Scarla (2 page)

Facil came off the elevator and strode through the room eyeing bodies. They were arranged by severity of transformation, the ones nearest the elevator almost normal until you pried the lips apart and glimpsed the teeth. As he moved along stages of transformation, they grew more grotesque, less human. A guy on the left bore an elongated, curved spine that created a skulking, coyote-like posture and necessitated lying the body on its side because it wouldn’t lie flat. It had a bullet crater where an eye used to be. One on the right had an extended snout, also dog-like, complete with elongated incisors. And a throat slashed ear-to-ear. None of the so-called
innocent
victims were on display.
Those
bodies—what was left of them—had already been processed and, invariably, tested for dental imprinting and/or bite radius.

Facil reached Harris’ table, eyed his work. The cadaver had a freakishly-widened mouth, revealing multiple rows of razor-sharp teeth. “I’ll take a bottle of pills when they’re ready, Harris.” Harris glanced up, said nothing. Facil peered into the man’s gaping abdominal cavity. “What do we have here?”

Harris fondled a sloppy large intestine with intent. “Well, he hadn’t quite digested his last meal,” nodding to several chunks of what appeared to be flesh laid out on a nearby tray, “whoever
that
was. If you’re hungry, you can rinse those off. I’ve confirmed them as human, but if you like pork it’s not a big leap. Salt’s in my desk drawer.”

Facil watched him drop the intestine back into the body. “That what you do down here all day?”

Harris shrugged. “When I’m not beating off on them, sure. Days are long, LeTour, days are long.”
Lab humor.

Facil eyed the dual computer screens on Harris’ desk. One showed dental and digestive tract diagrams of sharks. He raised a brow. On the other, a pizza delivery order confirmation. He grimaced at the toppings. “
Anchovies?
You might as well eat the pork.”

Harris grinned. “Anchovy’s a fine treat, my friend. Most people don’t like it, so all the more for me.”

Facil tucked his hands in his pockets, looking at the mouth again. A chill ran up his spine.
Could’ve been the cold.
When he looked up, Harris was watching him with an odd twinkle in his eye.
Could’ve been the light.
When he spoke, Harris’ usually deep voice rose in excitement. “This one’s unlike anything I’ve seen, you want to know about it?” Facil didn’t answer. It wasn’t like he’d showed up to bogart the pie, after all. Harris continued. “Look at his teeth.” Facil didn’t really want to look again, but did. “They look strange to you?”
No, see it all the time.

“Cut to the chase, Harris.” And he did just that.

“What you see here is essentially ninety-eight percent James Donnell, or what they called this dummy when he was alive.” He pulled a pencil from behind his ear and began power-pointing his narration. “Caucasian, six-foot-one, hundred-eighty-three pounds, internal organs fine, blood type B positive, appendix out, old op screws in left ankle, genitalia normal—” Then, smirking, “—a little under-average, maybe. Eyes brown, hair brown, but the
mouth
…” He stuck the pencil eraser in the subject’s mouth, dragging it along silvery, serrated, pointed teeth. “
That’s
not right. What you see here is a
polyphydont dentition
.” Facil eyed him, ignorant of the term. “These teeth are being rotated-out and replaced by a row waiting behind, like a conveyor belt. A very
fast
conveyor belt. One comes out, another’s there to take its spot. He has
two rows
of twenty-seven functioning teeth right now, and a third was just coming in. None of these teeth are attached to the jaw, they’re all embedded in the gum tissue.” Harris paused for effect.

“What about his old teeth?” Facil asked.

“You mean his
human
teeth? No idea. Just
gone
. Replaced by these things.” Harris hit a computer key, cueing a video clip over the pizza order. A spotlight trolled murky waves around a white boat hull. A camera operator adjusted focus. Harris dropped the zinger. “These are the teeth of a
tiger shark
, specifically.” A tiger shark’s head suddenly broke the surface and bit into a shank of hooked meat with blinding speed, thrashing its body and ripping off a sizable chunk before circling back for more.

Facil thought of Scarla. He had the sudden urge to tell her what he was seeing. But she’d seen it before, up close and personal. And she was right. Harris knew black ops was responsible for his subjects, but that was
all
he knew. He didn’t even know she existed.

32nd Street. Dusk. The city was a living, breathing thing. Hungry. Insatiable. The street wanted its pound of flesh, and would have it at any cost. Good people were scurrying around corners and down blocks, heading for the bridges, the tunnels, the parkways, the metro stops. A steady flood of humanity clawing to escape the dreaded downtown after-hours, rushing back to the pretend safety of the suburbs, the Prozac’d wonderland, where everything was alright and always would be, because nothing ever changed. Scarla emerged from the corner convenience store a full four inches taller, her new red leather thigh-highs gleaming in the streetlight. She opened a pack of cigarettes and drew an unfiltered Red. At the bar, there’d be some schmuck interjecting to offer a light, but on the corner a girl’s on her own. She raised a lighter, shielding her mouth from the breeze. Flame on. She took a long drag and threw her head back, exhaling a smoke stream. Full moon.
How ap
propriate
. She started walking, passing an alley on her right. It snaked behind a row of bars and shops, giving proprietors a place to dump their trash. And dump trash they did. They found the girl in there, not twenty-four hours prior, folded inside a suitcase. The suitcase had been hanging out, said the report, and just happened to provide a convenient receptacle for a petite 17-year-old’s partially-eaten corpse.
A night on the town.
Scarla knew the girl somewhat, had seen her on the beat. Daizee the meth-head, aka Dorothy the runaway.
Didn’t matter now.
Maybe didn’t matter before either.

A sharp whistle snapped her to attention. A late-model pick-up truck was creeping along the curb, obviously interested. She made eye contact. The usual: middle-aged caucasian, bespectacled, 9-to-5’er coming off overtime, hurried and uncomfortable with the pitch. She knew how to seal the deal with these guys, and nodded to the corner without breaking stride. He hit the gas and flashed his turn signal, pulling into her path and waiting for her at the curb ahead. She reached the passenger window and leaned in close, locking on his eyes. It was always in the eyes, the first hint of it in the look. She’d popped a pill earlier, felt sharp. She wouldn’t miss.

“Hi there. How much?” he inquired, glancing skittishly in his rearview.

“How much for
what?”
she cooed.

He hit the gas, sped off. He’d clearly been caught with his hand in the cookie jar before and knew a thing-or-two about entrapment. She strolled back to the corner, waited for the light to turn. She was lost in thought when the car passed the first time, didn’t see the driver leaning way over to get a good look before hanging a right. He’d be more obvious the second time. She reached the other curb and kept sauntering. The new boots had yet to be broken-in and her toes already stung with every step. She thought about the splitting of flesh that would occur on her feet by morning, and her heart sank. She’d almost rather take a bullet.

“Need a ride?” a voice called. She turned. A dark Lexus idled at the curb, a lanky professional-type behind the wheel. “Get in.” She locked eyes with him. He didn’t smile awkwardly, didn’t eye the rearview, didn’t blink. She bent down to the passenger window and he held her gaze, even though she was giving one hell of a cleavage shot.

“Where we goin’?” she asked.

He smiled slowly, thin lips peeling back from bleached teeth. “A house in the hills.” The lock on the passenger door sprang up.
Boing.

* * *
*

Facil sat at the red light, one arm draped over the wheel of his ’87 Buick Grand National, fighting off the sandman. He’d trolled the streets since late afternoon, from the eastside to the west, to the southside and back up again, watching for anyone or anything strange. He saw a lot of strangeness through his windshield. The latest victim met a gruesome end at the hands—
and teeth
—of some monster, and that monster was still on the loose. The problems didn’t end there. The Chief had kept their entire operation off the books and only a very select few knew what was happening every night. It wasn’t getting better. Three bodies in one week, same m.o. A rash of cannibal-killings was plaguing the city’s fringe populous—hookers, street urchins, dope fiends. In other words, the expendables. What they thought was a
killer
, quickly became
killers
, and finally
killers that may not be human
. But you’d think they were, most likely until it was too late. By the time they realized they had an epidemic, two dozen people lay dead. Some were sexual assaults, the rest were sex-gone-wrong, the only commonality being sex.
What was the connection?
Neuro tests, tissue tests, blood tests, victim studies, perp studies, lots of half-baked theories, no definite answers.

It had been going on for months, and the fact that such a lengthy and blatant murder spree was still largely unknown to the public was a testament to the Bureau Chief’s crafty handling. Spun to the press and squashed from the headlines, with victims no upstanding taxpayer would notice missing, there was no crime. Particularly when the guy in charge of public safety was a veteran police chief setting the stage for upcoming mayoral candidacy. An annual city homicide report
double
that of the previous year would effectively kill any political run, so Facil knew the January numbers wouldn’t reflect an accurate count. But that wasn’t his problem. His problem was getting himself and Scarla out of the mess they’d gotten into, and out in one piece.

He’d known her for years. Saw her mature from a tomboyish teenage Lolita, to the youngest female kickboxing champion in history, to a social worker and a cop’s wife—
the
cop. The dirty secret about the epidemic was that they became privy to it through one of their own—Landon Caulner, one of the boys,
patient zero.
Facil and Lannie, as he’d been nicknamed, came out of the academy together eighteen years prior, working the beat together for seven. When Lannie finally married his longtime girlfriend, Facil served as the best man. He
was
the best man and he knew it, but when the opportunity came to object, he bit his tongue.
Via con Dios, mi amor.
When it was over, he applauded like everyone else. That felt like another lifetime. For the last six months, he’d lurked in the shadows while she fucked her way through the city, leaving a body count that rivaled the crimes they were supposedly combating. She’d volunteered after all, so
viola
—they had a guinea pig to do the dirty work and keep it all off the department sheets. What Facil wasn’t admitting, even to himself, was that the objective itself was flawed. Worse still, the mission was doomed. And perhaps worst of all, the entire reason for his involvement lay on two more unspoken truths—one, he was smitten by Scarla Fragran, and two, he just couldn’t say no. Sitting in the office, jockeying paperwork, waiting for the shit to hit the fan
somewhere
just wouldn’t cut it. Somewhere along the line, he’d become a junkie for the action, couldn’t resist jumping into the fire—
any fire
—if only to feel how hot it burned. And if he wasn’t engulfed yet, things sure were heating up.
The comfort zone.
He snapped out of it, arriving at a late night coffee shop. They made a mean espresso, and as usual, he didn’t realize how tired he was until he was rubber-legging it to the door. He’d have to get some sleep soon, or else she might as well be on her own. He sat at the counter and ordered.

* * * *

The gated driveway was long, winding through carefully-groomed trees and arcing up to a house that was one of six overlooking the city, designed by a famous dead architect whose name she could never remember, but whose work she knew on sight. His touch wasn’t cheap, but money wasn’t all that was lurking. There was something else. She could feel it as clearly as if she were shuttling into a den of wolves. The driver said nothing on the ride, occasionally watching her out of the corner of his eye, his expression unreadable. He didn’t need to belie a thing, however. She already knew what he was. The car stopped in front of two massive stone pillars and the guy got out to open her door. She found it odd that help wasn’t waiting for the master’s return. Unless he
was
the help. He smiled, extended his arm to the front door. “You’ll find it open. Enjoy.” He watched her ass as she strolled inside.

The front door was oversized, and Scarla felt like
Alice in Wonderland
crossing the threshold. Or maybe
Alice Cooper Goes To Hell
was more like it. She entered an empty foyer, boot heels echoing on marble. Voices emanated from a cavernous room to her left, the glow of fireplace flames licking its walls and casting exaggerated floor-to-ceiling shadows of several men. In direct opposition to her sinking feeling, two stone angels sat over either side of the doorway, plucking harps and staring at her. She walked in.

Five guys, ranging in age from thirties to forties, all on the big side if not all fit, lounged on a wrap-around sofa in front of a raging fire. A massive, dormant crystal chandelier hung over their heads. One tall, dark, handsome man stood at the mantle, twirling a brandy on the rocks. His eyes sparkled at the sight of her, alerting the others, who all turned. She felt dirtied just being the object of their collective gaze. Two of them puffed Cuban cigars, the smoke hanging between them like a mushroom cloud.

“Well, well. Who might you be?” handsome asked, moving away from the fireplace to stand front and center, his eyes burning a hole through her. She didn’t miss a beat, feigning intrigue. Truth be told, she
was
strangely aroused, but didn’t stop to analyze the feeling or separate it from the usual adrenaline coursing through her veins.