Crack the Spine, page 6
Frankie’s flurry of clicks on her mouse started the projector’s motor whirring. On the screen behind Frankie’s head, the image changed from solid blue to a picture of a young white woman with strawberry-blonde curls and a friendly, if insecure, smile. “This is Tara Lipscomb, my best friend since the third grade. The last time I spoke to her was on her birthday, last Monday. We’ve talked or texted every day for the past thirteen years, even when I was visiting family in India, which is why I panicked when I couldn’t get in touch with her on Tuesday. Then Wednesday I flew down here to see what was wrong. I persuaded her landlord to let me in. But . . .”
She looked back to the screen. Photos of an empty apartment played through in a slideshow. “Everything was gone. The landlord said the carpet had been replaced. I panicked. I didn’t know what to do, so I called her grandmother. When she didn’t answer, I requested a welfare check from the Portland police, which took another two days to happen. Only then did they tell me her house had burned down the same night Tara vanished. And her grandmother’s dead.” Her hands curled over the lectern. “They think Tara had something to do with it, which is complete BS, as in bullshit.”
“We follow, Miss Singh.” Marcélite laid her purse aside, sat, and laced her fingers together. “I don’t want to sound . . . I’m sympathetic to your loss. But, assuming the two events are related, whatever abducted your friend in New Orleans is also responsible for burning down her grandmother’s home in Portland on the same night. That’s organized and assuredly more than one being, entity, what have you. For our own safety, we do not go after any creatures who can embody the verb ‘swarm.’”
“The money!” Frankie said. “I can pay you thirty thousand dollars. If you find her alive. Twenty, otherwise.” She blinked back her tears. “Just for closure. I can’t proceed alone. Please.”
“Thirty thousand?” Kendall asked. “How do you have that kind of money?”
“Oh. My father owns a game development company. It’s app money. Mostly. But all legit and all mine. Not my parents’.”
Leif subtly cleared his throat. “How do you know the ones who did this are . . . not human?”
“I don’t. Not one hundred percent.” She changed the display to her browser. “But I found the Scalp site on the dark web while I was investigating cases of missing people. It’s like that in the movies, isn’t it? Missing people show up on the dark web all the time in the movies. I didn’t find Tara, obviously. But when I found the Scalp site, it led me down a rabbit hole. A terrifying, extraordinary rabbit hole.” An image of a middle-aged woman at a business conference flashed up on the screen. “This is Angela Harborman. She went missing twelve years ago in Las Vegas. This is the last photo that was taken of her. Several theories abound as to what happened to her. But the main theory is that she was, um, sold on Scalp. This site is . . . did you know people sell human body parts too? All kinds.”
Kendall studied her cup.
“Um,” Frankie continued. “So, I dug into Scalp. Their security is top-notch, as if the CIA leveled up to God mode. But I got glimpses into completed transactions when the payments went through at various banks. After other theories in Angela’s case made me aware of the Lyceum, I started looking for help and cross-referenced their data with hunters on Scalp who never touched human requests in New Orleans. Because you launder your money through Morel & Sons Ceramics, I was able to figure out who you all were. You should really consider using bitcoin transactions exclusively to avoid being traced, FYI.”
Silence hung uncomfortably as no one made eye contact with Frankie. Kendall took a slow pull from her cold, bitter coffee while she thought. If the abductors were human and organized well enough to cover up a murder in one state and a kidnapping across the country, it was bad. If they weren’t human, it was even worse. But they needed the money.
Frankie weakly spoke. “She’s been gone for six days, and I can’t move forward alone. Without her grandmother, I’m all Tara has left.”
“Where would we even begin?” Jian asked. “We don’t have a forensics lab, you know? Not that they left any evidence from the sounds of it.”
“I have a suspect,” Frankie said. She switched the view to the Scalp site and unfiltered the results. Several human listings appeared, mostly generic requests for organs and appendages. Some had names listed. Sadly, those listings typically disappeared within a couple of hours. “It’s not a perfect match. No one requested her by name, but I thought maybe this is a place to begin.” Her cursor highlighted a recently filled order for the right hand of a human female. Opening a new browser, she entered a bit.ly, bringing her to a pastel-pink-and-gold command prompt. The screen behind her went dark as she typed away. “Most of the orders for human body parts in New Orleans have been filled by this user.” The projection returned to display an IP address and the profile information for a user named Cutt3r65. “I’ve tracked down as much info as I could, which isn’t much. Every time they fill a bounty, they change their alias, increasing the number at the end by one. He has updated it twice in the past week.”
Intrigued, Kendall asked, “Can you tell us anything else about him?”
Marcélite cleared her throat.
“I don’t have a name,” Frankie said, “just a physical address to a rental. The landlord accepts cash as payment every month, I believe, as it never lands in his bank account.”
Marcélite drew a deep breath when Kendall looked her way. Ripples and swarms, they avoided. This could cause both. “Can we have a moment, Miss Singh?”
“Yes, I’ll . . .” Her hand went to her laptop and brought up the pic of Tara before she left the room. Smart. Manipulative but smart.
Kendall watched her walk down the hall to a point where she closed in on herself and crouched with her face in her hands. “We can’t exactly say ‘no,’ can we?” Her gaze went to Leif, who agreed with a nod.
“The hell we can’t,” replied Marcélite. “I’m not saying we should necessarily.” She got up and closed the door before closing the blinds too. “I know how harsh that sounds, but there are too many questions here. This is bigger than anything we’ve taken on, for a damn good reason.”
Diego sheepishly said, “I want to help her find her friend.”
“She’s already hacked the Lyceum,” Marcélite said. “How many more risks is she willing to take that will put us in harm’s way?”
That comment reminded Kendall of the powder-blue folder in front of her. She opened it. Her missing-person photo had been used for her file. It listed her adopted name and her current alias. It detailed how she had faked her death and who her current associates were. However, it was the third line down from her birthdate that caught her attention. “‘Acceptable loss.’ What does that mean?”
Marcélite flipped open her folder, glanced down, and let it close. “It means the Lyceum isn’t going to save us. Or retaliate if we’re lost.”
“What?” Jian asked. “Why? Aren’t they supposed to defend us? We’re human.” He raised one shoulder. “OK, mostly.”
“They are not to be trusted,” Leif said bitterly.
Agreeing with a nod, Marcélite explained, “The Lyceum maintains a balance. They’re technically on humanity’s side, but they’re not our champions.” She tapped her lavender folder with her nails. “Clearly.” She held back her thoughts. This was exactly what she had always tried to shield them from, the dark roots of her warnings and caution around every job they considered, every hunt they had investigated.
Kendall got up and moved closer to the screen to study Tara’s freckled image. “What are the chances she’s still alive?”
When she turned back, everyone wore a morose expression. But Diego said, “Don’t make assumptions. Remember, I was.”
Run out of his home by his father and brother for being gay, Diego had lived as a runaway on the streets of St. Louis. Trusting as he was, he had been easy pickings for a local hive of vampires. They kept him alive as food until a group of marauders invaded and burned out the nest. One of them had happened to be a friend of Marcélite’s and had known exactly where to send Diego for recovery.
“Could it be vampires?” Leif asked skeptically. “They are not this careful.”
“I’d like to find out,” Kendall said, returning to her chair. She raised her bandaged hand to call for a vote. When Marcélite drew up, Kendall pressed. “I can’t ignore this. We can’t. Not when it’s shoved in our faces. Even if Tara is dead, others may soon follow.”
“It’s the way of the world, Kendall. I know how I sound—”
“And I say we’re better than that.”
Leif raised his hand.
Then Jian, who flinched under Marcélite’s gaze. “It’s twenty grand.”
Kendall kicked him under the table.
“Maybe thirty, but definitely twenty if we find out what happened to her, right?”
“Could we call Rick and his marauders?” Diego asked. “This is exactly the kind of tragedy they’d want to stop.”
Marcélite kept her expression blank. “I haven’t spoken to Rick in months. Last I heard, they were in British Columbia.”
“It doesn’t matter,” replied Kendall. “We shouldn’t wait for them to start investigating anyway.” She waved her raised hand. “C’mon, Marcélite. If not for the karma boost, thirty thousand is not peanuts.”
“What if this Cutt3r65 is human?” Marcélite asked.
“Then he’s a serial killer.”
When Diego raised his hand, Marcélite bit off what she was going to say and let out a long exhale. “All right. Like Momma said, prioritize the good. May the Lord and Hecate watch over us.”
Chapter 6: Cutt3r65
Pulling up to the address in the Chalmette area Frankie had texted her, Kendall eased the van to a stop by the curb in front of the neighboring house. Cutt3r65 rented a worn single-story white bungalow. The cracked concrete driveway stained with fresh oil spots was empty. The shutters had been painted to match the black bars over the windows. Despite the overcast sky creating a darker-than-normal afternoon, only the porch light was on as far as she could tell. Foil and old bed linens prevented any peeking through the windows. “It doesn’t look like anyone’s here.” She put the van in park and cut the engine.
“We’re here,” Jian said, unlatching his seatbelt. He pulled a black tie out of the glove box and slipped it around his collar. “Be a shame to waste the chance to poke around.”
“Eh . . . I don’t know,” Kendall replied. “Woman’s intuition says to sit still and learn what we can learn.”
“Bah, don’t worry.” Jian smacked the Book of Mormon on his palm. “We’ve got God on our side. Just missing one thing.” He lifted the leg of his slacks to show the empty ankle holster.
Kendall expected backup from Leif, but he had already knotted his red tie. “Guys, think about this. We know whoever lives here is dangerous.”
“Hence the gun,” Jian replied.
After removing it from the door compartment, Kendall handed her Glock 19 over reluctantly. She should have stayed across the river. While the three of them were playing looky-loo at the neighborhood’s future haunted house, Marcélite and Diego enjoyed tea with Frankie and tried to determine if magic could help them locate Tara Lipscomb, which was doubtful without any hair or possessions belonging to Tara.
“If Tara is in there,” Leif said, “and she still lives, we must try to save her without interference while we can.”
Jian grinned triumphantly. “Exactly.”
As they approached the house, Kendall cranked down her window a crack to listen. The smell of impending rain wafted in with a chill breeze. She shoved her icy hands into her jacket pockets. Leif knocked loudly a few times. When no one answered, he knocked again.
A car approached on the street. Yet it passed without the driver ever looking the house’s way.
Jian tried the knob. The door drifted open.
“What are you doing?” Kendall whispered to herself. Avoiding something, Jian took an exaggerated step over the threshold. “No. No. No. No. No.” Leif gestured for her to stay put. She emphatically shook her head. But he followed Jian inside. “Dumbasses!”
She got out of the van and checked the safety on her Taser. Only then did she realize someone was watching her through the neighboring house’s window. An elderly white woman in a green bathrobe and curlers stood dumbstruck with her hands on the curtains. Kendall pulled out her wallet and flipped it open as though it meant something before waving the woman back from the window. Despite the skepticism in the woman’s eyes, she moved away.
“Great,” Kendall muttered as she hustled to the porch. “Yes, please call the police. That’s the only thing that would make this better.”
Recognizing what Jian had stepped over in the threshold, Kendall avoided the sunken board in the floor protruding several rusted nails. She left the door ajar to brighten the furniture-free room. Hanging stagnant, the air held an oppressive heat and reeked of rotten meat. Holes in the living room’s drywall suggested someone had busted the place up with a sledgehammer, littering the floor with debris. Debris that hid more nail boards, some intentional and others that had fallen from the ceiling, leaving openings straight into the attic.
The most obvious takeaway to her: This was not their guy. “There’s no way whoever lives here is sophisticated enough to replace his victim’s carpet to avoid leaving DNA behind. I doubt whoever lives here knows what DNA is.”
Both Jian and Leif had unsheathed their weapons already, Leif wielding his machete like a short sword. They dragged their feet, scraping the detritus across the floorboards on their way to the short hallway. Three rooms made up the rest of the house, one to the left, one to the right, and one at the end.
Jian snickered at Leif. “Yeah, OK, Beowulf. You can drop the stance now. I’ve got a gun. That means I’ll lead.”
Leif narrowed his eyes at him. “Beowulf was Swedish.”
“Yeah, well, I’m Chinese. People don’t always get that right either.” Jian raised the gun and rounded the doorless entry to the right. He rubbed the back of his hand across his mouth and shied away from what he saw. “Don’t look in the kitchen.”
Leif did and immediately dropped his gaze, giving Kendall enough encouragement to squash her curiosity, as though the buzz of flies and the stench had not. Machete in hand, Leif opened the door across the hall.
Kendall stepped up to peer around his shoulder. Purses and wallets had been nailed to the paneled walls. What must have been over a hundred had been amassed in the madman’s collection. In the attached bathroom, loose clothing had been piled as high as the showerhead.
“Trophies,” Jian said.
Kendall swallowed and eased the door open farther. “Do you think one of these belonged to Frankie’s friend?” She grabbed the closest that appeared new, a mint-green backpack, and ripped it free of its nail.
An angry roar flooded the house from above. The house trembled, casting dust up from the floor and off the walls. Pots sloshed and thunked, cascading sludge and brown water to the kitchen’s patchy linoleum. Wallets and keys clattered to the floor behind her.
Leif’s chiseled jawline pointed to the living room. “There.”
Out of a hole in the living room ceiling, stringy gray hair hung down from a balding pale head. Its beady eyes followed them. The head withdrew. A lithe man dropped from the attic onto the debris-strewn floor. His greasy hair trailed down to his stained wifebeater. Lacking most of his teeth, the man had spit strung between his snarling lips. He tensed his arms, and the trophy room door slammed closed behind Kendall.
Her rapid pulse shook her confidence, freezing her in place. What was this thing? Human? Telekinetic? Kendall took a step back, out of the hairy sludge oozing from the kitchen, and searched behind them.
The man howled.
A wave of pure force flung her and Leif into the back room. She slammed into the floor. Leif crushed a mound of garbage bags and loosed a shriek that dulled to a groan. Kendall pushed herself up from the floor and noticed the nail board a few inches from her eye. Her Taser was gone, lost somewhere in the sea of garbage that filled the room. She kicked aside a stack of pizza boxes, hunting for it. Many had the spoiled pizza still inside.
Gunshots blared behind her.
Jian stood his ground in the hallway. His Taotie gluttony spouted blue flickers and devoured them as the inbred freak waved away the bullets and punched the air. As the man neared, the aura around Jian lit up as brilliantly blue as his Trans Am.
Kendall abandoned her search and helped Leif out of the garbage. Red splotched his sleeve in a relatively straight row. It was then she noticed the razor blades screwed into the window frames. The backdoor’s jamb was full of them too.
Jian blocked the magic he tried to throw their way and heeled the man in the chest, sending him floundering back onto the debris pile. The lunatic’s backwater accent garbled what he shouted. He threw his arm out, his palm aimed at Jian.
“Jian,” Leif called as another blue flare lit the hall. “Bring him out!”
Kicking the path free of the putrid trash to the door, Kendall inspected the area for more booby traps. She tapped the doorknob with her finger. Nothing happened. She turned the knob and pulled it open.
The burst of sunlight into the house sent the man howling in rage.
Predictably, jagged metal promised injury with each step down to the lawn. Kendall crouched to leap to the grass, then froze. Every few feet, broken bones and metal prongs jutted out of the turf from the steps to the smokehouse and around to the corrugated sheets lining the fence. “We can’t.” She turned back and scanned the room for a weapon.
As directed, Jian had begun kiting the man to the back of the house. A blue blaze lit up the room, which meant he was close.
Leaving the door open, Leif brought her to the interior wall and positioned himself close to the hallway entrance. The plan was obvious, sneak attack the freak, so long as Jian didn’t accidentally give their position away.
