“In the beginning when God created the heavens and the
earth, the earth was formless void and darkness covered the face of the deep…And
God said, “Let there be light”; and there was light. And God saw that the light
was good,” – Genesis Chapter 1 Verse 1-4.
“Trouble is, God forgot to ask the Darkness for permission
first…” Death Marshall Burns
***
He
didn’t see me when he stepped into the office. The remainders of the rain ran
in rivulets from the wide brim of his hat, dribbling down his duster to pool on
the smooth knotwood floor. He pulled the gloves from his gnarled old hands
one-by-one, tossing them carelessly at on the floor beneath his coat rack. It
wasn’t until he’d finished removing his soaked garments and turned, probably
already tasting the amber whiskey waiting in the flask hidden in his desk, that
he caught sight of me in the orange beam of light streaming in through the
window.
“Christ,
Burns!” he shouted, his back slamming back against the doorframe as he reached
for the gun at his belt, “What do you think you’re playing at? You’re lucky I
didn’t put a hole in your…” he drifted off as I leaned forward into the light,
letting it fall on the maimed remains of my face. “Holy…what happened to you?’
I
smirked, or at least I tried. I suddenly became acutely aware of how many
muscles it requires to create that facial expression, and how many of them I was
now missing. The right side of my face angrily grimaced at him, the bottom row
of teeth showing clearly through the ripped away portion of my lip and cheek. “I
found the Butcher, Tom,” I replied, the hard B slurring slightly. “He didn’t go
quietly.”
His
eyes widened, working through this new information. He ran a hand through the
thin, gray hair on top of his head before finally scratching at the sandpaper
stubble on his cheek. “Shouldn’t you be in a surgeon’s office?” he finally
said.
“I suppose,” I answered, “But I’ve
already been and went. There ain’t much they can do for me. The wound’s torn so
bad that, even if I had the missing bits, the docs wouldn’t be able to sew ‘em
back on. Besides,” I chuckled, “I didn’t feel like digging in the bastard’s
belly to get them back.”
“Well, hell,” he finally answered,
nimbly stepping past that particular mental image, “If you killed the
bastard, then it sounds like reason to celebrate to me. You’ve been on his trail
for, what, two years now?”
“Three,”
I growled, “He dropped fourteen bodies in all, that we know. Fifteen, now, I
suppose.”
Tom
crossed the room, pulling open the drawer to his desk. He pulled out the amber
bottle and two glasses, laying them out on the table and pouring us both a
finger’s worth. He slid one across to me and we held them up into the beam of
gaslight. “Well, they can rest easier now,” he said, “Well done. How’d you find
him?”
“The
bastard really was a butcher, if you can believe it,” I replied, “The most
recent victim, a girl from Ridley, had a receipt in her pocket from his shop.” I
tossed back the drink, wiping away the trickle that leaked down my right jaw in
irritation. “I showed up at his place near the Howling Slums last night and
took him down.” My voice drifted off for a moment, remembering the horrors I’d
found in that butcher shop, but I shook my head to scatter them. “Kind of hard
to believe it would end that way, after all this time, with just some stupid
screw-up.”
Tom shrugged.
“Sometimes we just get lucky,” he said, “Though in my experience, a lot of the
time, these rippers want to be caught so the truth of their story can get out.
Nothing makes them crazier than when the newsbills get the details wrong, you
know. Why, I interviewed a man once who spent twenty minutes haranguing me for
the amateurish way his crime scenes were photographed. Did I ever tell you
about the Howling Slums Strangler?”
He stood up, pouring himself a
second glass and swirling it thoughtfully as he started to pace towards the
door. I could see the telltale signs of one of his lectures coming, and I moved
to interject. “That’s the peculiar thing, Tom. They didn’t get any of the
details wrong with the Butcher. Just this morning, the Tattler published a story speculating that the Butcher was taking
the girls’ meat for use in food, based on the style of the cuts. Sure
enough, there was hamburger in the cold rooms of this guy’s shop that…well it
wasn’t beef. Thing is, we never released those details regarding the state of
the victims’ bodies. How did they figure that out, do you suppose?”
Tom
shrugged again. “Who can say? That bloody Cochrane woman has a lot of fingers
in a lot of pies. Maybe she heard something, or found some clue we missed?”
“Or
maybe she had a source,” I answered, voice turning to ice, “A source who knew
who and what the Butcher was all along.”
Tom’s
footfalls suddenly stopped, his back stiffening. His free hand dropped down
next to his holster before the ugly click of the hammer of my Peacebringer
echoed in the silence.
“How
long, Marshall Vinton?” I growled, “How long have you been a goddamned
Resurrectionist?”
Tom
craned his neck back, the fingers of his gun hand relaxing as he scanned the water
stained ceiling for elusive answers. “Sometimes it seems like only a few weeks,”
he finally responded, his voice haunted. He lifted the glass, taking one last
pull of the liquor, and then gave a dry, raspy chuckle.
“Sometimes
it feels like all my life.”