“What’re you talking about?” He forced a smile, his voice coming out high-pitched and squeaky. Not good. Act smooth, calm. Don’t break eye contact. “I was just - ”
She glared, silencing him with the ring of steel in her tone. “Don’t lie.” The free hand at her side, shot out, grasping a handful of his shirt. Enough force was maintained to make him stagger off balance, his nerve breaking. For one second, he imagined the cold sharpness of the blade descending between his eyes -
“Alright, alright! I saw you three nights ago! I l-l-live in Windwood and couldn’t sleep that night. I don’t even know why ....I’m here.” What began as a shout ended in a quiet murmur. “I want,” he struggled to define it. “I want to know the truth. Who are you?” What are you?
At that, the woman released him. Not surprised per se, not angry anymore. Only a touch wistful. “The truth? Ah, can you handle it? Is there really such a thing as truth meant for human beings to know?” She mused to herself with words he didn’t understand.
Self-preservation whispered he should knock her aside, flee from the desertion of the back street, become lost in a sea of people and forget all about it. As if in response to his mind, she suddenly stared at him, “should you run, you know very well what will happen. Not now maybe...but eventually.”
Zachary swallowed nervously, “I wasn’t going to run.” Was that a threat?
“You aren’t a very good liar either.” Commented she, smiling bemused.
“I said I wouldn’t run.” He replied, irked for no reason despite that those had been his very thoughts a few moments before. His stomach soon settled it for him, growling loudly. An embarrassed flush darkened his ears. The woman sighed, her gaze dropping to his midriff. “Come along,” she grabbed his arm, steering him toward a tucked away street uptown. He soon saw a bistro of good repute among other Yonkers denizens. “But, I,” he hung his head, feet dragging. “I don’t have any money.”
“Did I ask if you did?” She muttered rhetorically, proceeding to haul him through the swinging doors of a chrome and red patent leather seating hall. Few customers were tucked in secluded corner booths. She chose one in the center row, a curved wraparound of glistening plastic. The proprietor behind the main counter had caught sight of them and nodded, briskly bringing two menus from a hidden shelf, forward. Apparently, she was a regular customer.
Once seated, the woman pulled her cell phone out, glanced at the screen and pocketed it without comment. Zac felt awkward sitting across from her, knees pressed together, his fingers knotting and reknotting. When the menu was dropped down in front of them, he jumped in his seat, shooting a quick look to the heavy-set man whom bustled away and returned with two glasses of water. Ice cubes tinkled, refracting lemon slices in the woman’s.
“Thank you.” She said, slighter hoarser, taking an immediate sip. When she lifted her hand, he noticed for the first time the large circular ring of a light brown stone set in silver metal. In the center, an odd blur of glass protected a dark fragment.
“Israeli.” Zac said with a general wave toward her upraised hand. “A stone from the sea of Galilee.” She set the glass down and favored a look over her hand, briefly smiling. “The stone isn’t for appeal. It serves as a theca for the artifact inside.”
“I’ve never seen anything quite like it.” He admitted and was surprised when she allowed him to examine the ring on her finger. The tiny center was made of rock crystal encasing the object inside. “Theca...a holy relic?” He released her hand gently; she pulled back with approval.
“From a Catholic University, you thought of becoming a geologist. I can say you’re chosen degree was wasted on you.” The woman lifted her glass, tilting the hobnail pattern so it caught the light. “You would’ve made a fine geologist. As for relics, you’re right again.”
He had been prepared for this, the surprise didn’t show on his face. “You were the woman from that night.” There was no doubt in his mind. Had doubt even existed? Only in dregs, in easily crushed hopes of resuming a shut-eyed existence. “What’re you going to do to me?” Zac asked in the silence that followed. There was the clink of forks in pie, the chink of plates being picked up from the wraparound counter.
“I don’t know.” The woman folded her small hands, cheerful when thinking of his fate. “You wanted answers, Mr. Quinn. It’s up to me whether or not to decide to answer them. Ask away.”
“W-who are you?”
“Evelyn Blackwood, Chairwoman and CEO of Blackwood LLC.”
“What do you do?” A moment later, he realized how foolish that sounded. Her lips quirked in amusement, but she went on seriously. “Oversee business relations 9 to 5.”
“Okay, that wasn’t phrased right.” He ran his hand over his jaw, operating on little sleep wasn’t the best way to go about things. Not to mention missing his appointment. “What was that thing that I saw?” He dropped his voice an octave lower for the dull-eyed waiter was approaching. The woman smiled faintly again, ordering without looking up. “Pots de creme for me.” She motioned to him, waiting.
“Oh--oh, um...” Zac hummed to himself, suddenly put on the spot. He hadn’t bothered glancing at the menu, assuming moldy pennies in the pocket wouldn’t cut gloss and thick ham sandwiches. “Um...ham Swiss for me...uh, on rye.” The last part was mumbled miserably.
The waiter was on the verge of saying something, but the woman headed him off. “He’ll take steak cut fries. Deep fried with a root beer float.” And she pushed the two menus aside where they were gathered and carried away with the short order jotted on a worn pad of paper.
“How’d you -- no, never mind. What was--”
“A Skinwalker, or at least I believe it was.” She stared him unblinking in the eye, her expression composed, serene. “There have been five cases related through contact with a single creature. I was tracking it through Greenwich Village. It wasn’t hard to find given you know what to look for.”
“What’re the signs? I mean...unusual color? Strange reactions?” He was guessing at air. “Animals...,”
“Furtiveness, a strange eye color, one that resembles a wild animal’s. Like say a wolf...for instance. Sometimes,” she nodded slightly. “Animals will exhibit odd reactions, though that is rare and only occurs if the walker is prey on the food chain.”
“What is a Skinwalker?” Despite his initial fear, he was interested in her answers.
“A Skinwalker is a native American creature that a dark witch or a dark sorcerer can become to cause harm to an intended victim. They’re very rare, almost a myth in our annals. They mostly occur in the American Southwest, on Indian reservations and highways intersecting heavy native American populated areas.”
“--and you think there’s one in New York?”
She sighed and toyed with the saint relic on her finger. “That’s the problem.” Her gaze drifted upward to his face. “I’m not certain.”
Chapter Four: Legend
When he returned home, Zac had a lot to think over. Certainly, Blackwood had talked of things that were difficult to swallow as truth. His fate hung in the balance of her whims. She’d promised to be in touch whatever that meant. Probably, his cell was tapped or something or multinational companies had cut deals with search browsers to gain access to personal information. Wherever she’d gotten the information from, she’d been spot on about the Catholic University he’d attended.
Checking his messages, he discovered one from a worried Phillip and another from Career Services Center. He listened to Phillip’s first, deciding to call back in the morning. While he rustled up crumbs from the half a sandwich he’d brought back; something scratched at the bathroom door.
“Coming, Stinky.” He called, hurrying to open the door. A large grey streak shot out, leaping after several bounds from the crates serving as furniture, to the fishbowl by the window. Zac was faster and tackled the angry feline before Dr Who went to the great fishbowl in the sky. He carried the struggling cat under his arm back t
o the bathroom, sighing over the odor permeating the small cubby hole.
“You’re definitely going back to your owners tomorrow.” Zac told the cat, dumping the irate fur ball unceremoniously atop the covered wooden toilet seat. With a shower curtain in shreds, he took a quick shower, changing into the same rumpled black sweats from a few nights ago. Truthfully, he hadn’t gotten anything accomplished other than confirming his suspicions. Lounging on the bed, he mulled over the day and knew complacency would get him nowhere fast.
***
Evelyn had said she had to check something out, that had ended her impromptu interview with the resident of Bank street. She hadn’t expected him to remain so persistent. Maybe think he was dreaming, think he’d imagined it. Was anything in this world driven by coincidence? He’d been half-disbelieving, half-credulous. She’d never met anyone like him before. No one wanted to believe when told; they wanted to protect themselves in a cocoon spun of reality.
She couldn’t blame them; sometimes it was better to close one’s eyes and pretend there was nothing in the dark. - Like a child - she idled in traffic, watching the glimmer of lights play on the gleaming red hood outside the tinted windshield. Her aimless thoughts reminded her of Garret’s text message. The police had temporarily placed the Wolff kids in CPS’s custody until they were able to clear the father of potential murder charges. Garret had said they’d moved the kids to a loft in the upper Westside. She thought of trying to arrange an interview, see if that turned up anything but quickly disregarded it. There’d be too much red tape involved with the media firestorm going on.
She also doubted the kids could furnish anything worth checking out. Somewhat disappointed with the day, she gradually turned toward home for a few hours sleep. Then, it was up for a shower and time to clock in a few hours at the office. Though, everything ran smoothly if not sedately in Blackwood’s Manhattan office; she well knew the bond holders were becoming increasingly nervous with the downturn in business. Without producing viable results, a massive sellout could tank an otherwise soluble company if Reno’s estimates on business figures were correct.
Her head buzzing full of cuts and closures, Evelyn at first passed over the incessant ringing of a phone. Her fingers skated over commodity packages and the voicemail she’d had printed out from one of Japan’s leading biochemists. Julian leaned in the doorway, files tucked under his grey sweater-clad arm. “Aren’t you going to answer that?” He nodded to the bzzt sounds clamoring for attention beneath the paper stack she’d just shifted. “Damn.” She exclaimed with little heat, retrieving the cell in a cascade of paper. Reno bent immediately to start picking them up. Evelyn flipped open the phone, reading the words spilling across the screen. She paled, rising.
“Garret...”
“A shootout?”
“No. They just found the Wolff kids dead in pools of blood.”
***
Evelyn got the full story from the special edition noon newscast. Yellow police tape cordoned off the stairwell of a charming several-story apartment building while an attractive brunette reported live on scene. Julian stood behind the sofa, his arms folded, expression in studious concentration.
“Why go back and finish them off?” His female companion puzzled when the report ended.
“Do they need a motive? Humans commit crimes because of greed, lust, passion. All too human emotions. Take something inhuman and you’re left with only raw instinct.” Julian reasoned. “That’s why we are the hunters and they are the hunted. Experience has taught me that the creature will slip up and in that moment when it reveals itself, will be your time to strike.”
Evelyn’s lips pursed, a sign that doubt was clouding her judgment. Taking the remote to hand, she flipped the television off. “I feel as though I’m missing something. Something that’s right in front of me. But, what?” The blank screen offered no answers nor did the silent man standing a few feet away. Gradually, she rose, smoothing the pleats of the ocean blue dress tailored in simple style.
“We know the origin of the Skinwalkers, if, of course, that’s what we’re looking at here.” Julian offered, stepping aside. “The Utes, Hopi, Navajo and other tribes share stories of these creatures. Our very first kept in your family vaults, was a groundskeeper that was hired on your grandfather’s estate. He was preserved for future study since not a lot is known about them.”
“Hmm, live taxidermy. I doubt they keep a network of who’s who, so I can’t simply ask this fellow if he knew where another one of his kind dwelt even if he could still talk.” Evelyn shrugged, wandering over to the side bar and pouring herself a stiff drink. Remembering the man - the creature in question still brought horrible childhood visions to mind. Her grandmother had taken her on a tour of the sub-level of their estate outside Birmingham when she’d been six years of age. She could still smell the horrid stench of the being mounted on a pedestal within a hyper case embedded with containment spells in foreign tongues impossible to pronounce. But, none of that compared to the horror of the inhuman thing’s eyes that followed the passage of one about the room. They glared with hatred, burning with centuries of magical knowledge imprisoned behind a guise of a half-formed human transfigured into a bear.
“It seems almost childish to be afraid of the dark.” She swirled the glass of amber liquid, pensively. “Can we draw a line between the five previous murders to the Windwood complex?”
Reno’s posture straightened, “I’ll get on it now. You have something in mind?”
“Maybe...” and she drained her glass, following him out the door. A few minutes later, in Julian’s private office, they’d drawn up a digital schematic of the places where the last five murders had taken place. Evelyn had insisted the Wolff family remain last; her gut instinct told her they were missing something, some clue that was already laid before their feet.
Drawing a red line between dots, Julian connected them. “West 23rd Street...Murray Hill to Midtown West and Astoria Boulevard. I don’t see it.” He released the mouse and leaned back in his chair. Evelyn leant over his shoulder, frowning. “What’s there,” she pointed to the first location.
“Businesses.”
“I know businesses.”
“Well,” embarrassment colored the hesitation in his tone. “Trader’s Joes, a firing range, beauty parlors, the Flatiron building, commonplace things.”
“I’ve been through there...there were kids, kids at a crosswalk.”
He did a quick search, looking to her for confirmation. “Chelsea Preparatory. They take from preschool to grade five. Three blocks from the first murder. Think it’s a coincidence?”
“There is no such thing as coincidence. The older Wolff girl went to another school in the area. I remember the personal reports.” She turned on heel, heading for the door. Reno foundered in her logic, shaking his head. “But, that assumption doesn’t make sense! To become a Skinwalker, the witch must commit murder of a close relative or some other heinous act to render the soul damned. How could--”
“How...and why?” Evelyn mused, dialing Quinn’s number. The call was answered after three rings; a cautious voice said hello. She wasted little time in asking her question. “How many of the families living in the complex have lost relatives in the last year or so?”
“You called me up for that? And what makes you think I’d know anything?” Quinn groused.
“It’s the only lead I’ve got. Think quickly now.”
“Grandmas? Grandpas?” He sounded exasperated. “Look, people die every hour in this city, that’s just a fact of life.” Quinn seemed on the verge of saying more. “But -”
“But, what?”
“I just...remembered something. A little over a year ago, one of the older Mendoza boys died from a fall down a flight of stairs. The family was originally from Rochester, they moved into this complex looking for a fresh start. Way I heard it is the parents were undergoing rehab for something or other and the three kids were placed in temporary care of the grandmother.
The old lady was senile, leaving the kids to their own devices most of the time. Nobody knows what happened, only that the boy was found dead one evening when a neighbor went to check up on them.”
“Thanks.” She hung up, mouth tightening. Over a light lunch, Evelyn chewed on a salted lemon rind in a vain attempt to soothe her sore throat. Switching over to a tablet computer, she looked up newspaper archives from over a year ago, quickly gaining results within a local spectrum.
‘Teenager Dies In Fall,’ the headline blazed over local dances, Lion’s club events. She passed over the rest, reading all there was; her brow furrowing. It was thought an accident, the boy, Efrain, had lost his footing somewhere below the top step, crashing down an amazingly long flight before ending up in a tangled heap of broken limbs at the bottom.
Evelyn highlighted the next sentence. “Inquest delayed at family’s request. Death ruled as accidental.” Something didn’t yet ring true; she called up Garret and asked him to inquire at the Poughkeepsie police department by phone. He didn’t get back to her until nearly closing.
“They found grass in the kid’s pocket. Everyone thought it was weed naturally. I don’t have the tox report on it so, I can’t say either way.”
“Coarse grass?” She urgently asked. “Similar to grass from a grave?”
“How should I know?” The cop grumbled. “The boys up there said there was something odd about the way he died. Like his neck was broken at an angle impossible for it to have been caused by a fall, at least that’s what the first responders said. They also said there was some weird white substance in his mouth. I talked to three of them before they patched me over to the file room clerk.” Garret explained; in the background, she could hear traffic sounds and the buoyant tones of Garret’s partner, officer Parkin harassing some people over an expired parking meter.
“In other words, they thought he was dead before the fall covered up the crime.”
“Whoa, whoa, you’re getting ahead of yourself here. That’s the suspicion the boys entertained but since the kid was buried pretty quickly, no one had the chance to prove anything. Seems to me a rather straightforward case of trippin’ headlong down a flight of rickety stairs.” Garret pronounced crisply. The line disconnected; Evelyn looked down at the case files Julian had pulled from the archives for her perusal. On the tablet the search queries had found thousands of Mendoza families, but only one with a recent death in New York state.