after the young man. Zac wondered about her choice then shrugged it off; maybe she wanted to rant about a loss of life or likely her expensive jeep. He was too down to smile about that and went in, coming face to face with the haggard-expressioned man the police had taken away.
“Monroe - ” one them said.
“Hey, man, I’m sorry about what happened.” Zac blurted out, reaching out to lightly pat the other’s shoulder. Closer now, he could see the other’s age, the tailored suit stained crimson, rubbed with dirt and asphalt dust. A few cuts marred the high cheekbones and bruises formed a nasty bump on the man’s bald head. “We were in -”
His fingers had barely made contact with the tattered suit jacket when the other moved. No one had time to react, neither the dumbfounded officers nor Zac prepared for the sudden flip and twist of his bruised side. He was momentarily swept off his feet, punched low then dealt a near blackening moment of breathless pain to the back of his neck from a sharp elbow jab. When it was over, he was moaning on the floor and the officers had tackled Monroe once again.
“Let him go.” Zac choked out, pushing up to his feet with a wince. “Just let him go, he’s...,” they looked each other full in the face. The same light brown eyes had stared out of a photo. “-suffered enough.” Zac finished, the moment gone.
Monroe pushed past him out the door, angry with the world.
Zac stared after him, shrugging off the officers concern. Where had he seen those eyes?
***
Evelyn had lost a few minutes going after the young man. She had seen his name on a report and called it then, “Daniel! Daniel Hurain!” She hurried down the front stoop to the sidewalk. Hurain had walked off, hands in pockets. He stopped upon hearing his name being called.
“You,” he said pronouncing the single word like statement. “Come to preach about the dangers of drunk driving? Is that it?”
“No, I - I was wondering if you were alright.” She faltered under his intense scrutiny. She was taken aback by the fierceness in his expression give way to sudden loss. “Nobody aske
d if you were hurt, so I was...” she twisted her hands nervously.
“Unhurt?” Hurain echoed, staring off into the distance. “I took a life tonight. I’m betting that other person’s hurting in there. Shouldn’t you be bothering him?”
“He’ll be fine,” she answered dismissively, taking a step closer. “It’s you, I’m - ”
“Why?”
She stopped short, expression amazed. “You don’t remember-? You really don’t remember at all?”
“Should I?” Hurain challenged with flashing dark eyes. She saw his hand dart to something hidden in the loose T-shirt he wore beneath the hooded Korean-style trench coat that reached mid hip. Briefly, panic flashed across his bruised face. He felt around quickly, patting his upper chest then neck for something that was no longer there.
He mumbled something and then started for the police station.
“It’s a cross, isn’t it?” Evelyn called after him, but he didn’t answer, brushing past the sheriff’s deputy that had come looking for her. “Oh, Miss, your friend finished his statement. Would you like to press charges?”
She had continued staring off in the direction Daniel Hurain had gone, “no,” she said slowly, wishing he had heard. “I won’t be pressing charges.”
***
Julian heard about the accident on the morning news. Given the time difference between Louisiana and New York, he was surprised the phone hadn’t rung sooner. Livid, he had watched the entire report twice and been on the line searching hospitals in the Albany area, on his way to the office. Around ten am, he stalked into the office on the upper floors of Blackwood Tower. With a sign from the fey, he knew that Ms. Blackwood had returned and was in her private office.
“Why wasn’t I informed about last night?” Julian hurled the words into a pointed accusation one which Quinn was unable to deflect. The young man had been slouched in one of the flower-print shabby chic chairs beside Ms. Blackwood’s desk. Ms. Blackwood herself wore a two piece pantsuit with a ruffled under shirt. When she moved it was clear she had been hurt.
“I thought it imprudent to cause you worry.”
Julian stopped himself from sputtering in Quinn’s presence, choosing to acidly remark, “thank you. I’ve worried enough with a lack of information.”
She nodded imperiously as she always did, agreeing for the sake of infuriating him. “Neither of us were hurt in the crash, though the jeep Wrangler was totaled. On second thought, deduct it from business expenses.” She turned back to the plastic bag crumpled on the desk littered with papers. “Also, place an order to Volvo for an S80 sedan in silver with the usual customizations.”
“Is that it?” He prompted carefully.
Ms. Blackwood had taken a cold energy drink from the fridge built into the wall. She popped the top with her longer thumbnail, shaking her head. “No, I want the address of Daniel Hurain and a line to Tepco’s president.”
“Tepco...,” Quinn stirred, brow rising. “Isn’t that the Japanese company cleaning up Fukushima?”
She took a cold sip, her lip curling. “Yes and I’m going to make him an offer he won’t refuse.”
***
An hour later after a light lunch of chicken salad from the cafeteria, Evelyn had all the information to hand. There weren’t many whom carried the Hurain name in the state of New York nor hardly any that were learning medicine by trade. The Hurain she wanted lived in a small flat off Washington Square rooming with two other males in their late twenties. Daniel was the youngest...
Again, she drew the coiled chain from her breast pocket, laying it down beside the circular pattern of condensation left behind by her fizzy pop. The peculiar black stone flashed in its depths red, blue and green, colors of the rainbow. Fashioned into a single long stanchion of polished crystal, the arm lay perfectly across in length resembling a Maltese or the older symbol of the crux gammata.
Through toxicologist Miranda Zepp, the suspect’s personal effects had been gathered from the crime scene and using persuasive means into her possession. Using the tip of her finger, she straightened out the curl of metal links, the curtain of her falling hair hid her expression well.
Tepco had put her off going through their P.A. Going through rhetorical bullshit about dealing with a company that specialized in higher end department stores, wasn’t their forte. Evelyn hadn’t wanted that label. She thirsted to prove to the world that Blackwood was here to stay and make an impact greater than any company that had come before it. For that, she needed names. The names of former Tepco employees, and the word of the president himself that Shirakawa Masamune’s résumé would disappear from the Tepco system. She would not lose him again.
With those thoughts in mind, she stood up, swiping the cross off the table.
Quinn, she had ordered to look through old case files and get a feel for how things were done in the old days. Reno’s record keeping was spotless and he had readily agreed to pull the necessary files from some of the company’s biggest cases, out of storage. She knew that would occupy them for the majority of the day while she drove down to Washington Square.
She didn’t know what she’d say to him once there. If he was there and not rotting in some jail cell by now. People did a lot of things to destroy themselves; in the end, he was no different. Daniel, she thought morosely. Becoming trapped in a traffic jam meant she had plenty of time to rehearse her next course of action.
She hadn’t told Julian where she was going, only a brief remark on running errands. It was likely if he had known, he would’ve attempted to dissuade her. Maybe it was too late. Doubt assailed her. Was it too late? What would she say? What could she say?
An offer of her best lawyer, William Morris; an offer of a secret cash settlement...it all seemed sedentary, material. Vulgar, her mother would say with finely arched nostrils. Would Daniel feel she was flaunting money if she served that as the ends all to aid him? So many what ifs...unable to reconcile her own mind, Evelyn entered lower Manhattan with its red-brick buildings and massive park dominated by dorms and collegiate offices. She found a parking close to the two-story newer addition between a pink Camaro and a battered Honda that looked as if it had seen better days.
Disembarking, she drew a few stares from milling security guards and students with book bags. Though, close in age to the gawking acne-ridden faces, she was better dressed than most of them, in a long brown lamb leather coat fastened with genuine onyx buttons over a stylish grey pantsuit. Matching brown Louboutin ankle boots clicked rhythmically along the pavement.
Ascending the front stoop, she entered a brightly lit artsy entryway dominated by two doors opposite one another. Ahead, a large staircase disappeared into a higher height. Checking the address once more, she squared her shoulders and began climbing upward. As the normal sounds of the sprawling NYU campus faded, she became aware of a gradual pressure building against her eardrums. Uncomfortable. Different. Disturbing. It was more than the race of her heart; it was palpable anxiety.
She raced up the final steps hitting the landing the same second as an agonized wail came from one of the doors along the corridor. She ran to it, plunging her hand into her coat shell, fingers closing upon the small Glock kept for such purposes. The knob yielded easily to her urgent tug, flinging it open, she dropped into an easy shooter’s stance, scanning the room.
A couch, scattered beer cans and a few T-shirts tossed haphazardly around met her gaze. Then, from side door, a fair-haired man stumbled through, clutching his head with bloodied hands. Evelyn gasped and went to him. “Daniel!” Before she could reach him, he moaned again that same horrible sound of a man on the verge of losing his sanity. Throwing his head back, the shards of glass she now saw digging into his scalp, fell free with a faint tinkle to the floor.
“My head...,” he swayed on his feet, barely registering her presence. Evelyn reached for him, her eyes no matter how brief went to the jagged shards of glass littering the floor, the ones stained with his red blood, the very same he’d goug
ed into his flesh - something black moved like a flash within.
Her eyes widened - before she could speak, process the image, it was gone. Less steady, she guided him over to the couch, maneuvering around the thumbed cover of a girly magazine and the sour stain of something stronger than beer on the carpet.
“These things I see...,”
“Are real.” She slid her palms up and down his upper arms, hoping it was soothing.
Hurain lifted his face streaked with crimson rivulets up with her motion, questioning.
“I saw something too.”
Chapter 10: Hysteria
“Who are you?”
“I...,”
“You were there the other night.” Daniel said suddenly, seizing upon the fragmented recollection of a slim shadow outside a police station on a cold wintery night. “I’ve seen you before - we talked?” With his words, the woman looked away, not out of shyness, but rather disconcertion.
“What do you remember?” She asked carefully.
Daniel thought a moment. It didn’t take long at all for him to gather the coherency of his remembrances from the other night. “A lot of people were mad at me. Something about an accident?” As he spoke, he casually reached for his shirt collar, fingers skimming over the worn cotton.
“A cross?” The woman retrieved a silver flash from her breast pocket, holding it out to him.
“Yeah! Hey, that’s -- how’d you get it?”
“That’s not important now.”
He took it from her threaded fingers, shyly glancing upward to her shuttered face. She was pretty, flaxen hair, blue eyes, dressed expensively to the eye. Prettier than a majority of the girls his roommates took into shadowy corners at parties.
“Why did you cut yourself?”
“I don’t know.” He looked from the glass littering the floor to his bloodstained hands, suddenly afraid.
Then forceful. “What did you see?”
“I -- ” A searing pain spliced through his skull. Gasping, Daniel clutched the sides of his head, conscious of forming words but incapable of hearing them. “I - I -”
“What is it?” She persisted, hovering as a brown blur a few feet away. Not touching, but never distant. “Tell me!”