Jack Russell woke to the afternoon sun slapping him in the face, out of his long slumber. Not having the nerve to look himself over for fear of what he’d find he just leant back in the cardboard and blinked his eyes repeatedly.
It didn’t matter if he looked himself over though. He could feel the blood that was not his own, dried and coating his baking flesh underneath the sun. Between his fingers and on his chest and chin. He could smell that scent of copper in the air - even with his own regular nose - trapped in the beard that stood in evidence of his own recent captivity.
He winced at the sensation and the knowledge that it carried.
How many more? How many more lives would he take?
He climbed out of the pile of boxes and walked over to a tap on one side of the building. Scrubbing his beard as best he could.
Red water fell to the floor, but it wasn’t all coming out. It couldn’t be. The hair still stank as it had been dried too long.
Jack Russell sighed and looked around at what he had to work with.
He shattered a window and after a few minutes of nervous consideration managed to summon up the courage to attempt to shave himself with a large segment of broken glass.
Without a mirror, and with a bloodied hand, his face was now patchy, but the beard was mostly gone. Checking his reflection in some other glass he now looked… Well, still like a vagrant. But the beard was gone and he was less recognizable to anyone who saw him when he had the beard.
Being covered in blood wouldn’t help him look any less conspicuous though, so he returned to the tap and did his best to rinse away the fresh blood.
Next would be clothes. He didn’t need anything fancy, just something that would be bare-minimum acceptable in public. It was a warm day. He snuck outside in his sheet toga and was lucky enough to find that the building was near a clothes store. He furtively went through their garbage out the back and found some foul smelling seconds. He took them back to his building and ran them under water for a few minutes.
It was a warm summer day, the clothes would dry soon enough and it looked like he’d gone swimming with his clothes on. Jack knew they only had to last a few hours now, as he saw the rapidly descending sun.
In an ideal world he’d lock himself away for the next few days, but with this being a far from ideal world the best he could do for everyone was find himself solitude. He pulled a Cubs cap down over his brow and started walking north.
Low, in the pit of his stomach a deep rumbling growled and he begged it to stop.
A man of small stature with a ratty moustache and dark red shades stepped into the boardroom like he owned the building.
Ten of the dozen, some of the wealthiest, most powerful people across the United States slid back from the table as one, almost like a wave.
The Profile smiled, and let out a single snort of laughter.
Now that’s power. He could practically feel sphincters tightening. In two or three cases he knew that was literally the case.
“Your timeliness is appreciated, Profile. Take a seat.” Said Carruthers, as always looking to assert control as if he held this court of supposed equals.
Another snort. This time he lets them see the wide smile flash before he punishes him for it.
“Carruthers. Still can’t bring yourself to say ‘Thanks’ or ‘Sorry’ in a public meeting, huh? You know even though you seem to think that being that way comes across as a sign of strength, it really is a weak fucking part of your character. As is your weakness for chasing Guilfoyle out there around in her underwear with a ping pong paddle…” The Profile was in rhythm now, pacing the room whilst never taking his eyes off of Carruthers. Reading every twitch.
“And the way you try and domineer over her so that she’ll keep her mouth shut and accept the fault when you. Can’t. Even. Get it up. Wow... You are indeed a very insecure, fat fuck. Good Lord!” “I’ll kill you!” He spat between clenched teeth.
The Profile hunched over him with his palms on the table, eyeballing the fat man in his tight suit.
“You mean you’ll TRY again. What’ll it be this time, Carruthers? Poison? A bomb in my car? Surprise me, if you can… Maybe the eighth time will be the charm.”Mrs Conway smirked at the pasting Carruthers was taking, whilst he silently fumed.
“Settle down, Conway. You haven’t had that kind of smile on your face for three… no, two and a half weeks. And that was because it was your birthday. Oh-Ho! And you didn’t even want it! Wow! Ha! You didn’t even want it, you just didn’t like the idea of that old bastard to get away with not trying to get you there… You just let him work away on you down south for 35… Whoa! Forty minutes?! You let that old bastard go to town for forty minutes, knowing he wasn’t getting anywhere? And then you had that limp dick old bag of skin work himself in the bathroom afterwards. And that! That’s what you were thinking about later as you went yourself, with that smile you just made at Carruthers on your face. Because going to town on yourself when thinking about the guy facing that level of humiliation and debasement is the only thing that can still turn your motor over.” “Fuck you!”
“No thanks. Not a second time. Unlike your husband, I’m not into that kind of debasement…” He held his hand up to high five Bruno DelRayne who was seated by him, and as DelRayne raised his arm the Profile pulled away.
“You know what… I’d rather not. We both know where that hand has been…” The Profile walked back to his place at the boardroom by the projector.
“Anyway… have a job to do here today. Decorum. Compose ourselves…” He flashed that smile once again and hit the button for the first slide, which just had the name “Marc Spector” in big bold block letters.
“For reasons I’m sure we’re all aware of, Marc Spector himself is not susceptible to my own personal attempts to read and determine his own movements. Fortunately, however, he has surrounded himself with two others who don’t share his ability to be so very difficult… I’m sure everyone here is familiar enough with Spector’s file anyway, so without further ado: Jean Paul DuChamp.”The Profile scanned the room for any signs of interruption, before continuing.
“DuChamp, born in St-Germain-Des-Pres, his family… you know what, we’ll skip to the more relevant. He’s got a bohemian personality, fancies himself a connoisseur of many things, extremely proud of his French heritage, oh, he’s also a closeted homosexual, like Simmons tries to be…”“Hey!”
“Pipe down, Simmons. It’s 2018. Nobody cares. Except Carruthers, Landry and Casey nobody else cares, and giving a shit about what those shitbags think is far more concerning than being gay could ever be. Oh… and except Blundell, who can now see you’re bothered by this and is planning to extort you...”“...anyway, he joined the French Foreign Legion as a sniper, has tremendous patience, transferred to become a pilot and after a successful military career was taken on by the DGSE. Which is where he met Spector in 2009. The two seem joined at the hip, platonically, at least as far as we can tell on Spector’s side so don’t go getting excited, Simmons...”“Fuck you!”
“...which is more than we can say about this young woman. Marlene Alraune.” He pressed the button for the next slide.
“I’ve inspected some footage from Luxor International Airport, there wasn’t much to go on, but something has happened to Spector that is resulting in compassion and even some amount of pity from both DuChamp and Ms Alraune.”“Now this is a damaged, vulnerable woman… her parents were separated and estranged due to focus on their own work, she only recently got back in touch with her estranged father - who’s an esteemed archaeologist and egyptologist. She married young, which collapsed upon itself within a matter of months. I only saw her for a few minutes, but she seems almost as damaged as Spector in her own ways. Daddy issues, abandonment issues, just generally issues by the barrelful.”“Back to her father, Dr Peter Alraune died in the past 48 hours in the middle of a dig. It was known his daughter was also on site. It appears to have been looted by Raoul Bushman and his merry band of violent mercenary nationstate-dreaming bastards. This may be the point of connection between Spector and DuChamp and herself, as we last knew Spector and Duchamp to be associating themselves with Bushman.”“Given the current relationship between Alraune and Spector…” The Profile hit the next slide, it showed Spector and Alraune standing at the airport with Spector filling out a manifest, whilst Marlene held his arm and turned back talking to a smiling Jean Paul DuChamp.
“I think it’s safe to assume that relationship with Bushman has now frayed.”“I’m not entirely sure what’s happened to Spector, although I’m told his gait seems to suggest some kind of a wound. But from the body language of Alraune and DuChamp it seems safe to assume that they don’t plan on going anywhere he’s not in the immediate future.”“Well how does that help--” Carruthers started.
“As for Jack Russell…” the Profile continued, unbothered by the interruption,
“...incidents from last night have his location somewhere in this region.”Next slide, a large map of Chicago with a large red circle around Southside Chicago areas Oakland, Bridgeport, Douglas, Bronzeville and Chinatown.
“Reports on his physiology suggest that after the transformation, he’s likely to be exhausted. Especially since the length of his previous captivity and careful control of his nutritional intake resulted in him having less than adequate dietary requirements.”Another push of the button, a photo of a crime scene.
“Honestly, I’m surprised he didn’t succumb to total bloodlust and just begin an open hunt. Figures suggest three attacks and none were stripped to the bone. Suggests his animal instincts were still focused on flight. He ate on the run out of necessity. Whether that will be the same tonight, I remain doubtful.”“My suggestion is to box in Russell and use him to solve both of our problems. It’s in Spector’s nature to fight for a cause. I suggest we give him one. Get both within proximity and let natural instincts take their course. The werewolf’s natural instinct to feed, Spector’s natural instinct to respond to violence with violence. Then we just have a team stand-by to back up both parties when they’ve punched themselves out. For PR, claim it as an animal control incident.”From the back of the room McLean rocked forwards and out of the shadows of the dark corner at the back of the room, he smirked at Carruthers and then sensing the Profile’s eyes on him he looked down at his feet.
“Oh no… what did you..? Fuck! You slimy fuck!” The Profile pointed at McLean in accusatory rage.
“What?” Mrs Conway asked. She loathed the smarmy mutant freak, but still had the same respect for his abilities as everyone seated at the boardroom.
“McLean here, has a problem with Carruthers… and myself, really. He’s been talking to the drones out there and caught word of when Spector’s touching down at O’Hare airport. He’s sent a team down there and tipped off one of Waller’s stooges that he’s doing it. He’s trying to do a deal, aren’t you McLean? He’s trying to make himself Waller’s lapdog here, so he can have power to slap Carruthers around and make him and myself look soft and weak. Trying to pull power moves, huh?”“Well, what he hasn’t done is thought of the consequences. He’s trying the direct approach with a man who has been purpose-built to handle the direct approach. The cost of direct confrontation, compared with picking him up after giving him our prescribed purpose… well, for your sake let’s just hope your team doesn’t get what they’re after…”Marc and Marlene stood by as they watched their French friend struggle with getting his maximum two cartons of imported cigarettes, another 100-box of cigarillos and 6 litres of French wines (still and fortified) through customs.
“Is he always like this?” Marlene asked.
“I have no idea, but I’m getting the distinct feeling that’s the case.”“Well, at least we didn’t have to wait for our luggage to come around the carousel.”“That’s true. It would have been a nightmare getting the other thing through on a commercial flight as well.”“Mmm,” she agreed non-committedly,
“When’s that clear all of the TSA rigamarole?”“They said if I check in a week it’ll likely be all good to pick up.”Marlene looked up at him with an expression of concern. There had been no argument about the item, he was adamant enough that she could tell he wouldn’t be questioned on it. But where does one keep a 6 foot statue of an Ancient Egyptian god? And what mentality was he in for demanding it in the first place?
DuChamp walked over, finally finished with his claims.
“Magnifique! Ready to go! So any thoughts on how to get to this place?”“He said he’d send a car.” Marlene relied.
The three stopped as they saw a short, man wearing a driver’s hat in a black suit and tie holding a card that read ‘Spector’.
“I’m Marc Spector.” Marc said awkwardly, in a way that belied the fact that he still wasn’t sure how that name felt. He reached into his pocket to produce his passport when the man assured him that it would be quite alright.
“My boss made sure I was familiar with your face. The card is more in case you saw me first.” Marc tilted his head as the man spoke.
The three followed the shorter man to the car, which turned out to be an unblemished white stretch limousine. The three piled into the back, whilst the short man donned driving gloves, so as to not mark the white leather interior on the steering wheel and gear shift.
“I trust you all had a good flight, sirs and madam?”“Very good, thank you, Mister--” Marlene started.
“Samuels.” Marc finished.
"You’re the man who was on the phone."“That’s right, sir. Very good.” He smiled into the rear vision mirror, until he saw Marc’s contemplative expression from the back. He was puzzling it out. The smile fell from Samuels’ face.
Samuels drove well, he was comfortable at the wheel of this awkward sized monster, but still cautiously checked his mirrors readily. It prompted Marc to sit forward and face sideways, checking between Samuels and the others at the rear.
With another glance to the mirror, Samuels shifted into the left lane as they started to head into a tunnel.
“Why are we being followed and why have you been checking the mirrors like you were expecting it?” Marc spoke up. Jean Paul and Marlene pulled their heads out of the mini-bar and looked around. He was right. Three black cars of the same make and model were trying to surreptitiously follow the limo several cars back.
“Very good, sir.” Samuels said, with a wide smile on his face.
“But don’t worry. The problem is being taken care of. As you said, it was expected.”Behind them, in the tunnel, a red Nissan coupe swerved awkwardly, blocking both rows of traffic. Above them, a pair of African American youths spray painted over the traffic cameras. The black cars were halted as the limousine continued through the tunnel as the road took a gentle left.
Samuels hit the brakes and came to a stop. He pressed a button and ties that held the numberplates severed and dropped them to the street. A man ran from across the road in an unkempt jacket, tie and hat.
“Everybody out. Our ride’s across the street.” Samuels turned and said to the trio.
The three piled out of the limo and saw a smaller yellow cab across the road. Samuels picked up the numberplates and ran over to the other man. Giving him his hat and suit jacket and driving gloves. The unkempt man gave Samuels his hat, which Samuels held out at a distance between thumb and forefinger. He jumped into the driver’s seat, flicking the dirty hat into the passenger seat and checked on the three crammed in the back of the taxi.
“As we pass them again, try not to look back at the scene. We don’t need the attention and we don’t have the people in place to lose them twice.”The cab drove back past the black cars on the other side of the street. Men in suits were remonstrating with an elderly white woman in a blouse and apron who was having none of their attitude.
The cab drove the trio onwards to picturesque Grant Mansion.
5 miles beyond the tunnel, the support team pulled up alongside a spotless white stretch limosine parked overlooking Lake Michigan. Men got out, with firearms drawn.
“Wind down the window and keep your hands up! People in the back, get out with your hands over your heads!”
Power windows wound the drivers window down autiomatically revealing an aging homeless man sitting in the driver’s seat with his hands above his head.
“Greetings and salutations, good sirs! How may I be of assistance to you gentlemen today? I regret to inform you that I am but a solitary traveller today, as you’ll find if you open the doors and give the passenger seats a closer inspection…”He held a single finger up to get the men to pause whilst he worked the central locking.
The men scanned the passenger section with guns raised.
“Shit! They’re not here! They’ve pulled a switch. Call McLean.”
Flint kicked back in his chair and swigged his coffee. This was getting downright tedious. His partner Gwenn had called in sick on back-to-back days and the unit was preserving manpower and had an internal rule of keeping single officers as the detective on duty. He drained his cup and tossed it across the room, where it banked off a small Chicago Bulls backboard that some detective had brought in twenty years ago and fell perfectly into the garbage bin beneath.
“Screw this…” grumbled Flint, as he got up from his desk and decided to see what else was happening in the building. He walked around and tapped on the door to the Organized Crime floor. A smile greeted him from Officer Jazorsky, as she hit a button which unlocked the magnetic door. He walked in and asked what was happening.
“Oh, not much. Fitz and Kawalski are taking down their board. Inside tip, Flint. I think the drinks are going to be flowing over at The Beat Kitchen.”
The Beat Kitchen was a local cop bar. As far as Flint was concerned it was a cop bar due to proximity only, being on the same Belmont Avenue that the Department Building they was based out of. Fitz and Kawalski were both young detectives though, and of questionable taste. Flint suspected that even if it wasn’t nearby it was the kind of place that would have been their choice anyway.
“Can I go through?”“Sure thing, Flint.”
Flint wrapped on the door and walked in before permission came. Fitz was boxing up a pinboard of a now defunct crime family. Flint could make out the name “Fasinera” going into the box.
“So, you boys just cracked one, huh?”“Well… as it happens. We just had one fall into our laps that solved itself. Still, doesn’t hurt department numbers.” said Kawalski.
“Solved itself?” Flint enquired.
“Vince Fasinera fell down a flight of stairs. With witnesses in attendance. No messy mob hits. No revenge killings. The innerworkings of the organization was mainly kept in his head. Heir wasn’t old enough to get into the family business. They’re done. Cold close.” replied Kawalski.
“So whaddaya say, Flint? Brewskis at the Beat Kitchen?”
“Reckon I might have to give it a miss this time.” Flint’s idea of a cop’s night was closer to a Tom Waits album and two bottles of bourbon, than Bud Lights and newfangled hippity pop music with a bunch of hipsters. That was a young man’s game.
“Captain’s in for debriefing in fifteen. Just figured I’d see what was going on with the young climbers over here.”“Ha! No young climbers over here, Flint. Just true po-lice who caught an easy one.”
“Well, good to hear.” Flint walked away and heard the pair high-fiving behind him.
Flint waved to Jazorsky, the pair trading smiles as Flint walked back to his floor and his desk in Central Detectives.
It was almost time to hear the bear report. And follow the progress of CPD’s own most recent white whale. "Just so long as nobody expects to call ME Ishmael." Flint thought to himself.
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