Arrival By Wrath Part 10

It wasn't far away, either. Instantly, he drew his weapon. Moving from his steady pace, Preston sprinted down the street as the screams grew louder. His eyes darted from alley to alley on both sides of the road, noticing a sudden lack of people on the sidewalk with him.

Another yelp crawling with scared hysteria helped him hone in on the source, only about half a block ahead. He rounded the corner of a building to see two men accosting a young woman. He knew immediately it was a simple mugging, possibly a rape in progress. What took him by surprise was how bold the criminals were getting. It was a daring daylight crime in a populated area. Such occurrences were becoming more and more common in recent months.

Chicago's drug problem was beginning to put further pressure on the already thin police force, and criminals were beginning to take notice. Preston thought back to the interview he'd given recently. He had told the unattractive reporter that the inner cities would be warzones if Bloodstrife had a different effect on the mind, a tendency toward violence against others. It looks like it doesn't matter, the Detective said in the midst of the crime in progress. It's what they'll do to get the drug that'll turn this place in to a warzone, now won't it?

The populous of Chicago, the uninvolved and the innocent, the ignorant and the apathetic, were beginning to take notice as well. The people on the street hadn't vanished by mere coincidence. They intentionally left the scene as soon as the screams began. It was mere luck Preston had been there.

"Freeze," Preston yelled, his command echoing in the alley as he aimed his weapon. "Police! Let her go."

Both men turned instantly, allowing the woman to take advantage of the opening and run screaming toward the detective. She almost tripped into him as she pa.s.sed, stumbling in a panicked frenzy, but caught herself on the wall. Preston tried to reach out and keep her calm, but she was gone in moments, rus.h.i.+ng out into the street and away from his line of sight. He heard her screams gradually fade without taking his eyes off the men who had barely moved during the whole ordeal.

Preston remained focused on the thugs, sizing them up. They were young kids, no older than eighteen by the look of them. There was something off about them as well. I think "twitchy" is the word you're looking for, the Detective added.

Yes, he realized as they continued to face him, showing no fear. He saw the disheveled youths clearly. The first one wore a short-sleeve s.h.i.+rt and jeans. He was tan, well-groomed, and clean-shaven, hardly the type one would normally see accosting a woman in an alley. But the short sleeves offered a clear view of the kid's arms. They had clearly visible black veins on both of his limbs creeping out from beneath the fabric.

The other kid was wearing a long sleeved s.h.i.+rt with khaki pants. His hair was brown and clipped short, more than likely a haircut he'd given to himself. Preston a.s.sumed his arms were in just as bad a shape as his friends'. Then, upon closer inspection, he saw the light tips of fading veins present just beyond the border of his collar.

Preston's mind raced with images from the hospital. The chest of the long sleeved youth was probably covered in veins as well. He was more than a new recruit. He'd been using steadily for some time. It also meant it would be much harder for him to kick the addiction, even if he dropped the knife and checked himself into the hospital just down the street at that very moment.

Instead, he would make things difficult, like they always did.

Short Sleeves still had a knife drawn from when he'd been tormenting the woman. Preston noticed that Long Sleeves had a pistol holstered in the front of his pants, but was apparently smart enough not to draw it. It was a small silver handgun, not something with stopping power, but it drew the detective's attention.

Both suspects were still far enough down the alley not to be a significant threat.

"Drop the knife," Preston shouted, his throat still shooting echoes of lumbering pain from Gluttony's rampage. The detective winced after his voice cracked slightly upon issuing the command. It portrayed a message of fear to the perps, and that meant weakness. Jack's not here to save you this time, the Detective said, continuing to spurt out commentary without limit. "You, with the gun, I want your hands up, as high as you can reach them," he ordered fiercely, attempting to gain back command.

Although Long Sleeves complied, the other stood motionless, his knife hanging loosely in his hand. Still, neither showed the slightest ounce of fear.

Preston was again reminded of the man in the hospital bed. His emotional state had s.h.i.+fted dramatically at the drop of a hat and without apparent reason. Either of them could snap at any moment. He didn't see this ending well, but knew he still had the advantage.

Preston began fumbling with his pocket, trying to bring out his cellphone while holding the gun steady. The men stood quietly, their faces blank. Despite their lack of emotion, each suspect appeared exhausted. Dark bags hung under each of their barely open, bloodshot eyes.

While dialing, the detective kept a close watch, sizing them up. He realized their clothes were relatively clean. More than likely, they had recently liberated them from someone else.

"This is Detective Preston Burroughs," Preston said, finally getting his phone out of his pocket and dialing 911. "I have two men at gunpoint about three blocks south of Chicago General. I need backup."

After receiving confirmation from the 911 operator, he began moving his phone toward his pocket. He'd only looked away from the two men for a moment before someone approached from behind, placing him in a violent headlock. The shock was monumental. The phone clattered on the ground as Preston let out a stiff groan. Short Sleeves took notice of the detective's impairment and cleared a distance of about twenty feet without much hesitation, despite Preston waving the gun about erratically in the melee.

The gun was thrown from his hand before he knew what hit him as Short Sleeves ripped it from his grasp. Moments after hearing the weapon strike the ground, Preston was forced into the alley. He let out a few m.u.f.fled yells, but the street remained deserted. Preston knew that the ordinary people weren't going to respond the same way he had, not since things had taken such a turn for the worse.

The person who had him in a headlock threw Preston against the wall. He struck the brick hard, sending flares of pain shooting across his head. The detective tried to get himself together, focusing on the face of the man who had accosted him from behind. Preston's eyes flew open wide with shock, then shrunk into a restrained rage as he saw the homeless man. It was Jay's face staring only a few inches away.

"I bet this guy has some cash," the man said to his accomplices, who had now moved to join their comrade. "Maybe even more than that b.i.t.c.h he let get away."

"Are you crazy?" Preston yelled, aiming his tirade primarily at Jay. "I'm a G.o.ddam cop! I just called for backup. They're going to be here any second!"

Short Sleeves grew visibly angrier. His neck twitched while he grabbed Preston's s.h.i.+rt. He tightened his hands into fists, trapping him in an iron grip. The addict continued to pin him against the brick wall as Jay moved off behind him.

"I . . . I don't like you already," the man said, starting in a normal tone, then ascending to a scream. "You're too d.a.m.n sure of yourself!"

Preston's eyes grew wider as he looked down at the man's arms. The veins pulsated and turned darker as he grew angrier. Looking at the other two men, the detective saw the spreading sickness peek above both Long Sleeves and now Jay's collars. They moved like long spider's legs, crawling awkwardly beneath their skin. Sweat began to trickle off them, almost without restraint.

All three of them were far worse than those he'd just seen in the hospital. According to Shannon, they would probably all be terminal if the veins didn't go away. Detox wouldn't save them-nothing could, and from the looks of it, they knew it.

His thoughts recoiled, rolling back to the newspaper interview and telling the reporter how it was practically impossible to overdose. How could he have been so wrong? Had he been that out of touch this whole time?

"Give me the knife," Short Sleeves said to his friends, still yelling in Preston's face, rattling the detective's ears. Small droplets of the man's spit speckled him on the cheek.

Apparently, Preston now gathered, the man had dropped the weapon when running up to get him. Short Sleeves reached backward blindly with an open hand. His voice was burnt out and hoa.r.s.e, no doubt from screaming in constant daily outbursts.

All four men paused as the sound of sirens made its way in to the alley. The three addicts were twitching more now, almost as if s.h.i.+vering. The fabric around their necks and under their armpits was soaked through. Drops of sweat glistened on Short Sleeve's arms and face. His breath offered a potent mixture of rotting, neglected teeth and alcohol.

Short Sleeves was handed a knife. Jay produced his own knife and Long Sleeves drew his gun. Preston was breathing heavily, no longer trying to mask his fear.

"Drop 'em!" another voice shouted from the street into the alley. Preston turned to see two Unis he didn't recognize. Although identifying himself as a cop on the phone, the situation had changed. The police wouldn't know his face because they were from a different precinct. There were now three criminals instead of two, and he no longer had them at gunpoint.

Quickly, Short Sleeves pulled Preston away from the wall, positioning the detective between the thugs and the police. The detective went along with it, now keenly aware that he was precariously positioned between two groups of people aiming deadly weapons at him. The man continued to hold onto his s.h.i.+rt, looking right into Preston's eyes as he smiled sickly.

"We're not getting out of here, are we?" Short Sleeves said, half to Preston, half to his friends. He was grinning like a lunatic, totally out of touch with reality. "Well, only one thing to do then."

The knife slowly came up into Preston's line of sight. It was a tarnished steel blade now accentuated by the storm clouds that had finally started rolling in overhead. He took a deep breath, looking right into his killer's eyes.

"Shouldn't hurt but a moment," Jay hissed from behind his accomplice. Preston wasn't even looking at the men anymore. The knife all but filled his vision.

He knew the cops couldn't get a clean shot. Preston was about the same height as his attacker. He made the perfect human s.h.i.+eld. If the cops did fire, they were just as likely to take him down as well.

The blade started to move. Preston imagined what it would feel like before his life began to flash before his eyes.

Carol and Elisabeth took center stage, but even the far off, long forgotten memories made an appearance. He remembered riding his bike down a concrete path when he was ten, accompanied by a friend whose name he no longer remembered. Then, there was the day he first began to drive, almost totaling his car on an embankment when he was distracted by an attractive woman as she jogged along the sidewalk.

His marriage to Carol, the birth of his daughter-these moments seemed to stretch on forever in the panoramic display. Then, it culminated in the harsh pain of her death, having to relive it all over again.

That brought him back.

The weapon stopped in mid-air as if striking an invisible wall. Preston's eyes darted from the blade back to Short Sleeves. The thin slits that were the man's exhausted eyes sprung open fully. The pupils dilated quickly, his sick smile fading away. Preston couldn't fully grasp what was happening, still wading halfway through his memories.

It had to be some sort of side-effect of the drug, he thought, but he reminded himself that seizures weren't a symptom of Bloodstrife.

"It's not over yet," Short Sleeves said, his voice now distant and clear. His face had returned to the emotionless state it had been previously. "You look so afraid, Detective," Short Sleeves said, offering no inflection in his voice. "Did Gluttony show such fear in his eyes before he died?"

Preston almost collapsed at the word.

"What do you mean? How did you know him?" Preston yelled, practically howling. "Tell me, quickly, I can still get you out of this!" He was no longer in fear. All he cared about was the new lead that had presented itself without provocation.

"Shhh, my dear Preston," the man said, raising the knife again.

"No!" Preston screamed, the fear flowing back in menacing waves. He jerked wildly, trying to escape from the man's steely and unrelenting grip. He could hear his s.h.i.+rt beginning to tear from the force, but the fabric wouldn't give.

The knife plunged downward. This time, Preston saw nothing outside of the s.h.i.+ning edge bordered by the dull gray sky beyond. There were no more memories to relive.

The knife ripped a large hole into Short Sleeve's own neck. Preston froze, still practically ready to tear apart his s.h.i.+rt to break free. Up close, he could see the handle sticking out of the addict's neck, the blade fully hidden in his flesh.

Forcing himself to look away, the detective craned his neck to the side, trying to gauge the expression of the man's accomplices. They showed no surprise at their friend's actions.

Still looking at them, the other two men followed suit. The man with the gun brought the weapon to his head, his eyes now wide, but his face emotionless. The gun discharged, killing him instantly. Jay, slightly farther off, quickly dug the small blade he was carrying deep into his heart.

"What the h.e.l.l?" Short Sleeves said with a tone of distinct confusion, drawing Preston's gaze. For a few moments he continued to linger with the handle sticking out of his neck. He soon faltered, then fell, his body dropping to the pavement as dead weight.

Preston now stood in the alley alone, barely able to remain upright. He was still in shock as the police rushed in. In reality, he'd almost forgotten they were there at all.

His hand moved on its own, slowly pulling out his badge and presenting it to the other policemen. He gripped it tightly, hoping they wouldn't need to take it. He doubted he would be able to let go.

"Detective, are you okay?" the Uni asked as the other cops drew guns on the presumably dead addicts.

Preston tried to speak, but couldn't say a word.

Preston burst in through the door of his apartment, allowing the weathered wooden slab to strike the threshold awkwardly as he slammed it shut behind him. He didn't care in the slightest about the noise it caused or disturbing neighbors who, for all he knew, might not even live within earshot.

He rung his hands through his hair, furious that Bloodstrife had managed to sneak up on him so quickly and easily. Things had been going so well for such a short period of time. Leads were popping up everywhere. The big picture was starting to paint itself with striking brush strokes, emerging triumphantly in front of his eyes. Then, everything began to crumble.

It was the second time that Bloodstrife had made an attempt on his life, almost in as many days. With every new step forward, fate had tried to wrench it free of his grasp. The answers weren't coming without a severe price.

He scolded himself for looking upward for too long and not at the ground beneath his feet. Preston missed himself walking into the nest of a common druggie, offering himself up on a silver platter like some inexperienced beat cop who never saw it coming.

He'd been so focused on the final resolution. He'd all but pictured walking into some dilapidated drug den or high end facility where they had entire drums of the catalyst stacked from wall to wall. He'd pictured destroying them with a fire axe and posing for photos, hailed as the cop who delivered the city from darkness.

Instead, he'd seen his life flash before his eyes, coming to the harsh reality that the only way he would ever prove himself to Elisabeth would be to make this bust.

Well, I wouldn't say that, the Detective said bluntly.

"Shut up!" Preston screamed, silencing the Detective. Of all the problems he'd tried to push out of his mind, the voice inside his head was the one that never ceased to amaze him.

What had started as a useful tool for getting inside the heads of criminals had become something that mocked him whenever he came across problems in his personal life which he didn't have the nerve to confront. At all times, it was becoming a serious problem.

He wondered how long it would take for him to lose mental control. Then, perhaps even someone as skilled as Doctor Morrissey would no longer be able to help him.

He shook his head, almost angrily, as if trying to pry it loose from the stagnant mental grip.

Still reeling, Preston heard the floor creak behind him. As a matter of pure reflex, he drew his gun and quickly turned, training the weapon on the source of the noise with pinpoint accuracy.

Moments earlier, when he'd entered the apartment, the door had struck the frame and bounced open again. Preston now realized that he'd been too preoccupied to notice. With the gun raised, pointed at the door, he saw the shaking figure of a young woman doing nothing more incriminating than holding a bag of groceries as she pa.s.sed by his door in the hall.

The brown paper crinkled as she held onto it for dear life, shaking openly with fear. She began to pant with anxiety, her eyes growing wide and glossing over.

Guessing that she had probably heard him yelling at himself as well, Preston quickly raised his badge, told her he was a police officer, and lowered his gun, watching her scurry out of sight after a moment of fl.u.s.tered hesitation.

"Jesus," he mumbled, rubbing his eyes with enough force to make them water.

Preston slowly walked over to the door and struggled to get it shut, more annoyed than worried about what just transpired. The wooden panels groaned as he tried moving them into place. He twisted the k.n.o.b as far as it would go, lifting the thin door about a half inch to get it adjusted.

In the end, he admitted defeat, seeing that he hadn't been able to make it conform to the dilapidated shape. The door was permanently warped after he'd slammed it. For the first time, he noticed a long crack in the wood. Taking a few steps back, he saw it was technically closed, but large swaths of light beamed in from the hall and hung around the edges, clearly incapable of keeping anyone out.

After giving up completely, Preston moved toward the closet, still slouching as he had been earlier on the street. Even his hands had somehow found their way into his pockets since grappling with the door.

Shaking, his fingers timidly made their way from his coat and landed on the closet handle. Inside was the large stack of papers with Elisabeth's face dotting every page. They sat in a disheveled pile, as if they'd been moving about on their own when he wasn't there, waiting impatiently to be set free.

A small tickle irritated the back of Preston's throat. The familiarity of the emotion wasn't lost on him. Within moments, he could feel tears welling up again. He reasoned immediately that Doctor Morrissey's session had apparently opened the flood gates. Even the slightest ounce of sadness was bound to set him off.

The detective shook his head, trying to regain his composure and grapple with this new emotional state on his own time. Breaking down at the station wouldn't be an option. For all intents and purposes, his career would be over.

Preston a.s.sumed if the detective was willing to speak, blurting out carelessly the things he himself believed, he'd probably have something snide to say about that. Thankfully, only silence floated about inside his head, juxtaposed perfectly with the lack of sound in the apartment.

Preston reached in and grabbed a thin stack of the sketches, slowly closing the closet door after retrieving them. He held the mess of papers loosely, wis.h.i.+ng to scatter the sheets all over the apartment to resume the lives they had lived before he had hastily gathered them up.

It was for the first time in eighteen months that he really saw the life he was living. What once had been a happy home life had now boiled down to a man who got angry at a self-imposed voice in his head, holding a stack of papers in a lonely, dirty apartment, all while on the verge of tears.

The sketches had no sooner left his hand, floating aimlessly toward the ground, when another knock seemingly rocked the s.p.a.ce of his fragile apartment. He half expected that poor woman in the hall had called the police, but being a cop himself, he remembered they almost never responded that quickly to his neighborhood.

Jack was standing there. He looked as well rested and ready to take on the world as he always did. Preston was almost disturbed at how easily his partner conveyed a sense of genuine ease and contentment. It hurt all the more, knowing that it was well deserved.

"They told me you took the rest of the day off," Jack said, standing in the open doorway. Preston was amazed that his partner had managed to open the broken door so quietly. He was sure he'd closed it at least somewhat after drawing his weapon on the woman in the hall.

"I've had a pretty bad day," Preston offered through shallow breath, "so far, anyway," he added morosely.

"I don't suppose I can interest you in dinner then?" Jack asked, entering the apartment casually, with his hands in the pocket of his blazer. Unlike Preston, he managed to stand straight, presenting an image which he perceived to be more than comfortable.

Jack's sense of normalcy was permeating the room in waves. He didn't appear the slightest bit concerned about his partner's state of being. It was all a normal reaction, one that would be overcome in time. Preston understood what he was trying to convey, but didn't feel any less helpless having been through yet another situation where he'd almost lost his life.

"No, you can't," Preston said, rubbing his eyes with a frustrated groan. Food was the last thing on his mind, other than company, even if it was his partner.

"My G.o.d," Jack said. Preston looked up quickly, remembering that the pictures of Elisabeth were scattered all over. He just had to have brought them out of the closet at the exact moment his partner came by for a visit. "It looks just like her," Jack said with sincerity. "You drew these, right?"

"You weren't supposed to see those, Jack," Preston said with a deep sigh, conveying the disappointment he felt in himself. The feeling that had troubled him most, embarra.s.sment, was nowhere to be found. It was more like a cautious awareness that things could get much worse, an antic.i.p.ation of bleak possibilities. At least he was able to hold back any emotions that may have wanted to slither out of him.

"It's okay; I'd be doing the same thing if . . ." Jack said, trailing off. Preston could see he was pretending to be deep in thought, absorbed by the sketch.

"You can say it," Preston said coldly. "It's not like it's a secret."

"If my daughter had died as well." Jack appeared almost defeated after uttering the words, choosing to turn away from the paper.

Preston wanted to cry, but couldn't. He knew he'd done enough of it already. His detective instincts had been strong enough to close the gates the moment his partner arrived.

"Talk to me about the case," Preston ordered with a mildly nervous tone, making it obvious a change in the subject was necessary.

"Yeah," Jack said softly, his eyes still poring over the sketches. "We have a meeting tomorrow. Other than that there haven't been any new developments."

"Who with?" Preston asked, returning to a semi-state of normalcy.