I’ve seen bodies before, of course, but always so soon after death that they look like they could be sleeping. I’ve never seen someone I’ve known well who’s been dead for a few hours. Stan’s skin is chilled and bloodless, his face slack, as if he’s a wax figure that’s an imperfect replica of the person I once knew. There’s a long gash across his throat, the edges of the wound congealed and dry like a slice of uncooked meat left too long on the counter. I know I should be moving faster and getting to work, but I can’t help but stall for a moment as I try to reconcile what I see now with the formidable man I once knew.
But even with the seconds ticking along and the alarm blaring, Lachlan doesn’t rush me. He carefully sets a small case on Stan’s chest and passes me a pair of bone-cutting forceps.
“Index and thumb, when you’re ready,” he says as he pulls out a resealable plastic bag and lays it between us. “Then we’ll do the other … thing …”
I take Stan’s left hand and get to work with the forceps. I fit their sharp edges at the second knuckle of his index finger where it should be easier to separate along the joint. Even with the brand-new forceps, it takes a lot of pressure and a bit of repositioning to make headway, but before too long it snaps free and I deposit the severed digit into the bag with the finger Lachlan has just removed from Stan’s right hand.
“You’re doing good,” Lachlan says, and I meet his eyes across the body. It’s not just a declaration of my ability but an observation that despite knowing this dead man lying between us, I’m not hampered by familiarity.
“Yeah,” I say, flashing him a smile as I saw at Stan’s thumb with my forceps. “This is kinda therapeutic, actually.”
Lachlan’s brow furrows as he snaps the right thumb free, his eyes not leaving mine.
“Stan was helpful to me and my family, for sure. After what happened to my dad, Stan was the one tasked with teaching me some ‘life skills,’ at least until Damian took over. The difference between a hammer strike and an elbow strike, for example.” I grit my teeth, squeezing the two handles of the forceps together until the joint finally succumbs to the pressure with a crack. “So even though I’m grateful he taught me a few useful tricks, he wasn’t what you’d call the most empathetic instructor. And it’s not like his presence was due to things going right with life, you know?”
“Yeah. Makes sense,” Lachlan says as he holds the plastic bag open so I can drop the severed thumb inside. Once sealed, he places it in the interior pocket of his jacket. “Regardless, I’m proud of you, yeah?”
“You’re my husband, sweetie. You’re kind of supposed to say that.”
An adorable blush creeps into Lachlan’s cheeks before he clears his throat and gruffly asks Conor for a time check.
“Three minutes.”
“Shite.” Lachlan takes out the next set of tools and lays them on Stan’s chest. There’s a syringe filled with some kind of solution and a plastic jar of formalin. A scalpel. A pair of scissors. A set of dainty tongs. And something that looks disturbingly like a little ice cream scoop. “You ready?”
Bile churns in my stomach. “Probably not.”
“Me neither.”
We move closer to Stan’s face and Lachlan passes me the tongs. “Conor, are you one hundred percent sure his security system has the iris scanner?”
“One hundred and ten percent sure. Enjoy.”
“Fucksakes.” Lachlan looks about as green as I feel when he pinches Stan’s lashes between two fingers and pulls his top eyelid upward. “Hold this with the tongs.”
I do as he asks and slide the instrument into place to hold the eyelid back from the prize beneath. Lachlan saturates the surface of Stan’s eye with the liquid in the syringe before he takes up the scalpel with a deep, unsteady breath.
“I take back what I said earlier about leaving Sloane out of this,” I say. “We should have gotten her to do it. This is fucking disgusting.”
“You’re not the one who has to dig it out of his face,” Lachlan says as he leans over Stan’s head with the scalpel. He starts slicing along the upper ridge of bone to cut the thin muscle that adheres to the eyeball. Just one glance at his progress and I have to turn away to gag. “Feckin’ hell, don’t you start.”
“I can’t help it.”
“You’re going to make me sick.”
“Please go faster.”
“Yes, go faster,” Conor says, “because someone’s just jumped on the delay and called dispatch for the fire department.”
“Shit,” I hiss into my sleeve.
Lachlan taps me on the wrist. “Switch lids.”
As soon as I grab the bottom eyelid a surge of blood pools across the gelatinous white surface and I wretch. With a shaking hand, I manage to pinch the skin with my tongs before my stomach flips and I gag.
“Keep it together, Lark,” Lachlan barks, his voice as much a plea as it is a command.
“How?”
“Think about Keanu.”
“No, don’t you dare ruin him for me with the power of eyeballs.”
“Feckin’ hell, okay. Shite.” A little wretch comes from Lachlan, and I bury my sweaty forehead into the crook of my elbow. “How the fuck does Sloane do this?”
“Just imagine it’s a marble,” Conor chimes. “Or one of those Trolli Glotzer marshmallow gummy eyeball candies. Have you seen those? Gabs loves those things. They’re filled with red sour liquid shit.”
I gag again as Lachlan releases a string of expletives, some of which might be in Irish, though I can barely make out his words over the blaring alarm and the heartbeats roaring in my ears. “Don’t bring up food, ya feckin’ gobshite. Bloody hell.”
“Yeah, fuck off, Conor. Leave my man alone.”
“The spoon thingy, Lark. Pass me the spoon.”
I heave. Lachlan gags. Conor cackles.
I manage to pull myself together long enough to grab the mini scoop and shove it into Lachlan’s hand. “Get that thing out, for the love of God.”
“This sounds like a window into your sex life—”
“Shut up,” Lachlan hisses. “Hand me the scissors, duchess.”
I pass him the scissors and a moment later, there’s a victorious sound of triumph. I find the jar of formalin and hold my breath as Lachlan drops the severed eye into the liquid. I don’t even have the lid screwed tightly shut before Lachlan has the bloodied tools packed away, hushed expletives still spilling from his lips.
The earpiece crackles with Conor’s laugh. “I was kidding, by the way. We don’t need the eye.”
“Fuck you, Conor,” we snap in unison as I pocket the eyeball. Lachlan zips up the body bag, wheeling Stan’s cart back into position along the wall.
“No, really, we do need the eye. But we also need you out. Fire trucks are a minute or two away.”
We take off running, retracing our path through the building and into the cold November night. As we sprint toward the van, we hear the wail of sirens in the distance. I can barely catch my breath, but the adrenaline exploding through my veins gives me a sense of power. I feel invincible. I don’t know if Lachlan feels this way after every job he does, this addictive rush, but I feel fucking amazing.
So amazing that I almost forget why we’re really here.
Lachlan smiles as though he can divine my conflicting thoughts from my wide-eyed, manic gaze as he passes the bag of fingers to Conor. I do the same with the jar, and Conor places both items in a small cooler.
“We should have everything we need to access Stan’s records. But if something happens and it doesn’t work, this could take weeks. The clock is ticking. If the killer stays on their schedule, they’re due to kill again in forty days. It might not be enough time.”
I nod and Lachlan reaches across the center console to give my hand a squeeze. There’s muted hope in the way he watches me. I can tell he wants to believe these pieces of Stan will unlock the mystery of the hunter that haunts us, but it’s as though he’s unwilling to put much stock in what feels like little more than witchcraft.
“Whoever is doing this, we’ll find them,” he says. He raises my hand to brush his lips to my knuckles. It’s as much a reassurance to himself as it is a promise to me. “And once we do, I’m going to show them what hell on earth looks like.”
WANDERER
The Phantom
It’s been two weeks since I delivered Mr. Tremblay to God, and now He has rewarded my diligence. My servitude. He has moved the pieces across the board and cleared my way to righteous victory.
For I know the plans I have for you. Plans to prosper you and not to harm you. Plans to give you hope and a future.
And my plans are ready to come together.
I stand for a long moment at the door and watch the woman as she sleeps. The light casts lines of shadows across her body as it passes through the slatted window blinds. It illuminates every miniscule movement, every breath. I can almost smell the failure of her organs. The sterile environment and the industrial cleaners can’t mask the smell of impending death.
Almighty God, the shadow of death is upon her.
The tempo of her breathing changes. Perhaps a nightmare. Fluid collects in her chest and rumbles. She coughs, and when she opens her eyes, they pan across the room until they land on me.
“Who are you?” she asks. Her vision must be hazy with sleep and old age, but I still catch the suspicion in the milky depths of her eyes. I take a purposeful step into the room and pull the door closed behind me.
“Today, I’m known as”—I point to the stolen ID card I’ve pinned to my chest pocket—“Steve.”
“Today, I’m known as Bertha, so if you’re looking for Ethel, I’m afraid you have the wrong room.”
I grin at the old woman as I pull a pair of latex gloves from the pocket of my scrubs and slip them on. “You are not what I expected, Ethel.”
“I’ve been told that before. But men like you have been underestimating women like me since the dawn of time, so your surprise is not at all refreshing. In fact, it’s a little stale, if you’ll forgive the muffin pun.”
The old woman gives me a sharp and dismissive glare. Then she presses the button to adjust the incline of her bed. I stride forward, determined to stop her if she attempts to call for the nurse, but she only sneers at me. I know with that glance that she has either accepted her fate, or that she intends to attempt to fight me off herself.
“So,” she says over the whir of the bed’s hidden motor. “I assume you’re here to kill me?”
“I’m here to deliver you to God,” I correct her as I draw to a halt at the foot of her bed.
“On the behest of Bob?”
My head tilts.