Crucifer, Chapter 2

Peter stood before a curved wall of glass, which gave him a breathtaking view of the Hollywood Hills. Straight ahead, straddling the tallest of the hills, three verdigris-frosted domes crowned a marble citadel. He remembered the first night Tony brought him home. They’d been standing on this very spot, his arm around her waist, when she said she thought the Griffith Observatory looked like a temple. For her; it was a sacred space, like the cathedral.

Tony saw the Cathedral of Angels as a mirror of heaven; the observatory as a window into God’s creation. Both filled her with awe. They made her feel so small. He asked her, “How can feeling small make you feel special?” As explanation, she had breathed a line of poetry--“I will show you fear in a handful of dust.” The line from The Waste Land hollowed him out, chilled him to the core. He realized that what he felt was like a drug to her. Then she tried to describe the power of the sublime, how beauty mingled with terror led to transcendence.

“But that doesn’t make sense,” he said. “They cancel each other out.”

She told him the power lie within the paradox, from knowing that God loved you despite your insignificance. Even with the vast size of the universe, God knew your secret heart and loved you.

After that, they made love for the very first time, and it was love they shared, in front of the window. Moonlight glazed her pale breasts as her back arched off the floor. She locked her legs around his hips, driving him deeper. When she came, gasping and shuddering beneath him, he stared into her eyes and it was sublime.

He heard a ceramic clink and shifted his focus. Tony stood in the kitchen, reflected in the glass, pouring steaming tea into a pair of stoneware mugs. She wore a deep blue, silk kimono that came to her ankles, and her beautiful, long black hair was pinned in a French twist. She padded into the living room and handed him one of the mugs. The heavy mugs lacked handles and were rimmed with turquoise glaze, with Japanese calligraphy painted on their sides. He wrapped his arm around her waist and she leaned against his shoulder. She wore Chanel No. 5, his favorite perfume. Beneath the sweet perfume, he noticed a hint of turpentine, like a bouquet of flowers on a pinewood box.

Tony gazed out the window. “What are you looking at?”

“When’s the last time you remember seeing the stars?”

She gave him a curious look, her blue eyes shadowed with kohl. “You mean, aside from when I fell in love with you?”

He glanced at her. “I’m serious.”

She smiled. “So am I.”

He kissed the side of her neck. “I think it was last summer.”

Tony fingered a gold cross that hung from a delicate chain. He’d given her the cross the night he asked her to be his wife.

“It was New Year’s eve,” she said. “Remember how we gasped? The stars were so much more impressive than the fireworks. It made me sad when all the smoke got in the way.”

“I remember.” He sipped his tea, wincing at the heat. The green-gold brew was slightly astringent, mellowed by toasted rice.

Tony frowned. “Your hand is shaking. How long has it been?”

He stared out the window.

“Peter...”

“I’m fine,” he snapped.

She stiffened and he swore he felt her temperature drop.

“Tony, I’m sorry. Look, I’m here, okay? I could have gotten a fix, but I came to see you instead.”

“Don’t hang this on me.”

Peter sighed, “I’m not.”

“But the terrors...”

He forced a smile. “You keep them away.”

Tony caressed his cheek. “I wish that were true.”

She pulled away and glided to the center of the room. A vidscreen covered the middle third of the wall behind her. On the screen was a Japanese print of ink-brushed bamboo. She wrapped her hands around her mug. “Why don’t you move in?”

Peter stared into his mug. “We’ve been through this before.”

Tony picked up a framed photograph that sat on the table. In the photo, Peter held her with his arm around her waist, leaning his head against her own with a lopsided grin on his face. “We could be happy together,” she said. “Make a real home.”

“You know I take house calls. I don’t mix business with pleasure.”

Tony gave him a pained look. “Which one am I?”

“That’s not fair.”

Tony carefully set the frame back on the table. “I went to see my friend, Father Alaric, this morning.”

Peter tensed. He knew where this was going.

“He said there’s an opening at the new treatment center. St. Michael’s is state of the art.”

“Do you know how they cure junkies? They pump them full of nanomechs. The last thing I want is to spend a week strapped to a bed while millions of tiny machines swarm like gnats inside my head. That’s a mind-altering experience I can live without.”

“But your mind’s already altered. Jacked into hell. The first hit of Slam you took contained a retrovirus. It changed your receptors, rewrote the code. That’s why going off it kills you.”

“I’ll keep my monkey, thank you very much.”

Tony gave him a scolding look. “It’s eating you alive.” She took another sip of tea, made a bitter face, set her cup on the table and slowly shook her head.

Peter turned away and pressed his hand against the window.

Tony watched him and tried to keep the sadness from her voice. “There’s something I want to show you. I was saving it for your birthday.”

Peter lowered his arm and watched his handprint dissolve. “What is it?”

She forced herself to smile. “Come on, I’ll show you.”

He followed her into the hallway, skirting a bookcase. Art books crammed the lower shelves, several on Francis Bacon. A mob of brightly painted skeletons stood on the top shelf. The Día de Los Muertos figures were her pride and joy, and strangely, didn’t seem out of place in her minimalist apartment. Her living space, like her life, was carefully segregated.

She took his hand and led him past the bathroom to her studio. The door whisked open and a ventilation fan sucked at the air. Unlike the rest of her apartment, her studio was in chaos. Unfinished canvases leaned against the walls, and he saw she had used the walls as palettes. Colors smeared across the plaster and dribbled to the floor. Her work table was covered with cans and wrinkled tubes of oil paint. The floor was an action painting tracked through with footprints. A large canvas sat on an easel in the center of the room, but the painting faced away from him. He set his mug on the table, but before he could look at the painting, Tony grabbed his wrist. She led him to another painting draped with a white sheet. The canvas was a meter wide and half again as tall.

“Wait,” he said, “I want to peek at the one you’re working on. Is that the one you mentioned on the phone?”

“Yeah, but you can’t see it yet. Come over here. This is the one I wanted to show you.” She reached for the sheet and lowered her hand, having second thoughts.

“What’s this?”

“Something I painted for you.”

Peter grinned. “You made me a painting?”

Tony wouldn’t meet his eyes. “I’m afraid you’ll hate it.”

“Of course I won’t hate it, let me see.”

She bit her lip and slowly pulled off the sheet. It crumpled on the floor and she stepped out of the way. She pressed her hands against her lips, praying for forgiveness.

Peter’s eyes grew wide as he took in the painting. A Tau cross of grimy steel rose from a sea of blood, the shaft notched like the gear of a machine. Meat hooks hung from heavy chains at the ends of the crossbeam. A giant snake (or was it a worm?) spiraled up the cross, with lesions on its ashen skin like a bad case of syphilis. Its head sagged over the beam, the head of a man, his hair tangled and brow pierced by a crown of razor wire. The man’s face was frozen between a snarl and a scream. Peter cringed as he recognized the face as his own.

Two figures flanked the cross, a bald man and a woman, both dressed in black vinyl and mourning his fate. The woman had blue eyes and her skin had turned to steel. The man also had metal skin, but it had been scorched black. The woman was Tony, the man, his best friend, Rath.

Peter felt sick to his stomach. He winced and looked away.

Tony touched his shoulder.

“Don’t!” he jerked away.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered.

His voice was tortured--“Why?”

Tony’s eyes filled with tears. “I wanted to capture you.”

Peter’s brow creased with pain. “Is that who I am?”

“I know it’s terrible, but it’s a message of hope. The two people who love you most never leave your side.”

He forced himself to look at the painting.

“You hate it, don’t you?”

“I hate its truth.” He turned to her, his face slack. “It’s the best thing you’ve ever done.”

Tony wiped her eyes. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

He pressed his forehead to her own, kissed her trembling lips. Then he gently raised her chin and looked into her eyes. “Thank you,” he whispered.

She leaned against his shoulder.


#


Later, they curled up in bed with a cool white satin sheet tangled around their legs. Sweat beaded his brow, despite the draft from the ceiling fan. Tony put her head on his chest and stroked his smooth, pale stomach, tracing the ant trail of fine black hair that led down from his navel. The soft peaks of her breasts pressed against his ribs. He ran his fingers down her spine and her skin broke out in goose bumps. She slid her hand beneath the sheet and gently squeezed his cock. He dry-swallowed, removed her hand and placed it on his heart.

“I’m not--“ he paused.

She frowned. “What? Not in the mood?”

His eyes were desolate. He shook his head. “Clean.”

Tony squeezed his hand. She didn’t know what to say.

“Can you just hold me?” he asked. “I want to fall asleep in your arms.”

Peter’s words wrenched her heart. “I love you, Peter.”

Pain creased Peter’s brow. “I love you too.”

He held her and closed his eyes. Listened to her breaths grow shallow. Finally, he slept too, but in his dream he was a serpent hanging on a cross.



#


Lieutenant Monica Regent shivered in the rain-swept alley, her eyes cold, face hard, and hands in her pockets. Water trickled down her black vinyl trench coat, the fabric streaked with blue light from the glowing pentacle. She clenched her jaw and stared at Travis’ body. His muscular arms were spread like he’d been crucified, and his green eyes, the pupils blown, were fixed on the sky. He would never soar again through the canyons of light; never feel the wind bruise his lips and lick his scalp. The rain pooled in his eyes and streamed down his cheeks, as if the clouds wept for him because he couldn’t cry.

Regent was the head of the Serial Homicide Task Force. Despite the rain, her short black hair poked up like tiny daggers. Full lips softened her angular features, but her cold grey eyes were as sharp as shards of ice.

A photodroid hovered above Travis’ body, the cameras on its spidery arms snapping photographs. The blinding flashes from its strobes erased his ruby wings. His leather pants had been rolled up and tucked beneath his spine, forcing up his chest and stretching open his wounds.

Behind her, three patrol cars cordoned off the alley, their flashing red and blue lights raking the walls. A yellow force beam glowed between a pair of flashing posts, holding back the crowd from the Church of Steel. The officers who manned the line shivered in their rain gear. Several Goths and Rivet Heads wept for their friend, while others jockeyed for a glimpse of the newest spectacle.

Regent looked at the rain-filled pit where Travis’ heart had been. Footsteps splashed across the pavement as her partner approached.

Rodriguez stood beside her and huffed a plume of fog. He stood a head taller than her, his head shaved high and tight, with pale skin, a wedge-shaped jaw, and gently sloping brow. His narrow, new moon eyebrows arched mischievously, even when a sly smile didn’t light his face. His nose seemed a bit too delicate for his face, and his thin moustache was wispy and black. Travis’ ruby wings reflected off his eyes, which were dark and slanted like a devil in the dark. A sexy beast, she thought, the first time they met. But she’d swallow hot coals before admitting it. He gripped two cups of coffee and handed one to her.

“Thanks,” she said. She peeled back the lid and sniffed the steaming brew.

“Black, no sugar. Just the way you like it.”

She blew on it and warmed her hands. “Where did you get it?”

“In the club. You should see it. It’s a regular Sodom and Gomorrah.”

A smile touched her lips. “Your kind of place.”

“It’s a fucking shame. I left my nipple clamps at home.”

“Those little girls with their spiked heels would eat you alive.”

He smirked at a private memory. “Only if I’m lucky.”

She sipped the steaming coffee, winced, and nodded toward the body. “You’ll want something stronger than this before we’re finished here.”

Rodriguez followed her gaze. “Our perp’s a twisted fuck. He put that junky on display like a piece of public art.”

Regent threw him a sideways glance. “Colorful as always.”

The photodroid, officially called the Crime Scene Evidence Probe, extended a spidery arm with a camera at the tip. The shutter clicked repeatedly as it photographed Travis’ hand. When it finished, the droid rose several meters above the body. A green laser on its belly painted a grid on the corpse, creating a 3-D map for a virtual model. The survey laser cut out and the droid waited for instructions.

“CSEP, sleep.” Regent said.

The probe drifted away. A spidery tripod extended from its base and its camera eyes dialed shut.

“Where’s the M.E.?” she asked.

“He’s still en route.”

“We’re losing evidence to the rain. Trace is a wash. If Philip doesn’t get here soon, there’ll be nothing to bag but the body.”

“He was asleep when he got the call. Not everyone sleeps in a coffin.”

She scowled, not in the mood for his vampire jokes. “Our perp’s gone public in a big way. He’s overconfident. There’s a better chance he screwed up and left something behind. If he did, I don’t want it going down the drain.”

“CSEP’s finished the prelim. We should put up a tent. Hell, you’ll be doing the M.E. a favor.”

Regent turned toward the opposite end of the alley, where several more patrol cars flanked a white evidence van. The van looked like a big casket with six hover coils. “CORONER” was stenciled on the side in bright yellow letters. The cargo door stood open and evidence techs slouched against the hull. Their collection kits and other gear were stacked inside the hold.

Regent called out to them. “What are we paying you for? I need you to bring the lights and set up a tent.”

The techs hauled out four steel cases and placed them around the body. They yanked up the handles, exposing banks of lights. One by one they flicked them on and lit up the corpse. Next, they returned to the van and retrieved the poles for the tent. Force field generators tipped the poles like rocket-launched grenades. The techs squared off around the body and tamped the poles on the ground, releasing spring-loaded tripods that locked into place. They raised the telescoping poles and activated the generators. A ruby web flashed between them, forming a canopy.

Regent stepped under the tent as the techs brought over their kits. Rodriquez stood behind her as she squatted near the body. She set down her coffee, opened a kit and tugged on a pair of latex gloves. She leaned over Travis and examined his neck. Unlike most of the victims, his throat had not been cut. She pulled down his split lip. His teeth were gummy with blood.

She grabbed a pair of tweezers and tugged a piece of glass from his hand. A trickle of blood and glowing blue liquid seeped from the wound. She scowled. “Lotus. He must have crushed a vial during the struggle.”

Rodriguez leaned in for a closer look. “He fought back, and it shattered when he hit his assailant.”

“Maybe.” She dropped the fragment into a specimen bag. She turned over Travis’ hand and saw his knuckles were abraded. Tiny specks of grit were imbedded in his skin. “Looks like he punched a wall. We need to find the rest of the vial. If we’re lucky we can lift a partial from the stopper. Same goes for his boots. I want them bagged and tagged.”

“You think he OD’d before he got cut up?”

“If he was lucky. One thing’s for sure, he didn’t go down easy.”

“You wouldn’t say that if you read his rap sheet.”

“Christ, Rodriguez. Show a little respect for the dead.”

Rodriguez frowned at Travis’ crotch. “You think he was raped?”

“Given how close we are to the club, I’m betting no, but he sure as hell didn’t get the Lotus for free. We’ll have to wait for the pelvic exam and a swab for semen. See if there are any signs of rectal tearing. That’s Phillip’s job, not mine.”

“Lucky him.”

“Where’s the kid who discovered the body?”

“He’s waiting inside the club.” Rodriguez pulled out his phone and glanced at his notes. The witness’ name is Jarrett Spencer. White male, twenty-two. He entered the alley to take a piss, and that’s when he found the body. The bartender and owner of the club is a woman named Sandra Wells. She said a man she’d never seen before was cruising the victim. According to her, the suspect and the victim had a brief altercation. The suspect left the club and the victim followed him. Get this, she said the suspect was dressed like a priest.”

“Jesus.” Regent stripped off her gloves.

“At least it explains the messages we found near the other bodies. If the suspect thinks he’s a priest, it’s a personal crusade.”

“And if he really is a priest? Have you considered that?”

“Wouldn’t butchering prostitutes go against everything he is?”

“Obviously, he doesn’t consider murder a sin.”

Rodriguez took a gulp of coffee. “Exactly my point.”

She gave him a hard look. “You’re missing the point. If he thinks he’s serving God, it’s sacrifice, not murder. The bastard is playing by God’s rules, not ours.”

Rodriguez frowned at Travis’ corpse. His ruby wings flickered out. “If that’s how God treats his angels, what are we fighting for?”

Regent’s face grew hard. “To prove we’re better than our maker.” She squeezed Rodriguez’ shoulder and strode toward the police line. The rain trickled down her back, colder than before. The officers that manned the line let her through the barrier. She waded through the huddled mass of pierced and painted mourners. They parted in silence as she climbed the steps of the church. She gazed up at the rose window high above the doors. The fractured disk of scarlet glass blazed like the eye of Hell.