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Seeking Twilight Ch. 01

By: daj8577



Michelle Constantine was dead, and everyone knew it. So, how is it that, seven years after her death, she could be standing in the shadowy corner of a bar in downtown Minneapolis.

She had committed suicide in Winona, Minnesota in the summer of 1998. Although it made it no less tragic, it came as no surprise to anyone that she had killed herself. It was, after all, widely known, both in Michelle's circle of friends and by the residents of her dorm that she had been increasingly depressed in recent months, even suicidal. She had even set up attempts to commit suicide that she had failed to go through with. This time, however, was different. This time she couldn't fail. This time, she drove her car off of a bridge.

The aqueduct was low, so the car had hit the retaining wall and exploded. The Medical Examiner's office later found that flesh and hair had melted to the seat. The body had obviously been incinerated by the explosion. The death certificate was signed by the Medical Examiner, and cosigned by the investigating officer, Julie Kaldwell. Yes, Michelle Constantine had most definitely committed suicide. This was a fact that no one disputed, and yet, the same young woman who had been cremated by her own car was now seven years older and no worse for wear, waiting in a bar to meet a guy and have a drink.

His name was Derek Fenton. He was president of the University of Minnesota chapter of Tau Kappa Theta. He was the captain and star quarterback of the university's football team. He was a complete jackass who was somehow admired and adored all over campus by those who had never met him but couldn't help pissing off most people within fifteen minutes of being introduced to them. He was on the seventh year of a free ride provided by his father, a very successful attorney for the largest law firm in the twin cities and a generously contributing alumnus. And he, Derek, was Michelle's only reason for being in the kind of place where she wouldn't normally be caught dead.

The bar was a typical frat hangout, that is to say it was a bastardized cross between an Irish pub and a sports bar; pool tables, dart boards, air hockey, foosball, hot wings, big screen televisions, beer logos and sports memorabilia crowding the walls. Michelle stood back in the darkest, most unobserved corner of the bar trying not to stick out, which was no easy task. She was dressed in knee-high leather platform boots, fishnet stockings, a thigh-high pleated wool skirt, a leather corset, and a biker jacket, all black, and all of which only served to starkly contrast her soft, pale skin and her golden blonde hair which hung down to the middle of her back. Yet she was managing to stay fairly unnoticed. Not bad for someone who looked like a cast member of the Rocky Horror Show posing for an Abercrombie and Fitch catalog.

She watched as the narcissistic prick got drunk, not only on beer, but on his own machismo, and hit on every girl in the bar. She could see that he was there that night for action, so she waited until he was just drunk enough, then ordered a round of beers for his table. She watched the waitress take the beers to their table, knowing he would hit on the waitress. She could almost hear the waitress make some remark that would've gone over his head even if he wasn't drunk. As he pulled the waitress to his lap and then got more physical, Michelle watched as the waitress yelled out for the bouncer, who Michelle knew to be the waitress' brother. She relished the look on Derek's face as this seven foot tall, 400 pound bouncer picked Derek up and carried him out of the bar. She then slipped out the back door, down the alley, and came out just a few yards down the block from the front entrance of the bar in time to see Derek throwing a pre-adolescent tantrum in the general direction of the bouncer.

She took a rather nonchalant stance leaning against the front wall of the bar, watching as Derek turned and walked up the street toward her. She took a cigarette and the lighter from her jacket pocket, acting as though she were unable to light it. He stopped in front of her, pulled the lighter from his pocket, and lit her cigarette, thinking himself dashing. It amused her to listen to him attempt to strike up a conversation with her, mocking his endeavors in the back of her mind.

She finally lost her patience, no longer entertained but instead annoyed by his prattling. She dropped her cigarette, crushing it out with her toe, then reached across and grabbed him by his collar with both hands. She quickly pulled him to her, pressing her lips to his, pushing her tongue into his mouth. The combination of his currently drunken stupor and his shock slowed him for only a moment, and he quickly had his arms around her, his hands all over her. As his hands slid up under her skirt to grab her ass, she pulled him down the alley for a little more privacy. Her own hands slid down to his crotch, teasing and exciting him further into a trance-like state of arousal.

She pulled away from him slightly, teasingly, and looked down below his belt, licking her lips as she slipped her jacket off of her shoulders and let it fall to the ground. She again pulled him to her, her hands reaching behind his head, pulling his lips to her neck. He began to kiss and nibble and suck on her neck, as their bodies ground into each other. She began to do the same to him, biting and nipping at his shoulder.

She knew she had him. His mouth was all over her throat, his one hand pawing at her ass, and his other hand fumbling to undo her corset. She had to act now. She opened her mouth wide, revealing her abnormally long and sharp incisors, and dug deep into Derek's jugular. It barely phased him at first; he merely thought she was giving him one hell of a hickey. She swallowed hard, the pressure of his arteries filling her mouth quickly. She could feel his actions and his heartbeat slow. She pushed him up against the wall, propping him up as she felt his body begin to collapse into unconsciousness; she felt his blood ceasing to push out of his body. He slumped and slid down the wall into a sitting position as she sucked what little blood she still could out of him.

She stood up and stepped back from the now dead body of Derek Fenton, licking her lips. She picked up her jacket, dusted it off, and put it back on. Then she opened her mouth wide once again, this time dislodging the elongated caps from her incisors, and proceeded to lick them clean. After all, she hated getting things stuck in her teeth.

Miles away, in Bloomington, Tina Curtis awoke with a start, sitting straight up in bed, a paralyzing chill running through her and the taste of blood still on her tongue. She scrambled and squirmed to get the covers off her, as if she had felt some unseen menagerie of creepy crawlies slithering and skittering across her pajama'd body. She curled up against the headboard, staring at the empty space on the bed where she had just been laying. She was so frozen by her own terror that she had failed to notice that the force with which she woke had knocked her boyfriend Denny halfway out of bed.

"Aw, crap, not again," Denny whined into the carpet, having just woken up with his face squashed against the floor, hanging out of his bed by his ankles. As he attempted to spit floor lint out of the sides of his mouth, his legs pulled free from the tangled blanket, and he clumsily somersaulted to the floor with an unceremonious thud. He pulled himself back up to the bed to see Tina curled up against the headboard, sitting upright, legs pulled tightly to her chest, arms wrapped around her knees, eyes wide as saucers, staring downward into space. He crawled back into bed, put her arms around her and whispered, "Honey. . ."

Noticing her lack of movement or response, he asked, more audibly this time, "Tina, are you alright?"

With a heavy sigh, she melts into his embrace.

"I had that dream again."

Denny said nothing in response, and instead, ran his fingers through her hair and kissed her forehead.

"I know . . .", she said, "I know it's just a dream, but it's so real . . ."

She leaned in to him, her head pressing against his chest and her arms around his waist. He kissed her forehead again and whispered in her ear, "Its okay . . . It's okay."

The tone of Denny's voice was always soothing to Tina, and tonight was no exception. She loved feeling the way she did at that moment, that feeling of being comforted. It was like being cradled by a life-sized teddy bear. Denny, on the other hand, was tired, and had been for most of the week.

Tina had dreamt the same dream a month ago, and it had kept her up all night, which had kept Denny up all night. After that night things had been fine until a week ago, when she had the dream again. This time, however, it kept the both of them up not only that night, but every night since. In fact, up until waking up choking on carpet fuzz, Denny had been having the best night of sleep he had gotten in a week.

Denny started to move, but Tina didn't want him to. She tightened her grip and pouted up at him, saying, "Don't go."

"I was just gonna get the blankets. It's late, it's cold, and we need sleep."

"Okay," she resigned, letting go of her human pillow.

Denny turned and crawled to the foot of the bed, struggled with the tangles for a moment, then pulled the blankets up over himself and Tina. He spooned up to Tina, wrapping his arms around her and closing his eyes. Tina's eyes, however, remained open, focused on the blood red glow of her digital alarm clock.

Tina Curtis wasn't like her boyfriend. Oh, she was very much in love with him. She could be tender and caring, like he could be. She could be strong and supportive, like he could. She could be playful and flirtatious and sexy, like he could. Yet they had their differences. While Denny was and idealist, Tina was a pragmatist. While he wanted to change things, she was resigned to the belief that they never would. While he loved to ask questions, she didn't want to know the answers, because, while he believed that the truth was the best of things and could only serve to help people, she knew that the truth could be a dangerous and even deadly thing. She loved Denny very much, and, although she knew they lived in Minnesota, where the only news was record snowfall, she knew how zealous and tenacious he could get. As a result, she was always afraid that he might find out something he wasn't supposed to, and she refused to lose him because of it.

Tina stared into the blood red glow of her digital clock, as her mind flooded with images from her dream. She shut her eyes, trying to push the images out of her mind, but they only became more vivid and intense. Blood, pain, shadow, the smell of rotting death. They ate away at her soul and stabbed at her mind.

Tina sat up in bed and looked at her clock. Not a minute had passed since she had closed her eyes. Damn it, she thought. It annoyed her that the one thing she needed right now, more than anything else; sleep; was the one thing she couldn't have. Not without help, that is. She got up and went to the bathroom medicine cabinet. She normally hated to take sleeping pills, but right now she didn't care. She filled the water cup, grabbed out the bottle marked "Nighttime Aspirin". She sat down on the closed toilet, popped a couple of pills in her mouth, and swallowed them down with a swig of water. She sighed and sat back, trying to relax her mind and focus on anything other than the dream she just had.

Denny's arm slid over in bed to the empty space left by Tina. He warily opened one eye, noticing the light from the bathroom. He rolled out of bed, standing on wobbly legs, and walked to the bathroom, holding his hand up in front of his eyes.

"You okay?"

Tina jumped, and then laughed to herself.

"Jesus, Denny, you scared the crap out of me."

She looked up at Denny and saw how tired he was.

"Go back to bed, baby. You look exhausted."

Worried, Denny asked, "You sure you're okay?"

Tina reached over and took Denny's hand.

"Yeah, I'll be right there. Just try to get some sleep."

"Okay."

Denny turned and headed back down the hall. Tina smiled to herself, and then stood up. She rinsed out the cup and closed the medicine cabinet. As she did, she saw the reflection of another woman staring back at her. Not the reflection of someone else in the room with her; her own reflection had been replaced by the image of this stranger.

Everything was different. Tina's straight, shoulder-length, brunette hair had been replaced by the woman's long, flowing blonde hair. Tina's pajamas had been replaced with black leather. Even Tina's face had been replaced, even though it moved the way Tina's moved, expressing what Tina felt. The face itself was alien to Tina, and yet, she found it somehow familiar.

Tina's gaze was locked on the woman in the mirror who barely moved. Suddenly, the woman reached out from the mirror and grabbed Tina by the throat. No sooner had the woman's hand made contact than the vivid, random images from Tina's dream flooded her mind. The grotesque montage of the murderous dream played out in shades of blood red like some grisly sports highlights. As the visions overwhelmed her mind, her nearly unconscious body wobbled on tired legs. Her grip on the cup loosened and it slipped from her hand, landing in the sink with a loud clang. Her attention snapped down to the sink, seeing the cup.

Denny had only just laid down in bed when he heard the clang from in the bathroom. He sat up and called out, "Tina?!"

At the sound of Denny's voice, Tina called back, "Yes?"

"What was that?"

Tina, now even more shaken than before, grabbed the glass and put it back. She looked back in the mirror and saw her reflection as it should be. Denny called out to her again, more timidly this time, "Honey?"

"I dropped the glass," Tina said as she turned off the light in the bathroom, then gave her eyes a moment to adjust, went back into the bedroom and got back into bed.

Denny put his arm around her and asked, "You okay?"

Tina stared up at the ceiling, and said, "Yeah, I'm fine, just tired," lying more to herself than to Denny. She rolled over, then, confronted yet again by the glow of her digital clock, she pulled the covers over her head and attempted to sleep. She slowly drifted off to sleep, her mind fighting against not only the images from her dream, but Denny's snoring as well. As her mind finally gave up, the images cleared, leaving one single fact behind, glaring in her head like cheap neon: tomorrow was Monday. Tina hated Mondays.

Seeking Twilight Ch. 02



Jones hated Mondays, and he especially hated to work on Mondays. This in and of itself was not unusual; most people dislike, or even hate, Mondays. Monday, to most people, is the worst day of the week. But for Jones, his job meant that he dealt with most people on the worst day of their lives, and this was difficult enough without having to deal with the fact that it was Monday.

Detective Caesar Damocles Jones hated a lot of things. For starters, he hated his first and middle names, which was why he just went by C. D., if not just Jones. He hated being the only black cop on the force. He hated mayonnaise on anything. He hated being the only Bears fan in a town populated by Vikings and Packers fans, which was, to him, just the universe's obnoxious way of rubbing his face in the dirt.

He hated bad cops, both kinds. He hated dirty cops, something he had run into a lot when he worked in Chicago, but not so much here in Minneapolis, and he hated lousy incompetent cops, cops that dicked around on the job, fucked up a crime scene because they couldn't be bothered to care. He hated them so much that some days he just felt like pulling out his gun and putting one through the head of the next boy in blue who spilled coffee on a corpse or stepped in blood evidence.

Jones also hated clutter. Jones was the most organized, most meticulous, most tidy, most painstakingly anal son-of-a-bitch that anyone on the Minneapolis P.D. had ever met. He always wore the cleanest, freshly pressed expensive suits. His desk was always in perfect order, with everything in its place, spotlessly clean. He was so clean, in fact, that he kept a mini-vacuum in his car. But as much as Jones hated mess, as much as he hated bad cops, as much as he hated the colors purple, green, and gold, as much as he hated mayonnaise, he hated Mondays even more (although mayonnaise was a close second). 

On this particular Monday, there were, Jones observed, a particularly large number of people having a very bad day, including him. First, there was the sixteen year old waitress who was nearly catatonic from the shock of finding a dead body. Second, there were the restaurateurs who owned the three buildings that shared the alley in which the body was found, and whose employees had been detained for questioning, and whose businesses had been temporarily closed to help preserve the crime scene. There was Jones' captain, who had, less than an hour ago, been notified to this, the second killing of not only such a bizarre nature but nearly identical m.o., in not only the city, but in a five block radius in a week. And then, of course, there was Jones Himself, whose day was being made even more difficult by one fact: he was getting a new partner.

In the six years that he had been a detective in Minneapolis, Jones had never had a partner. In fact, the last partner Jones had was currently on early retirement in Joliet County for the next 15 to 20, where Jones had sent him. Needless to say, Jones was not looking forward to having a new partner.

Jones superiors, however, felt that it was time for a change, especially after the public relations nightmare that the Jack Richards' disappearance had been. They felt that bringing a fresh mind into the department would help to "resolidify the public's faith and trust in their local law enforcement," which Jones had heard at least seventeen times a day from the administration for the last two weeks.

At present, the closest thing Jones had to a partner was Dr. Barry Wescott, lead criminologist at the Minneapolis Crime Lab. He and Jones had worked together on a number of cases over the past few years. In fact, of all the people Jones had worked with since transferring from Chicago, Barry was not just the first, but the only one who hadn't, at one time or another wanted to toss Jones out the nearest window to get him to shut the hell up. It wasn't that they had become friends or anything like that. They had simply developed a rapport, or, at least, the natural way that their sarcasm and smart ass remarks to each other had managed to insinuate themselves into their everyday work dialogue certainly held the appearance of rapport.

Barry Wescott was, to all who knew him, rather strange. He had a quirky, quippy sense of humor, and an almost complete lack of social skill or grace. Whenever anyone saw him, he was always eating something; nachos, peanuts, pretzels, popcorn, hotdogs, sandwiches, always, but he never seemed to gain weight. He was still the same tall, lanky, pencil-necked string-bean that he had always been. He always wore one of the dozens of Hawaiian-print shirts and one of the handfuls of pairs of baggy cargo pants. And, although the people he worked with knew he was brilliant, he always had the dopiest and most vacant expression that gave most people the impression that the elevator never quite made it to the top floor.

On the other hand, when he worked, he was precise, detail-oriented, anal, a complete professional from the word "Go", or, in this case, from the words, "Morning Doc," which was exactly what Jones said to him when he arrived at the crime scene.

"Morning Jones. What do we have?" asked Barry.

"White male, mid 20's, dead a while. Waitress was taking out the garbage when she found him," Jones replied, hiding his disgust well, "Flies all over him."

"Anyone touch the body?"

"Nope." Jones explained further, "Owner called the cops when the waitress found him."

"And the scene?"

Jones pointed to two uniform officers and said, "First guys here roped off the alley and stayed back."

"When?"

"Half hour ago," said Jones, checking his watch, "6:30"

Barry drank in the scene. He looked carefully up and down the walls and floor of the alley looking for anything and nothing in particular. With the exception of the dead body, there was nothing special about the alley; it looked like any other alley in the city. A couple of standard dumpsters sat in a convenient position off to one side, across from the back door of a restaurant and just beyond the fire exit of the bar. It was a clean alley; in a city any larger this alley might have been littered with newspapers, broken bottles, miscellaneous refuse, but not here. After all, this was Minneapolis.

Barry's attention turned to the body, as he stepped under the police tape. Jones began to follow, but was distracted by the sounds of horns honking and tires squealing.

"What now?" he grumbled as he walked back out to the street to see someone on a motorcycle speeding through traffic, bopping back and forth between lanes, cutting off cars right and left and leaving them swerving precariously. The motorcycle then pulled up onto the side walk and stopped right in front of Jones. The first words out of Jones' mouth were, "You can't park that here."

The rider killed the engine, and then took off her helmet to reveal short, closely cropped brunette hair, and sharp green eyes. She looked up at Jones, and asked, "What?"

"You can't park that here."

"Says who?" the woman said mockingly.

Jones flashed his badge and replied "The City of Minneapolis"

The woman reached behind her and under her coat. Jones drew his gun and yelled, "HANDS WHERE I CAN SEE THEM!"

The woman froze. Trying to be calm, she said, "Whoa, just going for my I.D."

The woman moved her arm slowly back out from behind her, wallet in hand. The wallet fell open, revealing a badge nearly identical to Jones'.

"See, I've got one of those, too."

Putting away his gun and pointing at the badge, Jones said, "Did you get yours in a box of cracker jacks along with your driver's license?"

"No, I actually had to send away for the badge. You wouldn't believe how many box tops I had to save up," the woman quipped back.

"Oh, for God's sake, get a damn room already and shut the hell up!" yelled a frustrated Barry from the crime scene.

The woman started to get up off of the bike when Jones asked, "So, you're just going to leave that there?"

"You gonna write me a ticket?" she asked rhetorically, to which he replied, "Do I look like a meter maid?"

She eyed him up and down for a moment, then said, "No, but I bet you'd look damn sexy driving around in one of those little golf cart things."

Barry, now also getting impatient, yelled, "Hey Jones, when you're done hitting on the Harley Davidson poster girl, I could use a hand."

"Sure."

"Jones?" the woman asked, now genuinely curious, "As in Detective C.D. Jones?"

Even though she'd said his name twice, it had taken Jones a moment to realize that she was talking to him. 

"Are you still here?" he asked.

"Well, I should be," she explained, "I'm Detective Julie Kaldwell. I'm your new partner."

A wave of disdain washed over Jones as he flung a pair of latex gloves at his new partner and said, "Try to not destroy evidence."

Jones had a habit of sizing people up when he met them. He liked to get a feel for people. He liked pick them apart and break down what they were like to figure out why they were the way they were.

With Kaldwell, he had started sizing her up the moment he had seen her coming down the block. From the way she road down the street, the way she traded insults with him, and the total disregard she had to anyone else, he could tell that she was sure of herself to an almost narcissistic degree. He also read her outfit; a very smart looking and fashionable leather suit coat, burgundy t-shirt, black slacks, and very expensive but comfortable Italian shoes, he could tell that she was a complete professional, although she was trying to maintain a sense of individuality, which was all bullshit. He knew that this was all just something that she told herself, but the truth was that even after seven years, she was still very green, very much a rookie. The only problem was that, with seven years of experience, she no longer thought of herself as a rookie. As far as Jones was concerned, this was going to be hell, and he had no intent of going through it alone. He would share his private little hell with his new partner, whether she wanted to or not. 

That will have to wait, Jones thought as he and Kaldwell crossed the police line to where Barry was waiting, and has started taking pictures of the body. He gets a little closer and sees a shadow of something under the victim's neck. He pauses and sighs to himself, "Hmm."

"What is it?" Jones asked, knowing that something had peaked Barry's curiosity.

"I don't know," said Barry, "Do me a favor and tilt his head the other way."

Jones leaned over and tilted the victim's head back and to the left, saying, "I hate doing this."

"There," Barry said, pointing out the deep punctures in the neck.

When he saw the marks, Jones made the connection. 

"Bingo. Just like the Taylor case," he said.

Kaldwell was confounded by what she saw. It can't be, she thought, and then asked, "Are those bite marks?"

"From the bruise pattern between and on either side of the wounds," explained Barry, "I'd say that if they're not then we are definitely meant to think that they are. I won't know anything for sure until we get him back to the lab."

Noticing the growing number of people watching them, Jones then suggested, "Then that's what we should do. We've got too many people seeing too much out here, and if the press gets wind of this before--

"Too late!" Kaldwell exclaimed, pointing to the high-powered telescopic lens in a third story window overlooking the scene from the building across the street.

Jones yelled to the window, "MINNEAPOLIS POLICE! STAY WHERE YOU ARE!"

"I've got him," Kaldwell said, charging across the street to the fire escape that led up to the room. She jumped up and grabbed the ladder.

"Kaldwell!" Jones yelled, "What the hell do you think you are doing?!"

The ladder slid down with Kaldwell on it, and, after almost falling off, she raced up it.

"Dammit," Jones grumbled as he ran down the street to the front of the building and through the front door.

Reaching the second story landing, Kaldwell yelled out, "Hey, you with the camera, stay where you are!"

The only reply she received to this is a whispered "oh shit!" from the photographer's window.

Kaldwell dove through the window the photographer had been perched at just in time to see his foot disappear out the doorway of the room. She scrambled to her feet and chased after him. Meanwhile, Jones was taking two and three stairs at a time to try to catch the photographer. When he was only five steps form the second floor hallway, he saw the photographer. He leapt forward, arms outstretched, reaching for the running man . . . And missed him completely, landing clumsily at the top of the stairs. 

Jones turned and looked up at the photographer, who was still running, to get a better look at him. He was wearing a black biker jacket, a pair of ratty blue jeans, and black sneakers. His dark shoulder-length hair was tied back in a ponytail, and he had a black canvas camera satchel slung over his left shoulder that hung low on his right hip. Jones turned to look back the other way in time to duck as Kaldwell hurdled over him. He got up and took off after Kaldwell and the photographer.

Kaldwell called out to the photographer again, "HOLD IT RIGHT THERE, YOU'VE GOT NOWHERE TO GO!"

But the photographer did have somewhere to go. He saw what neither Kaldwell nor Jones could; that the window at the end of the hallway was open. He also knew that there was another fire escape just outside that window.

The photographer dove through the window, his pursuers only a few yards behind him, and quickly rolled over towards the stairs. He slid down the banisters without touching the steps, BAM, landing on the second story platform, and then ran out on the counter-weighted steps barely waiting for them to drop halfway before leaping off and dropping to the alley below.

Unfortunately for Jones and Kaldwell, they made it to the window just a split second after the photographer had managed to duck down a side street. They both looked around desperately, trying to figure out which way he'd gone. When they finally gave up, they shook their heads and kicked themselves as they headed back to the stairs. 

The photographer tightened the strap of his camera bag then leaped onto his motorcycle. He pulled on his helmet, revved the engine, and raced off with a squeal. After a few blocks, he looked back and saw a tired Jones and Kaldwell coming out of the front entrance of the building.

The photographer's name was John DeSalvo. He worked for the "Star Tribune", the highest circulating paper in Minnesota. He worked with his wife, Marleana, who everyone just called "Marley", and with his two closest friends, who happened to be Denny and Tina. And he made his living getting the pictures no one else ever got.

John had been a photographer since he was thirteen, when an art teacher gave him his first camera. Before he knew it, he was an art-photography sensation. But when he reached college, his interests shifted from art to journalism. He became a photographer for the school paper, where he met and worked with Marley, Tina, and later, Denny. He gained his reputation for being braver, cleverer, and having a better eye than the average camera bum, putting even professional photojournalists to shame.

But when he graduated from college and into the pros, he needed an edge. Where others relied on luck, he had a more useful and dependable tool: cash. Being the grandson of an Italian fashion designer and the son of a rock-and-roll icon, John was never without a bank roll, but growing up in the shadows of two generations of fame and riches, John wanted none of it. And as he and his wife both made a decent living from the paper, he had plenty of money left over to pay off patrol cops to tell him where a murder had just occurred or rent a room that over looked a crime scene for a few hours from a particularly greedy apartment building owner, which was what he did.

Now John was racing back to his paper. He pulled his bike into the parking garage. On the elevator, he pulled the memory card out of his camera, put it in his PDA, and hit a couple of buttons, which sent the photos to the printer in the offices above him. When he got to the office, he darted to the main network printer, and grabbed his photos. As he did, he spotted Denny across the bullpen. John made a bee line for Denny, grabbed him by the shoulders, and pushed him towards a side office.

"Jesus Christ, John," exclaimed Denny, hopping to keep from tripping over an office chair, "What the hell--"

"Just keep walking; I don't want to be noticed."

"Am I consorting with a known felon?"

"In here, quickly!" John said, opening an office door.

Tina looked up from her desk to see the guys now standing in her office.

"Hi honey, hi John," Tina said, "You guys need something?"

"Yeah," said John as he dropped the photos on Tina's desk, "Eight inches above the fold on the front page."

"What are these," Denny asked, picking up one of the photos.

"Your ticket to your first page one story."

In the eleven months that Denny had been at the "Star Tribune", he hadn't had a page one. In fact, he hadn't even had one decent byline. Being the rookie reporter for the paper, he was stuck scraping the bottom of the journalistic barrel, working the human interest beat. Denny hated fluff stories, and his friends all knew it, and although he would do almost anything for a real story, he hadn't had the opportunity. Needless to say, he was chomping at the bit.

"What happened?" he asked.

"Murder downtown, found this morning," John explained, "Best part is, m.o. matches Martin Taylor."

"You're kidding," said Tina in awe.

These were the first words Tina had spoken since John had dropped the photos on her desk. Tina was the junior assistant editor at the paper, which meant that while she was stuck doing most of the editing of articles while the senior assistant editor and the editor-in-chief made all of the real editorial decisions such as layout and story importance, etc. The fact was she had no real influence over editorial policy whatsoever, and the others knew it.

Tina looked more closely at the pictures. She was drawn into them, as if there were something familiar there. Something about the victim, or about the alley, or the light . . . No, not the light, she thought, the lighting is all wrong, it should be darker. Her mind flashed with the image of herself standing in the alley, as it was in the picture, but she was not herself. She was the same woman she had seen in the mirror in her bathroom the night before. She was looking down on the dead body, outside of the light cast by the street lamps at either end of the alley. She knew, somehow, somewhere in the back of her mind, she knew his name; she just couldn't focus on it, as if she were trying to read ten point font off of a billboard.

The sound of her door opening and closing had no effect on her trance-like focus on the pictures, yet, when she heard her own name, she looked up at the door and saw that same woman standing there. Confused and frozen by shock, she stared at the figure. She heard her name called out again, this time somewhere distant as her whole world was standing still . . .

"Tina . . . Tina"

"Tina!" Denny called out again, more forcefully this time, touching her shoulder.

Tina's head shook and her eyes blinked as if she were waking from a dream, and the only sounds to come out of her mouth were, "huh . . . wha"

"You okay hon?" Denny asked, "You look tired."

"I . . . I'm fine."

Tina looked over by John and saw Marley standing there.

"Oh, hey Mar, I didn't notice you come in."

Marley couldn't help but be puzzled by this.

"You sure?" she asked, "You looked right at me."

"What?" Tina asked.

Now Tina was confused, but she saw the same looks of confusion on her friends and the look of worry and concern on Denny, and tried to cover.




Seeking Twilight Ch. 02



"Oh, uh, yeah. I'm just really tired; I didn't sleep well at all last night."

"Okay," Marley said, turning to John, "I got your message and put in a call to Moira down at the Medical Examiner's office. She said that they had just gotten the body in and are going to start the autopsy a.s.a.p. She said she'd call back when she knew anything."

"Good. She say anything else?" John asked.

"Yeah. Chief of police just called a press conference, and Bert is sending Reggie," explained Tina.

The Bert and Reggie to whom she referred were Bertram Garvey, Editor-in-Chief of the paper, and Reginald Brianski, a reporter for the paper. The news was a disappointment to John and a surprise to Tina.

"Wait, Bert is completely pissed at Reggie for screwing up the Martin Taylor story. Why in the hell would he send Reggie to the press conference and not Denny?" Tina asked.

"Well, probably because Denny's been hiding out in here." said Marley, without anything even resembling tact.

"No, I mean--"

"Don't worry about it, hon," Denny said, cutting Tina off. Denny almost never cut Tina off, and, when he did, it was because he knew what he was saying.

"I'm sure," he continued, "that Bert probably thinks that this press conference is just some P.R. gimmick by the police administration, otherwise he would have sent Jeff or Charlie. No, we've got the upper hand here; especially Marley's friend gets back to us before the conference."

A slight, sly grin crept across Denny's face as a plan formulated in his head

"If we can know what no one else knows before the police want us too, we'll . . . I'll own this story, and Bert will have no choice but to give me the front page."

"Well, you guys should get going," Marley said, "The press conference is in less than an hour. I'll have Moira call you when she gets back to me."

Moira Sodeski had been Marley's college roommate freshman year, and, although they had taken much different career paths, they had remained friends to this day. Since graduating, Moira had become Barry's personal assistant, which was basically a glorified secretary position. The only thing that made it bearable was the fun and pleasure she took leaking confidential information to Marley. Moira was, at that moment looking over the autopsy reports that Barry had asked her to type, and listening in over the intercom as Barry reviewed his findings with Jones and Kaldwell.

"Meet Derek Fenton."

"Fenton?" Jones asked, "As in Carl Fenton?"

Barry nodded. Kaldwell, meanwhile, was beginning to feel a bit left out as Barry and Jones each seemed to know what the other was thinking, and, although she felt more and more inept and naïve with each question, she couldn't help but ask, "Who?"

"Carl Fenton, attorney for Gustafson, Gustafson, Gustafson, and Fenton." said Jones.

"You left out a Gustafson," interjected Barry, "You left out the most important one, too."

"Shut up, Barry." Jones said, and then turned back to Kaldwell. "Anyway, he's a big time, hot shot defense lawyer and a pain in the ass of every cop in the department."

"So, this is his kid?" Kaldwell asked.

"From the Abercrombie and Fitch to the Tau Kappa Theta ring," Barry remarked, handing the ring to Jones.

"Aw, and I didn't get you anything."

"Oh, it gets better. Our boy here," Barry said, double checking his records, "popped a .37 blood/alcohol level."

Kaldwell decided to attempt to join in the retort.

She remarked, "So you found a little blood in his alcohol."

"Very little blood. There was even less left in him than in Martin Taylor," said Barry, looking to Jones.

Jones caught the look. And he was missing almost ¾ of his blood, Jones thought.

"Wait, so . . ." Kaldwell mulled it over in her head, swimming in thought. 

"What happened to all that blood?" she asked. "Crime scene was clean. No trace."

Barry, deciding to have a little fun with his explanation, held his hand up, tipped his head back, and made a gulping sound as if he were chugging an invisible drink.

"What!?" exclaimed a dumfounded Kaldwell.

Barry went back to his desk and pulled a particular autopsy photo from the Martin Taylor murder file. When he came back to the body, he lined the picture up next to the wounds on Derek Fenton's body.

"Look at this, on both bodies, these were the only wounds. See the bruising between and around the punctures on both bodies? It's identical, and so is the female DNA in the saliva I found around the wounds."

"Nice use of a visual aid," quipped Jones.

"Thank you."

"So," said Kaldwell, still unsure, but trying desperately, "You mean she just sucked their blood out?"

"Sort of," Barry said, trying to give Kaldwell credit, "but not exactly. Both times she bit directly into their jugulars, so the pressure would've pushed the blood out of each of their bodies as spray. She would've had to be locked onto them like a leech to keep the blood from escaping."

Kaldwell nodded, finally understanding it.

Jones, who had run out of smart ass remarks (at least for the moment) suddenly felt overtaken by a sense of urgency. He knew that they had a lot to do and had better get to it.

"Okay," he said, taking charge, "we've got two victims so far--"

"That we know of," Barry said, cutting him off.

"Yes, that we know of. So, same M.O., one week apart, attention to methodology--"

"Serial Killer," Barry cut in, again.

Jones knew that Barry was right. He'd worked a couple of serial cases in Chicago, but that had been eight years ago, and he hadn't seen anything this serious in Minneapolis. He tried to remember the procedures.

"You run that DNA through the system?" he asked

"Yeah, I got nothing back. No hits from any database."

"We've got to find out if she's done this before," Jones said, slowly remembering what to do, "If she did, there'll be a pattern. If not, we'll have another dead kid in here in less than a week."

"That quickly?" Kaldwell asked.

"Well, look at the two cases," said Barry, "There is no change in M.O., no change in methodology. Beginning serial killers almost always make mistakes, but she hasn't. She knows what she's doing, so she must have done it before."

"It's only a question of where, how long ago, and how many times," Jones added.

"If she's only done this once before," he continued, "and it was more than a week before Martin Taylor, then she's accelerating, which means we're under a time crunch."

Barry followed Jones' train of thought.

"And if she's done this a number of times, then she has a pattern, and we need to know what that is," he said, "Of course, we'll also need a workable timeline."

Jones looked at Kaldwell as he grabbed the ring.

"Which means that we'd," he said to her, "better go talk to witnesses before we do anything else, and we should start by going back to school. Later Barry."

Jones tossed the ring back to Barry as he and Kaldwell turned to leave.

"Later Jones. Try not to shoot any frat boys," Barry called out.

Kaldwell looked back to Barry as she and Jones exited the morgue, then turned and shot Jones a questioning look. Jones just shook his head as they headed out of the crime lab. As they left, neither of them had noticed as Moira had dashed from the door outside the morgue back to her desk. She watched the two detectives leave, then e-mailed Marley, forwarded the message to John on his P.D.A.

John was, at that moment, standing outside of the Minneapolis City Hall with Denny, waiting for the press conference that had been called by the Police Public Relations Manager Stephanie Reece. While John was reading the e-mail from Moira, Denny was trying to avoid being noticed by Reggie, not so much because Denny didn't like Reggie, but because Reggie despised Denny.

For the first nine months that Denny had worked for the "Star Tribune", Reggie, who was a ten-year-veteran of the paper, had acted as a mentor to Denny. That all changed in mid-April when Denny got a tip while Reggie was out and grabbed up the scoop out from under Reggie's nose. Shortly after that, Reggie's work had begun to slide, and his behavior had become, as most had observed, odd.

Denny had noticed Reggie skulking around the steps closer to the podium as he and John had, as nonchalantly and inconspicuously as possible, walked up to City Hall. Denny tried desperately to not be nervous as he and John milled around the sidewalk in front of the building. When he read Moira's e-mail, however, his attitude changed. He suddenly felt an urge of confidence and a sense that he knew exactly what to do.

When P.R. Manager Reece arrived, she was accompanied by Police Chief Jordan Waltrep and Homicide Captain Roland Jacobs. Among the grumbles that riddled the crowd of reporters, Denny knew he heard Captain Jacobs name mentioned at least a dozen times.

"I wonder if they're putting two and two together," he said to John.

"If they are, they're probably coming up with 'purple' as the answer," John remarked, "Looks like they're starting."

Denny agreed as he watched Chief Waltrep take the podium.

"Good afternoon," he said, "At 6:30 a.m. today a body was found downtown who appeared to have been murdered sometime last night. We know the identity of the victim, but we are not releasing any information about him or the crime at this time. Miss Reece will now take your questions."

He stepped back from the podium as she stepped forward and called to a reporter in up front.

"Joseph Cotton, Post Bulletin. Can you tell us anything else about the victim, such as his name, who his family is, or the way in which he was murdered?" asked the reporter.

Rookie, Denny thought.

"Actually, when Chief Waltrep said that we weren't releasing any information about the victim or the crime," Reece replied calmly, "he meant, of course, except the victim's name, who his family is, or the way in which he was killed. I can tell you that we will be releasing the victim's name once the victim's family has been notified. Any other facts will be disclosed to the press at the appropriate time."

The buzzing of the reporters at this answer almost drowned out Denny's own thoughts as he tried to keep from smiling smugly to himself. He watched as, question after question, other reporters were either given a creative run around or shot down directly. Then, finally, when the other reporters seemed to have exhausted their questions, Denny's hand shot up.

"Yes, you in the back," responded Reece.

The head of every reporter spun around to see who was asking a question.

"Dennis Jenkins, Star Tribune. Have detectives found any similarities or connections to the Martin Taylor murder?" Denny asked.

Reece looked to Captain Jacobs, as though the question had been completely unexpected, to which Jacobs replied with knowing head shake.

Reece turned back to the podium and said simply, "I'm sorry, we can't answer any more questions at this time. Thank you."

She, Chief Waltrep, and Captain Jacobs all turned and headed back into City Hall as the crowd of reporters erupted in chatter. Denny stood back, feeling very satisfied with himself until he caught a very suspicious glare from Reggie. He grabbed John and they rushed back to John's bike to get ahead of the crowd and get back to the paper.

After receiving a rather steely-cold glare from Miss Reece and a few choice words from the Chief about 'keeping the officers under his command in line', Captain Jacobs returned to his office, where he was met by Jones, Kaldwell, and Barry, all with whom he was thoroughly displeased.

"If it looks like I'm walking funny," he said to them, "it's 'cause I've got the Mayor, half the City Council, and a dozen reporters up my ass. Now I need to know what the hell is going on and fast. I've fired more people than you in the time it took me to say all that so tell me something that I didn't know 5 hours ago."

Before anyone else had a chance to process the barrage of language that had just erupted from the Captain, Kaldwell answered, "Caffeine is a diuretic and can contribute to hypertension, ulcers, and irritable bowel syndrome."

The Captain stared at her blankly, but almost murderously for a moment, and then looked at Jones.

"She's your partner for 5 hours and already she's a bigger smart ass than you," he said, then, before they had a chance to respond, "Shut up and talk to me."

Knowing the Captain was not in the mood; Jones began "The ring Barry found led us to the Tau Kappa Theta Fraternity house."

"Smelled like day old, beer battered socks," Kaldwell remarked.

"Anyway, we talked to the four guys that the victim had been with at the bar," Jones covered, shooting Kaldwell a glare as if to say, "Not now!" which she completely misses.

The Captain missed it too, but asked, "Anyone see anything?"

"Yeah, they saw Fenton sexually harass a waitress, and then get thrown out of the bar by Andre the Giant," said Kaldwell.

"They didn't say that it was Andre the Giant, just that it looked an awful lot like him," Jones corrected.

"Which was true," Kaldwell added.

"Which part?" asked the Captain, ignoring the banter that he knew he would never get away from.

"The whole thing," said Jones.

Kaldwell elaborated, "Yeah, we went to the bar, talked to everyone there. Their stories all mesh."

"And the bouncer really did look like Andre the Giant," added Jones, to which Kaldwell remarked, "No accent, though."

Captain Jacobs was now getting impatient with their inability to focus.

"They tell you anything else?" he asked, visibly annoyed.

"Yeah, after Fenton picked himself up off the sidewalk, the bouncer saw him flirt with and start making out with some girl. Then he saw them duck down the same alley we found Fenton in this morning," Jones said.

"The bouncer give you anything on this girl?"

Kaldwell explained, "He was vague, said it was dark, but that he could tell that she had long blonde hair and was wearing something--"

"Tight and black," guessed the Captain, cutting Kaldwell off in the process, then added, "Just like in the Martin Taylor murder."

"Which makes her our primary suspect," said Kaldwell.

"Yeah," Jones agreed, "Too bad we don't know who 'she' is."

"We just know that," Barry explained, to a number of 'Oh, I didn't even realize you were there' looks, "Martin Taylor is her first with this M.O. I ran the specifics through every criminal database in the world and this one is new. Some distant matches, vague connections, but nothing close. Easy to narrow down, too, since it's a woman."

"Excuse me?" Kaldwell asked 

"Most serial killers are white men 18 - 35, and most of the rest are white men over 35. Female serial killers, of any age, are rare," Barry elaborated, to which the Captain said, "But we've got one."

He thought about it for a moment, mulling over the proper course of action, and then said the one thing he didn't want to.

"We should consider contacting the feds."

"What? Why?" Jones and Kaldwell asked at the same time.

"Because we are not trained to deal with a serial killer," the captain replied to their protests.

Seeing that this answer was still upsetting to Jones and Kaldwell, Barry suggested, "We should contact Mike."

"Good idea," the captain agreed.

"Who?" asked Kaldwell.

"Michael Striegle. He's an F.B.I. Field agent out of Rochester, and an expert in criminal psychology," Barry explained.

"He worked with us on the Jack Richards disappearance," said Jones, admitting to Kaldwell, "He's good, cooperative."

"Alright. Jones, get a hold of Mike," the captain ordered, kicking the trio out of his office, and then adding, "And nobody talks to the press!"

But, of course, it was too late. Denny had the information he needed to write the story no one else had, and he used it to turn in the very story he felt could make his career.

However, later that afternoon, Denny was feeling less confident. At the moment, he was waiting to talk to Bert about his story, which, for him, was very worrisome. Not that Denny was afraid of Bert, quite the contrary. Bert had always been nothing but nice to Denny since he had started at the paper. It was just that Denny had seen and heard Bert chew out, yell at, and generally verbally lynch many a reporter. That combined with a general fear of authority had kept Denny on his toes whenever Bert was around.

Today was no exception. At that moment Denny was sitting just outside Bert's office, watching Bert's door shake with every yell and shout that came from within. Denny was so enthralled with the shaking of the door, in fact, that it not only distracted him from how nervous he was, but it then startled him so much when the door swung open and Reggie came storming out that he almost ell out of his chair.

Reggie slammed the door behind him, fuming and grumbling to himself, not even noticing Denny. Moments later, the door opened again, and Bert said simply, but somewhat cold and indifferent, "Well, come in."

Not even waiting for Denny, Bert tiredly walked back to and plopped down in the high-back leather chair behind his desk, facing away from it. Denny timidly rose from his chair and followed Bert into his office.

"Have a seat," Bert said without turning around.

Denny quickly and nervously sat down in one of the two chairs that faced Bert's desk. The room was quiet for what was, for Denny, a nerve-wrackingly long moment, and then Bert turned around to face Denny, and dropped Denny's article on his desk.

"This is going to piss off several of people," he said.

"All the right people," replied Denny, suddenly finding courage in his employer's presence.

Bert, however, was skeptical of Denny's newfound bravery, and decided to test it.

"You're not afraid of getting the entire police department angry at you, not to mention, city, county, and state officials?" Bert asked, to which Denny quickly replied, "Since when do we work for the police, I thought they worked for us."

A smile crept across Bert's mouth. He could see Denny getting gutsier with each answer. He picked up Denny's article from his desk and read the title aloud.

"'Twilight Stalker Strikes Again!' Taking the liberty of naming the killer?"

"I think it adds something to it," Denny replied, "I wanted to call her the 'Night Stalker' but that was already taken."

Bert chuckled to himself.

"Its good work, kid," he said, "in fact, it's good enough to get you off of the human interest beat. I want you all over this story, and I want our paper to stay ahead of the game on this one."

"Yes, sir."

"You made some good ink today, son, just don't screw it up. Now get the hell outta here."

Denny hopped up out of his chair and dashed for the door. He went back to Tina's office, where she, John, and Marley were all waiting to hear about what had happened. He walked in, trying to keep a straight face as he slouched and tried to look crestfallen. They all turned and looked at him when he walked in, watching as he plopped down on the decrepit leather loveseat in Tina's office that had been a graduation/new-job gift from her publishing mogul father. After a moment of awkward silence, Marley finally asked, "Well, what the hell happened?"

Denny looked up at his friends, face droopy. Then, he simply smiled and said, "No problem."

Denny could only sit and laugh as his friends burst out in all number of profanities. Marley was still swearing under her breath as they left the office. They returned to their cars and headed back to their neighboring apartments. The four of them had dinner together as they usually did at John-and-Marley's, then Denny and Tina headed back next door to call it an early night.

As Denny began to drift off and the rest of the day faded away, an echo grew louder in his head, an echo that had been floating around in the back of his mind since that afternoon, the last thing that Bert had said to him, "You made some good ink today, son, just don't screw it up."



Seeking Twilight Ch. 03



Tuesday, May 24

The Kings of Minnesota

Bad press had never been a problem for Carl Fenton. As Minnesota's most prominent, most successful, most expensive criminal defense attorney, he had always experienced the best publicity money could buy. Always, until this morning. This morning, for the first time in his life, Carl Fenton was reading a news story with his name in it that he didn't like; in fact it was very upsetting.

The last twenty-four hours had been very upsetting for Carl Fenton. Only yesterday he had been informed that his son, his only child had been brutally murdered. He had been forced to meet with his first ex-wife, to whom he'd not spoken in eight years, for the sole purpose of identifying their son's body. Needless to say, yesterday had been the worst day of his life.

Today wasn't shaping up to be much better. He had awoken this morning in the armchair in his study with the worst hangover he'd had in years from drinking himself to sleep the night before. And now he was reading that his son 'was murdered by the same woman who had killed Martin Taylor only the week ago', and 'the same defective detective who had investigated the Jack Richards disappearance for a month without progress was on the case'. It was all very upsetting, which meant it was time to call in the cavalry.

For Fenton, the cavalry were four particular associates. Associates, not friends; being a lawyer, Fenton had no friends, only associates. He still had enemies, though, and in great supply.

The four associates Fenton had called were Roswell Harker, publisher of the 'Northern Star', the second highest circulating paper in Minnesota; Reverend Ezekiel Taylor, founder of the Organization of Traditional American Values and father of the previous victim; Edward Andrews, the Mayor of Minneapolis; and Harlan Prentiss, the Governor of Minnesota. These five men, including Fenton, had known each other for more than half their lives, and had always come together to assist each other when the time called for it. This would now be one of those times.

Harker and Andrews arrived almost simultaneously, followed shortly by the Governor. The Reverend, however, seemed to be taking his sweet time pulling himself away from the plans for rally that would be held at his church later that night. When he rang the bell, Fenton took his own sweet time answering the door, knowing that Taylor would, undoubtedly be in particularly holier-than-thou mood, as was his custom when they met. Fenton could not have been more right, or more annoyed.

"G' Mornin' Carl," Taylor said with a nod through his thick southern drawl.

"It may be morning, Reverend," replied Fenton, "but it sure as hell isn't good."

Fenton showed Taylor into the house.

"Before anything else is said this morning', Carl," Taylor said as they walked through the house, "I'd like to say how very sorry I am for the loss of your son, and I pray that you and your ex-wife may find solace as I have in God's love, remembering as I have that he keeps the soul of your son in his grace, and I pray that the swiftest, most righteous justice is visited upon those responsible for the deaths of both your son and my own."

"Spare me the televangelist bullshit, Zeke, I gave at the office. Besides, this is bigger than just you and me, or our sons."

Fenton opened the door to the den, revealing to the Reverend a very tired publisher, a very annoyed Governor, and a very worrisome Mayor, who then said, "About damn time."

"Good morning to you to Mr. Mayor," said Taylor, maintaining an air of politeness, then turning to the other two men, "Governor, Mr. Harker."

"Good morning Reverend," Harker responded, actually genuine, "You and your wife have been in my prayers since I had heard of your son's death."

"Thank you, Roswell. You and yours have been in my prayers as well."

"Alright, enough!" said Governor Prentiss impatiently, "Now, Carl, what did you get us all here for today?"

Fenton threw down his copy of the "Star Tribune" on his desk and said, "Two words: Dennis Jenkins"

"Who the fuck is Dennis Jenkins?" Mayor Andrews asked nervously.

"Dennis Jenkins, gentlemen," Fenton explained, "is the snot-nosed, rookie, rag-writing punk who is on the verge of attracting undo attention to the connections that the five of us share to each other."

Prentiss and Andrews looked at each other nervously while Reverend Taylor merely stared at the paper mulling over the possibilities. Harker, however, was skeptical.

"I'm sorry, Carl, I thought that we were here to discuss the untimely murders of your son Derek and Reverend Taylor's son Martin. Now, is this as important as you're insisting, or are you just trying to find something else to do with your grief and anger besides getting drunk?" he asked.

"Lay off the therapy, Ross," Fenton responded angrily, "you're starting to confuse yourself with your shrink."

"I said that's ENOUGH!" Prentiss exclaimed, and he meant it. Taylor and Andrews may have put up with Fenton and Harker's crap, but not Harlan Prentiss. They had business to deal with and, god dammit, they were gonna get it done! "Now, if this kid is as close, as dangerous as Carl says," he continued, "then that's easy enough to fix."

"What about this killer?" Andrews asked cautiously, waiting momentarily for a response from the others before continuing. When no one said anything, he said, "We know that this Jenkins kid isn't the first to have found connections between some of us. What if these murders are retaliations? This could even be connected to Jack, jr."

"The only one responsible," Fenton reassured, "for the murder of Jack jr. was Jack sr. and we all know it. However, we also know that if someone started snooping around, it could make things very . . . unpleasant for all of us."

"But that still leaves two of us havin' lost sons," said Taylor.

An awkward silence fell between the five men.

"Alright," said Prentiss, finally breaking the silence, "Andrews, you get on the phone to that chief of yours and get on his ass, meanwhile I'll get on the phone to the feds, and have them send someone out here."

"Do you really think that that's a wise course of action? What if he finds something he shouldn't?" asked Andrews.

"I'll have them send a specialist."

"What about this cop in the article?" Fenton asked, "He's the same one who worked on Jack's case."

"Point taken," agreed the Governor, "We need him out of the picture. Something else for you to talk to your chief about, Andrews."

"Fine, but that still doesn't take care of our problem with Mr. Jenkins," Andrews replied.

"What if we pull a 'bait and switch'?" Harker asked.

"How so?" asked Prentiss.

"Well, it's obvious from the article," Harker explained, "that the reporter's focus is the Detective, not the victims, much less the five of us. If we could find a way to keep him focused on the Detective, it would keep his focus from finding us."

"Good idea. Andrews, have your people work it out, then get back to me. If there is nothing else," Prentiss said, looking to the others and getting no response, "then good day gentlemen, I have a state to run."

Prentiss left, followed quickly by Andrews and Taylor. Harker followed more slowly, and paused briefly at the door to the den.

"Carl," he said, "I just wanted to say how sorry I was to hear about Derek. No one should have to lose a son."

Fenton sat back down in the chair that he woke up in, and turned away from the door.

"You always were good at being nice without sounding like a suck up, Harker," he said coldly.

"Do us all a favor, Fenton, and lay off the Tangueray."

Harker stormed out, slamming the door behind him. Fenton sat back, and knocked back his drink, paying Harker's remarks no mind.

Roswell Harker did not like Carl Fenton. Oh, he felt sorry for Carl's lost; he had honestly meant what he had said. But he did not -- he could not feel anything for Carl other than complete, loathing and disgust. He felt that Carl embodied everything corrupt, crooked, and amoral, which, he guessed, makes it almost fitting that Carl was a lawyer.

Harker quickly pushed those thoughts out of his mind. No, he thought, those were unclean, unchristian thoughts, and he was a Christian, a God fearing man. He could at least say that he was a Christian man, even if there were aspects of his life that he was less than proud of.

There were times, however, when Harker wished that he could be more like the others, like Taylor or Prentiss, even Andrews. He would see Reverend Taylor and wish he could stand by the strength of his convictions and of his faith through every facet of his life. He would watch the Governor and wonder why he couldn't simply walk into a situation and take charge of it the way Harlan did. Even little, squirming Eddie Andrews was able to see situations from angles no one else could, even if they were due to his paranoid cowardice. How that man ever became Mayor, Harker thought, chuckling enviously to himself, I'll never know. But all Harker saw in himself was a man falling short of the man he could be, the man he knew he needed to be.

Harker saw himself as being only less-than-moderately successful, and considerately less so than the others. He was merely the publisher of a two-bit, second-rate "newspaper", (as if calling it that didn't degrade and demean all legitimate news publications) specializing in what he and his staff referred to as "Entertainment - Journalism", but what he knew to be "yellow journalism"; it was a tabloid, and a lousy one at that. He saw himself, on his harder days, as a "printer of preposterous propaganda", and today was feeling like one of those days.

Harker returned to his paper. He greeted his secretary with a hollow smile that he saved just for her, and walked past her without hearing a single word she was saying. So when he opened his office door, he was surprised, if not slightly annoyed, to see someone sitting across from his desk, quietly reading. Harker quickly closed the door to his office, still standing outside of it, then turned to his secretary and asked her who he was.

"Well, Mr. Harker, I tried to tell you sir, is name is Reginald Brianski. He's --"

"What's he want?" Harker interrupted.

"He's from the 'Tribune' sir," she explained, "He said he needed to see you, sir, he said it was very important."

"That's all he said?"

"Yes sir."

Harker stared at the door for a moment, contemplating his course of action, and then said to his secretary, "Hold my calls."

He reached for the door knob, but missed it as the door swung open, revealing Reggie waiting on the other side.

"I'm sorry; I hope I'm not interrupting. I heard raised voices," said Reggie, genuinely courteous.

Harker looked him over for a moment, trying to get a bead on him, and then said, "No, it's quite alright, Mr. . ."

"Oh, yeah, Reginald Brianski, Star Tribune, or at least, for the moment."

"For the moment?" Harker asked, walking back to his desk, "Are you going somewhere?"

Harker indicated for Reggie to sit down.

"Maybe by force," Reggie mumbled, then, more directly, "Mr. Harker, I'm here because I have a problem, and you're the only one left that I could go to."

"Really," Harker said, suspecting something.

"Yes. My problem is" Reggie explained, dropping a copy of his article on Harker's desk, "that I know the truth about these murders, but no one will listen to me. Either they refuse to believe me, which is hard enough, or worse, they know that I know the truth and are trying to keep me quiet."

"Why would anyone. . . ," Harker paused, rethinking his question, "Why don't you just tell me what you know."

Reggie suddenly got very nervous, stood up, and began pacing frantically about Harker's office. Harker stood, unsure of what Reggie was doing. Suddenly, Reggie stopped pacing and looked straight at Harker.

"Do you believe in God, Mr. Harker?"

This question caught Harker off guard.

"What?" he asked, and then stammered, trying to answer, finally blurting out, "Yes, yes I do. Why?"

"Because these murders are each an affront to God!"

Harker was also not expecting this answer.

"Every murder is an affront to God, Brianski, so I understand your point of view, but not your point."

"My point," Reggie explained, "is that these murders are different. They are not only an affront to God because they are murders, but also because they are being perpetrated for the soul purpose of insulting and mocking God. They are being committed by an unholy being, an agent of the Devil!"

Harker just stared at Reggie for a moment, and then simply said, "Get out."

"Wait, let me explain--"

"Now!"

"NO! JUST . . . Just hear me out," Reggie pleaded.

Harker reached for the intercom, but hesitated. He looked up at Reggie, who merely said, "Please."

"You are insane, Brianski, and you need professional help."

"Look, I know how crazy this sounds--"\

"Do you?"

"Yes, I do," Reggie exclaimed, still pleading, "but the evidence is there, staring us in the face."

"How do you mean."

"Okay, look," Reggie explained, "both victims were drained of at least three quarters of their blood, but police found no blood at the scene. The only wounds on either body were two punctures directly into the jugular, along with bruising patterns around the punctures that show that they were bite marks."

"And you think that this proves that they were killed by . . . what you think killed them?" Harker asked, unable to say the actual word.

"Among other things, yes."

"Other things?"

"Both Martin Taylor and Derek Fenton were murdered on a Sunday, both with their sin still on them, both being first born sons, and Martin Taylor, the first murdered was the son of a servant of God. The fangs, the blood, the deep-seeded hatred of God; it all fits."

"That's it?" asked Harker.

Reggie hesitated for a moment.

"No . . . a month ago I was writing about the Jack Richards disappearance when I was attacked . . . and bitten."

"Bitten?"

Reggie pulled the collar of his shirt away from his shoulder to reveal a bloody bandage. He pulled the bandage away to reveal two quarter inch punctures less than an inch apart. The wounds looked fresh, bloody. The skin around the wounds is swollen and dark red. The veins leading away from the wounds are also raised and dark, the skin between the veins paler.

"I fought back, and when he went to bite me he got my shoulder, not my neck, and he infected me with something."

"Infected you with what?" Harker asked, genuinely afraid, and almost starting to believe Reggie.

"No one knows. I've been to see five different doctors in the past three weeks and none of them can figure it out. What they have told me is that my red blood sells have become highly anemic, my t-cell and white blood cell counts are down, my skin pigment is dying and my skin and eyes are becoming more and more light sensitive. My whole body is shutting down," Reggie said, then he looked Harker square in the eye, with all the determination he could assemble, "I'm dying, Mr. Harker, no one can tell me how, but I know why. I've been infected, and the only way for me to live is to become like them, but if I do that, I sacrifice my soul, so all I can do is pray to God that he saves my soul from this contagion."

Harker just stared at the wound on Reggie's shoulder. Reggie became self-conscious, and covered it back up, then sat back down, and said, "Look, Mr. Harker, I know that this is hard to believe, but these things are real, they are out there, they are killing us, and people need to know."

Harker thought for a moment, trying to absorb everything and trying to keep himself from believing Reggie. Then he remembered what he was going to ask.

"How'd you get the information about the victims?"

"I . . . I hacked the paper's e-mail system and stole a copy of the medical examiner's report from another reporter," Reggie confessed.

"Jenkins?"

"Yes."

"Do you know how he obtained a copy of the medical examiner's report?"

"No."

Harker looked over the article, thinking for a moment. Then the idea hit him.

"Alright, I print your article, front page even, but I need you to do something for me. I need you to find out how Jenkins got the report, and get back to me tomorrow."

Reggie hesitated, and then said, "No problem."

"Alright, then, you better get out of here before Garvey or anyone else at the paper notice that you're not there," Harker said, "and take the back exit. You don't want to take a chance on someone you know seeing you."

Reggie stood up and walked to the door, but, before he did, he turned back, looked at Harker, and said, "Thank you, Mr. Harker."

Harker looked up from the article.

"For what?"

"For listening. You didn't have to, so," Reggie said, "thank you."

Reggie turned to leave when Harker stood up and said, "Reggie, wait."

Reggie turned back.

"Reverend Ezekiel Taylor is hosting a prayer rally tonight at his church. I'm going to be there. You should come. If you find out what I've asked, you can tell me there, otherwise, you can just tell me tomorrow, but either way," Harker said, "you should come to the rally."

"Sure, thanks."

As Reggie left Harker's office, Harker sat back down and looked back over the article, reading the title over to himself, "Vampires in Minneapolis." Poor kid, he thought as he read, he's out of his mind.

Reggie took Harker's advice and headed down the back fire stairs to the ground floor and out the back exit to the side alley. He cut through back alleys and side streets, pausing around corners to look back and, more importantly, catch his breath; he hadn't been running, in fact he was walking rather slowly, but he still needed to catch his breath. Not a single time did he see a single person following him but he knew, he knew, that someone was watching him, following him.

His heart was pounding in his chest and he started to feel dizzy and nauseous. He leaned back against the wall, feeling the cool brick through his shirt and the cool breeze in the shade on his face. His head fell back against the wall and his eyes closed as the world around him spun away into nothing.

The world suddenly imploded back around Reggie when some punk grabbed his collar, pulled him away from the wall, then slammed him back up against the wall, stuck a knife up under his throat and screamed in his face, "ALRIGHT, ASSHOLE, GIMME YER FUCKIN' MONEY!!!"

Reggie's heart raced, his pulse pounding like a jackhammer, his head on fire, his eyes half closed, slipping somewhere between conscious and not. He felt the punk push up on the knife and the blade start to cut his throat. His eyes shot open as he inhaled sharply. His hands snapped up, one hand grabbed the punk's knife hand, the other grabbed his throat. He squeezed the punk's wrist and pulled the knife away from his own throat. He felt the punk's pulse accelerating in his hands, felt the punk struggle and squirm against his own grip, and he felt something deep inside himself welling up. Something primal, something animal, something powerful, and when it hit his throat, he screamed so loudly, gutturally, and intensely that it shook his entire body. He pushed off from the wall and shoved the punk all the way across the alley, practically lifting the punk up off the ground. He slammed the punk against the other wall, slamming the punk's wrist repeatedly not only until the punk dropped the knife, but until he felt the bones in the punk's hand crack and shatter. He felt the punk's blood running down his own hand, smelled it, basked in the warmth of it. He squeezed the punk's throat even tighter, feeling the punk's airway close, feeling him struggle for air. He felt the punk pulse slow and shallow.

And then Reggie looked at the punk's throat, and saw a crucifix hanging from it. He looked into the punk's eyes, saw his pleading eyes, saw a soul begging for forgiveness. His grip loosed, and the punk collapsed at Reggie's feet. The punk cradled his broken hand and gasped for breath, as if trying to learn how to breathe all over again. Reggie watched the punk, backing away, heart still pounding, but now, the primal power that he had felt was gone, and only the sickness remained. Reggie stumbled back against the alley wall, nearly hyperventilating. And then he threw up. He crouched over and vomited, not even noticing that the punk had scrambled to his feet and run away.




Seeking Twilight Ch. 03



Reggie slumped back against the wall, trying to focus on anything other than the events that had just occurred or the acidic taste in his mouth. Acidic and metallic, he thought, . . . Metallic? Curious, Reggie looked down where he had thrown up to see a watery, reddish-brown puddle. Great, now I'm vomiting blood, Reggie thought.

He smelled blood, too. It wasn't the vomit, either, which had a distinctly acidic smell. No, he smelled blood, specifically blood. Then he remembered his hand, the hand that had crushed the punk's wrist, was coated in blood.

Reggie looked at his hand, even became entranced by it. His eyes closed as he held it to his face, taking in the scent of it. He drew it close, and tasted the blood on it. A certain amount of strength and warmth and power began to wash back over him. His breathing slowed, his pulse calmed, he relaxed, and he felt well.

Reggie's eyes snapped open and he realized what he was doing. He scrambled to his feet, crouched down, and gagged himself with his clean hand. After he vomited again, he looked around for something with which to wipe the blood from his hand, finally finding some scraps of newspaper. He wiped off his hand and his mouth, and then, looking at the newspaper, he realized how late he was running.

Reggie dropped the newspaper and ran off toward the "Star Tribune" building, now paying no mind to anyone who might be watching or following him, not feeling tired or sick in any way, except spiritually, as if he had somehow violated himself. As he ran, he said to himself, over and over, "As I walk through the valley of the shadow of Death, I shall fear no evil . . ."

Reggie arrived at the bullpen of the paper only a little after nine-thirty, and no sooner had he come in the door from the stairs, than he ran nearly head-on into Denny, who was weighed down by a stack of papers practically a foot thick.

"Hey! Watch Out!" Denny exclaimed, but it was too late. The stack of papers flew out of Denny's hands, file folders opened in midair and papers spilled out all over the bullpen floor. Denny stumbled and tripped over his own feet to keep from stepping on the papers.

"Why don't you watch where you're going?"

"Watch yourself, rookie," Reggie said, then he simply skulked his way back to his desk. Denny scrambled and struggled to pick up his papers, at first spending a few very futile moments attempting to determine some semblance of order to the papers, then, figuring fuck it, he grabbed stack after stack until he had the whole mess. Haphazardly holding them, he made his way precariously back to his desk and dropped the giant paper salad on top of it. He plopped down in his rickety office chair and sighed deeply, staring at the mountain of files in front of him.

"JENKINS!!" erupted the bellowing shout from the door to Bert's office that shook pens and pencils in their jars.

Denny fell over backwards in his chair, his feet kicking up the clipboard under the pile of papers, sending them flying everywhere. He hopped to his feet, dusted himself off and noticed the array of generally annoyed faces glaring at him. He looked up to see Bert watching him like a hawk and chewing on a smoldering cigar.

Sheepishly, Denny asked, "Yes?"

"My office, now."

Denny glanced down at the collapsed remains of the chair, then over his shoulder at the debris that covered his desk and the desk facing it.

"Today, Jenkins."

Denny walked up between the other desks, trying to avoid the gaze of the other reporters in the bullpen, and, more importantly, Bert's gaze as well. He walked through the door to Bert's office and stopped just inside. Bert watched him every step of the way, then turned back to the bullpen, shouted, "Back to work!", and slammed the door behind him. He turned back to Denny.

"Sit down."

"Uh, sir, before--"

"Just sit your ass in a chair and don't say a damn thing."

Denny sat down as quickly as he could, wishing as desperately as he could that he could be anywhere else. Find a happy place, he thought.

"So, I've been on the phone for the last hour. Guess with who," said Bert, barely giving Denny enough time to squeak out a quick, "Um," before answering himself, "Legal. They were kind enough to inform me that the city of Minneapolis is suing us for libel in response to your story yesterday."

"WHAT!!" Denny shouted, forgetting momentarily how small Bert's office was.

"They're also demanding a retraction."

"Fuck No!"

"That was my reaction," Bert remarked, sitting calmly behind his desk, "Now, before we do anything else, I need to ask: Did you in any way place any information in your article that cannot be backed up by fact or proven as true?"

Denny was still fuming and resolute, but he managed to confine his remarks to, "Absolutely not!"

"Understand this, Denny," Bert explained, moving on as though he hadn't heard the answer, "I hate questioning the integrity or legitimacy of my reporters or their stories, but I need to ask, because I'll put my reputation and my ass on the line for you and your story if it's the truth, but if it's not," although nothing in Bert's appearance, face, tone or attitude changed, Denny could have sworn that there was now a darkness or an intensity about him that hadn't been there before, "if it's not, I will spare no expense to destroy your reputation, your career, and your future in journalism, so . . ."

There was an awkward silence between them as Bert gave Denny a moment to calm down.

Denny took a deep breath and said, "Mr. Garvey, I have all of the evidence and documentation to back up absolutely one hundred percent of my article."

"What's more," he continued, cutting Bert off without realizing it, " the documents are copies of government documents passed to me by way of an anonymous source, (who's identity I will not disclose) so the government was more than aware of all of that before I wrote about it. There is no way in hell that they have grounds for libel, and I'd be willing to bet that legal will agree that we have grounds for quite a profitable deformation counter suit."

Bert watched a moment to make sure that Denny had run out of steam, then, once he saw that the poor kid was beginning to get more nervous, he smiled and said, "Good. That's exactly what I wanted to hear."

Denny breathed a sigh of relief, then, realized that he still had a lawsuit on his hands.

"So, what do I do now?"

"Just stay put and stay quiet," Bert said, starting to dial his phone, "I've got a phone call to make that you are not gonna want to miss."

Bert switched the phone over to speaker. They listened as the phone rang, and then heard someone pick up.

"Mayor Andrews' office, this is Julie speaking."

Her voice was sweet, congenial, and phonier than a telemarketer, and she didn't have a script to read from. Bert took the same tactic and matched her tone for tone.

"This is Bertram Garvey, Editor-in-Chief of the 'Star Tribune' calling to speak to the Mayor."

"The Mayor is in a meeting right now, Mr. Garvey, may I take a message?"

"Actually, Miss, it is terribly urgent that I speak with the Mayor immediately."

"May I ask what this is regarding, Mr. Garvey?"

Denny thought he heard a twinge of impatience in the secretary's voice. But Bert was a pro; he could not have been friendlier.

"Well, it just so happens to be regarding a completely unfounded lawsuit which your office has filed against my paper, and the highly profitable and, as my lawyers have assured me, fully airtight deformation counter suit which they are drawing up in response, my dear. So if you could find it at all possible to drag his honor away from reruns of 'American Gladiators', then I won't be forced to contact your office by way of a subpoena."

Denny smiled in complete awe of Bert, while the mayor's secretary simply said, "Hold please."

Bert looked up at Denny grinned more slyly than Denny thought possible and said, "That was fun."

"Alright, Garvey, what the hell is this about a counter-suit?" Andrews asked.

"Well, Mr. Mayor, I'm looking at official police documents which back up every word of the article in question, and my lawyers have assured me that if you proceed with this lawsuit and I counter sue, I am guaranteed to win."

Denny's eyes went wide at Bert's semi-bluff. He also found little comfort in the fact that the Mayor was taking his time answering.

"Are you still there, Mr. Mayor?" asked Bert, also noticing the long pause.

"Yes, Mr. Garvey, I'm still here," Andrews answered, obviously distracted, "May I put you on hold for a moment?"

"Of course."

There was a click, then the faint sounds of "The Girl From Ipanima" began to emanate from the speakerphone.

"What's happening?" Denny asked in a whisper.

Bert said nothing, but simply shook his head and mouthed the words, "Wait, just wait," to Denny. After a moment, the music cut out.

"Mr. Garvey," said the Mayor.

"Yes, Mr. Mayor?"

"I've consulted with our lawyers and we've decided to drop the lawsuit."

Denny breathed a sigh of relief and looked at Bert, who was smiling.

Then the Mayor added, "But we're still going to need that retraction," which neither Denny nor Bert thought they had heard quite clearly.

"Excuse me, Mr. Mayor," Bert asked, "Could you repeat that please?"

The Mayor repeated, "We're still going to need that retraction."

"Why the hell would we do that?" Denny said, unable to control his reaction.

"Because if you don't," Andrews explained impatient, "my district attorney will prosecute your photographer responsible for the picture on the front page, a Mr. John DeSalvo, to the fullest extent of the law!"

"For what!" Denny exclaimed, ignoring Bert's flailing and waving for him to keep quiet.

"Malicious mischief, vandalism, obstruction of justice, interfering in an ongoing investigation, flight to evade prosecution!" Andrews shouted, obviously enjoying provoking them, "Hell, we could even swing accessory after the fact! Put him away for twenty-five to life! Is that what you want, you arrogant little punk!?"

Denny shouted back, "Bring it on, you fat-ass, son-of-a--"

"Hold please," Bert said, cutting off Denny and hitting the hold button.

"FUCK!" Denny yelled.

"Calm . . . The hell . . . Down." Bert said sternly.

Denny sat down, but he couldn't calm down. His mind was going a mile a minute.

"What the hell are we gonna do?" he asked, trying to sound calm.

"You are gonna do as I said and keep quiet," Bert said, "They aren't gonna prosecute John for shit. They're bluffing."

"How do you know?"

"Just trust me, I know what I'm doing. And don't say a damn word this time."

Bert hit the hold button on the phone and said, as apologetically as possible, "I'm sorry about that, Mr. Mayor, my . . . nephew is visiting, . . . and he has . . . Turrettes."

Denny cringed, listening to Bert pull the flimsy excuse out of his ass.

"Well, Mr. Garvey," Andrews said, "that's perfectly understandable. Now, about our little dilemma."

"Yes, well, I've spoken with Mr. Jenkins, and he's prepared to write a retraction," Bert said, silently shushing a panicking Denny.

"Good."

"But I've refused to print it."

"What!" exclaimed Andrews so loud that it shook the speakerphone.

Denny was now so confused by the mountain of bluffs and bullshit that his head had begun to hurt.

"I don't think that's very wise of you, Garvey!" Andrews continued angrily.

"I don't think that it's very wise to extort a false retraction from my paper with an unwarranted prosecution," Bert retaliated, "Especially on a taped phone conversation. Even if it is deemed inadmissible in court, every network affiliate in the state would air it ten times a day until the next election."

A nervous silence fell over the room as Bert and Denny waited for the Mayor to call Bert's bluff. Denny knew Bert was bluffing; knew that Bert wasn't taping the phone conversation. Finally, Andrews responded simply, "You're bluffing."

"Try me."

"Listen here, Garvey, if you think--"

"Mr. Mayor," Bert interrupted, "before this escalates any further, before we triple-dog dare each other into a massive political shit storm, may I suggest a solution that would be mutually beneficial to us?"

Andrews waited only briefly before responding this time.

"What did you have in mind?" he asked, less than optimistic.

"A truce, and a compromise of sorts. No lawsuits, no charges, and no special reports, except one; an exclusive interview series with the detective mentioned in the article. My reporter rides along with your detective, getting the story first hand, we hold off on publication until after the case is closed to keep it from interfering and . . ."

Bert paused a moment, gritting his teeth over what he was about to say, "your office will have editorial approval."

Denny was mortified. Giving them editorial approval was worse than having to write a retraction.

"You're guaranteeing us final cut?" the mayor asked incredulously.

"Yes, but in exchange, we print no retraction of this morning's article."

Andrews thought for a moment, and then said the one word that Bert had been waiting to hear; "Agreed."

"We have a deal then?" asked Bert.

"I'll even call the chief to make the appropriate arrangements for them to start tomorrow myself."

"Thank you, Mr. Mayor, that is most generous of you."

"Think nothing of it, Mr. Garvey. I'll be very anxious to read the article."

"As will I, Mr. Mayor, thank you again," said Bert.

He hit the button to hang up the phone, and then sat back in his chair with a smile of self-satisfaction spread across his face.

Denny, however, was less than thrilled.

"What the hell was that!?" he asked angrily, "You sold me out!"

"Calm down, Denny. Let me explain."

"Explain what? That you just served up my career on a silver platter to the Mayor?"

"That's Enough!" Bert shouted. He calmed down and said, "Look, nobody is getting sold out here; that's not what I did. What I just did, and if you'd been paying attention, you'd've realized, was to buy some time for you to write your story, get you front row seats for the police investigation, not to mention an exclusive interview with the detective investigating the case. The editorial approval was just to dick with them. Honestly, do you think I'd let just anyone do my job?"

"I guess not . . ."

"Of course not," said Bert, and then, noticing that Denny still looked uneasy, said, "Look, I know you're new to all this. You're young and idealistic and you should be; it's what's keeping you honest. But when it comes to politics and politicians, this is their game and these are their rules and you don't know how to play. But I do. So just believe that I would never do anything to jeopardize the integrity of your story. Okay?"

"Okay."

"Okay. Now, tomorrow, I want you to keep your eyes open and your ears pealed. Document anything, ask questions, and don't worry about what can or cannot be published, that's my job. You just focus on finding out everything you can, alright?"

Denny nodded.

"In the meantime, I have another job for you. Ezekiel Taylor is having another of his 'prayer rallies' tonight. I want you to cover it, and, if at all possible, try to get an interview with 'his holiness'. Got it."

"Yes, sir."

"Good, get out of here."

At that, Denny left Bert's office and, although, he was still uneasy about what had just gone on, he went about the rest of his day.

Mayor Andrews honored his agreement with Bert. He called his counselor's office and ordered them to drop the lawsuit. He called the D.A. and told him not to charge John with anything. Finally, he called the chief. Andrews explained the situation to Chief Waltrep, who, in turn, passed the details on to Captain Jacobs.

Unlike Edward Andrews or Curtis Waltrep, Roland Jacobs was not a politician; he was a cop. He'd been a detective for the better part of his career; of his life, now he was captain of homicide, unlike the Mayor and the Chief, Jacobs concern was for the case, not the public's perceptions. His goal was to catch the killer, not to worry about the fact that the public didn't exactly feel all warm and fuzzy inside because they hadn't yet.

But Jacobs was a cop; he had a chain of command to follow, and he would follow it. He followed orders. He called Kaldwell, Barry, and Jones into his office, and explained to them the situation. At least, the way he wanted to.

"You're off the case, Jones," he said to them.

"WHAT!?" replied all three.

"Mayor struck a deal with the paper, so you get a tagalong for a while; chief's orders."

"For how long?" Jones asked, stunned.

"'Till Barry and Kaldwell solve the case or this reporter gets bored, which ever comes first. We can't have the reporter interfering with the case, so Barry will run the investigation while you play babysitter."

"Why the hell am I stuck with the crap job? Why not give it to Kaldwell?" asked Jones.

"Hey!" Kaldwell said, but who no one noticed since the captain had already begun scolding Jones.

"Because you were the lead detective at the scene," the captain said, "It was your responsibility to make sure that the crime scene was secured. Now, you can piss and moan about it all you want, but I won't lose any sleep over it."

"Fine. Is that all?" Jones said dejectedly.

"Not quite," said Barry, "I called Agent Striegle, and he's gonna come up from Rochester in a couple of days. I e-mailed him a copy of the file and he said if he finds anything or thinks of anything before he comes up, he'd let me know."

"Anything else," the captain asked.

"Yeah, he said that we should keep an eye on the O.T.A.V. rally tonight. He said that even if the killer isn't there, it could be possible that things might get out of hand." explained Barry.

"Agreed," said the captain, "Jones, Kaldwell; take a couple of plain clothes officers with you to keep an eye out. Just watch, don't act unless things escalate. Understand?"

They nodded in response.

"Good, go to work."

Jones, Barry, and Kaldwell left the Captain's office. When they were out of earshot from the captain and Barry, Kaldwell asked, "What's O.T.A. . .?"

"The Organization for Traditional American Values; it's a lobby group founded by Reverend Ezekiel Taylor, and whose board of directors," Jones explained quietly, "include Mayor Andrews, Governor Prentiss, and Carl Fenton."

What Jones didn't know was that Roswell Harker was also on the board of directors, and that, up until his arrest and subsequent conviction for the murder of his wife, John Richards Sr. had been as well.

The Organization of Traditional American Values was headquartered at the Church of the Holy Cross, a non-denominational Christian church, which also just happened to be the parrish of Reverend Ezekiel Taylor. The church had, at one time, been a Catholic church, and to any who merely walked past, it still appeared to be just that. Its dark cobblestone walls still framed large, stained-glass windows. The lofty steeple towered over the other buildings in the city, casting its judging shadow across the downtown, pointing like an accusatory finger. Broad stairs led up to the main entry; a giant archway which enclosed large dark double-doors of heavy oak that were nearly always open. All of this only gave off a strong sense of confusion, a mixture of beauty, foreboding, and welcoming. At least, this was how the church was seen during the day. At night, however, the image of church was very different.

Eight years ago, when the archdioceses decided to let the property go, Ezekiel Taylor was only too eager to buy up the property. But, rather than demolish the old facility and replace it with a new one, as everyone believed he would, he decided instead to restore the eighty-some year old church to its original glory, with only a few minor updates. In other words, when the sun went down, the creepy old ex-catholic church was lit up brighter than Vegas, and, on nights of special occasions, like rallies, it was twice as crowded.




Seeking Twilight Ch. 03



The rallies were not actually held inside the church. They were held outside on the steps and in the street in front. It was necessary due to the shear volume of the crowds. As large as the church was, the crowds were larger, like giant, thick, stationary parades, which was exactly how Taylor liked it.

He liked that people could see the church for miles. He liked that they could hear the cheering and chanting of the crowds for several blocks in every direction. He liked that the entire downtown would, for a whole evening, become a giant parking lot. He reveled in the knowledge that there was hardly a person in town who hadn't at the very least heard of the events or the organization. Tonight was no different, and the reverend was loving every minute of it.

As he waited to start the rally, Taylor peered out at the podium, as well as the crowd beyond it, from just inside the door of the church. He breathed slowly, focusing on what he needed to say. His thoughts were interrupted, however, when he heard a voice behind him say, "Helluva crowd."

Taylor turned around and was greeted by the organization's communications administrator, Winslow Pogue, and his assistant, Janey Lawrence.

"Mistah Pogue," the reverend said, sounding like a school teacher scolding a student, "How many times have I asked you to watch your language when you're in my church?"

"I didn't realize I was supposed to be keeping track," Pogue responded, not waiting for the reverend to respond before continuing, "It's fifteen minutes to start, so we should go over your remarks. I have them here for you."

He turned and looked at Janey, who began shuffling through the three inch stack of file folders she was holding, looking for the papers.

Taylor didn't wait for Janey to find the comments. Instead, he said to Pogue, "Please thank your staff for me, but I already know what I'm going to say."

"Sir," said Pogue, "I really think that you should reconsider that. You're emotional over the loss of your son and I think that you're not thinking clearly. You could say something or do something that might make trouble for the organization."

"You think I could endanger the group by what I say?" the reverend asked.

"Yes, sir."

"Do you think the group is that weak?"

"I think that you're that powerful, sir." Pogue admitted.

"And you think that I would intentionally do anything to damage our abilities?"

"Not intentionally, no sir, but that's--"

"Then there's no problem," the reverend said, cutting him off.

Pogue was stunned by how easily he'd been given the runaround by the Reverend, but he recovered quickly.

"Sir, I-"

"You still think it'd be better if I gave 'em a once over?" the Reverend asked.

"Yes, sir"

"Fine. Let me take a look."

Pogue looked to Janey, who was still shuffling, now furiously, through her papers to find the remarks.

"Is there a problem?" Pogue asked her.

Janey was now frantic. She scrambled through her papers, finding anything and everything except the one paper she needed. Pogue was growing impatient.

He asked, "Can't you find it!?" 

"I . . . Uh, I . . . ," was all Janey could squeak out.

"Go back to my office and get the copy off my desk." Pogue ordered

"Sir, I-"

Pogue ordered, "Oh, for Christ's sake, just do it, will you!"

"MISTER POGUE!" shouted Reverend Taylor.

"Ah, shit." Pogue said, under his breath.

"Mister Pogue, I have told you time and again-"

"I know, I know, watch the language," Pogue interrupted, which only served to aggravate Taylor even more.

"But you don't know. You don't listen," the Reverend scolded, "Your predecessor had respect for this church and this organization, whereas you have nothing but contempt for everything and everyone around you. For the past three months, you have insisted on continuously disrespecting this church, this organization, and the people who work here. Respect and acceptance are key elements around here, of which you provide neither, therefore, effective immediately, you will no longer be welcome here as anything other than a parishioner. In other words, get out."

Winslow Pogue was shocked, but not by the lecture. The Reverend was infamous among his staff for his lectures. No, what had shocked Pogue was the fact that the old man (which was how he thought of Taylor) had just shit-canned his ass. However, he recovered quickly and retaliated with, "You sanctimonious son of a bitch--"

"Miss Lawrence, call security," Taylor ordered.

"Fuck you," Pogue muttered, and stormed out.

The room had barely quieted down when Janey turned to Reverend Taylor and said, "I'm not sure it matters now sir, but I have those remarks here."

She handed him a couple of slightly crumpled sheets of paper, which he read through. Without looking up from the papers, he asked, "Do you like your job here Miss Lawrence?"

"Yes, sir"

"But you'd like a better one," Taylor continued.

"I didn't-"

Taylor barely gave her time to answer before asking, "Do you think you could handle Pogue's job?"

"Well, sir, I . . . Uh, that is to say-," Janey stammered.

"Yes?"

"I think I could do a better job than he did."

"So do I," Taylor admitted, "not that that's saying much, mind you, but I still think you'd do well."

"Thank you, sir."

"It's settled then. We'll work out the paperwork tomorrow," Taylor said.

"Yes, sir"

"Good," said Taylor, "and Miss Lawrence?"

"Sir?"

"Reorganize your staff this week, weed out the dregs. This reads like a second grade book report," the reverend said, handing the remarks back to Janey, and walked out to the podium.

The lights came up on the podium and the makeshift stage as the Reverend came into view. The crowd erupted with applause. After the applause died down, he thanked them for coming.

He told the how pleased he was that so many people came to the rally. He told them that it was good and righteous of them to have gathered together. He told them that here, together, they can stand in the face of evil and say with honesty and conviction that they are not afraid. He told them that they, as a community and a congregation, will overcome this adversary, this terror, this "COWARDLY MANIAC," and that they will pull together to do so. He told them everything that they need to hear so that they'll believe whatever he says.

The crowd is truly affected by his words. They applaud and cheer him on. They praise him for his honesty and inspiring words. They cry and laugh and smile and plead for more as they feel filled with a sense of completion and oneness and connectedness to the crowd and the reverend and God and everything around them. All of them, that is, but a few on the fringe.

"What a complete crock of shit!"

Marley didn't even realize that she had said it out loud until she noticed the couple of dozen people standing in the next few rows ahead of her. She looked at one particularly scowling and disgusted face which belonged to a middle aged, conservative (and, Marley suspected, sexually frustrated for the last fifteen, no, twenty, years) housewife to whom she said, "What the fuck are you looking at?"

"Honey," John whispered in her ear, "don't aggravate the straights."

Marley turned around in his arms and looked up at him with her best fake baby-doll expression and, with a voice to match, said, "But, baby, it's so fun."

She reached up, wrapped her arms around his neck, and stuffed her entire tongue in his mouth, making a big show of it. She felt the eyes of the house wife burning into the back of her skull, and, as John began to kiss down Marley's neck, Marley turned and looked right at her as she grabbed John's groin. The housewife fumed, then turned away.

"Behave," John whispered.

"I am."

"Oh, for god's sake, just go back to the car and do it already, would you!" Tina exclaimed sarcastically, but not loudly.

Tina wasn't exactly comfortable with public displays of affection, especially John and Marley's kind, especially in this crowd. John and Marley were attracting a lot of attention from the people around them, but why shouldn't they. John was wearing torn blue jeans, combat boots, and a well-worn flannel shirt over a white t-shirt, and had his arms wrapped around Marley who was no less noticeable in tight, black 'Fuck-me' pants, platform combat boots, a black belly shirt, and John's weather-worn biker jacket, her long, wavy, red hair casually tossed to one side. They looked like they were on their way to a rock concert or a biker bar (actually, their next stop after the rally was the pool hall where the four of them hung out regularly), but here they were at a church rally.

In stark contrast, Denny and Tina were going more for 'inconspicuously quiet and respectable', although Tina was the only one pulling it off. Between her neatly pressed khaki slacks, button-down dress shirt, and tan suede jacket, she fit right in with the crowd. Denny, on the other hand, was sticking out almost as much as John and Marley. His overly baggy army fatigue green cargo pants were crumpled and wrinkled, his gray denim button down dress shirt was untucked, unbuttoned, and just as disheveled. Every inch of him cried out 'unkempt', but he didn't notice, and even if everyone else noticed him, he didn't notice them . . . Noticing him.

He was too busy furiously scribbling his impressions of everything around him: the Reverend and his speech; the audience's reaction; the general atmosphere. His ferocity, determination, and obscure shorthand only added to the appearance that he was a man possessed, and in his current environment that had the potential to be dangerous . . . but it wasn't.

No one noticed Denny. Not the people around him, who were all (including the creepy housewife) too wrapped up in listening to the Reverend ping-pong between love-and-hope and fire-and-brimstone. Not John, who, after having seen and recognizing the two detectives from shome he had so narrowly escaped only the previous morning, was now attempting to will himself invisible but failing horribly. Not the woman he loved, who was busy bantering with Marley. Unknown to Denny, however, Marley did notice, and was envious.

Marley had wished, at times, that she could be more like Denny: quiet, unassuming, content to watch life from the fringe, but it just wasn't in her nature. She couldn't help being who she was: outspoken, impassioned, even occasionally abrasive. Of course, she hadn't always felt that way.

When Denny first came to work at the school paper in his freshman year, she really didn't think anything of him. He had been practically invisible to her and the others. Over time, however, John and Tina had both begun to take notice of Denny, but Marley still hadn't. As he became closer to her friends, Marley grew to dislike him, as if he were some sort of parasite invading her territory, and she said so. She couldn't count the number of times she had told Denny outright that she didn't like him, much less all the round-about ways she tried to just generally make him feel like crap, which only increased a couple years later when he started going out with Tina, who had, at the time, been Marley's best friend since their freshman year.

So, it had completely flummoxed her shortly before she and John were about to graduate and leave each other after a six month relationship of mostly sex, sarcastic banter and bickering, Denny burst in on their latest first and verbally bitch-slapped both of them, telling them to just "shut up and accept the fact that they had feelings for each other." She and John were married three months after that, with Denny and Tina beside them, the four of them now all best of friends. After that, Marley had a newfound understanding of why Denny was the way he was, and even though she still occasionally gave him crap about it, now she didn't mean anything by it.

Denny liked it that way. He liked that Marley couldn't help being who she was no more than he could help being who he was, and he liked being who he was. He liked being the fly on the wall, perpetually out of the way, just like tonight.

Marley wasn't the only one wishing to be like Denny. From the moment that he had spotted Jones and Kaldwell arguing just off stage, John was wishing, hoping, and even praying to not be spotted. However, if he had been able to hear what Jones and Kaldwell were arguing about, he wouldn't have been as worried.

"This is abso-fucking-lutely re-Goddamn-diculous!" Jones exclaimed just quietly enough to not be heard by anyone other than Kaldwell.

"Would you just stop complaining already! You sound like an asshole!" Kaldwell whispered back harshly, "We're here for a reason."

"Yeah," Jones groaned, "So the press can see us."

"Fuck you, Jones. You know we're here to see if we can spot anyone matching the description and profile of our girl."

"Oh, come on, Wake up Kaldwell! Look around you! Bloodhounds couldn't find Waldo in this crowd."

"Okay!" Kaldwell erupted, "It's like a needle in a haystack out there. Happy?"

Jones just stood there, huffing and fuming.

"Look, I know it's tedious and annoying," Kaldwell admitted further, "but you're not making it any easier."

Kaldwell paused for a moment, seeing that it looked like Jones had something to say. When she realized that he didn't, she added, "Besides, in all this time that we've been back here arguing, we might have missed spotting someone," without realizing how right she was.

The girl's name was Heather Collinsworth, and would be for only about forty-seven more minutes. At the moment that Jones and Kaldwell were looking completely in the wrong direction, Heather was walking past the rally at the back of the crowd, which was a mistake because, even though they hadn't noticed her, someone else had.

Of course, Heather was completely oblivious. She was just trying to get by the crowd to get home without being noticed; not an easy task for someone who made John and Marley look as though they fit in. She pulled her black trench coat closed to hide the tight black dress with the plunging neckline that clung, stretched or flared in all the right places and tried to step as softly as she could in her heavy black combat boots, hoping her long, flowing blonde hair would, for once, catch no one's eye as it was tossed and tousled about by the same cool night wind that sent chills up her legs through the fashionably torn fishnet stockings.

She ignored the reverend's speech as she passed, discounting it as 'another batch of born-again bullshit'. She walked down a side road in the Minneapolis downtown, the streets notably quiet and empty. She suddenly felt very aware of being alone, so much so, in fact, that the feeling made her stop in her tracks. She peered, stared, and searched out with her eyes in any and every direction, trying to find someone or something, anyone or anything to let her know that she was not alone and safe, but only saw the abyss of the dead, dark, cold Minnesota night staring back at her. She tried to reassure herself, tried to remind herself that it was only a little further and she would be home, but she was still afraid, and she couldn't put her finger on what.

She resigned herself to the fact that she was just being paranoid and tired and needed to get home, and started walking again. But as she walked, she was overcome by the feeling that she was no longer alone, and it scared her even more. The shadows of the poorly-lit street played with her eyes and mind, haunting and taunting her. She walked a bit faster, trying to catch up to her rattled breathing and chasing her heartbeat. Her heart raced, and she raced after it, breaking out in a run, no longer thinking about where she was going, only about getting away from where she was. Finally, her breath caught up to her, and her lungs, almost burning from the effort, forced her to stop in a few stumbling steps.

As the percussive pounding in her chest faded, a new sound took it's place in Heather's ears, deliberately quiet but still growing louder; the unmistakable sound of footsteps. Heather spun around and was surprised to see nothing. No one was behind her or in front of her. But the sound was growing louder, the footsteps were getting closer. The sound bounced off the buildings and echoed all around her, getting louder, closer, with each step. 

She needed to run, to get away, but where? It could be anywhere, around any corner, waiting for God-knows-what. She had to chance it, though, had to get safe. Move! she thought, walking in the same direction she'd been running, get home.

As she got closer to the corner, though, the footsteps were still getting louder. She slowed, now only a few feet from the corner, and then stopped. Whoever it was was around that corner, and she knew it. She froze. She locked up. Here she was, now knowing which way not to go, and she couldn't move an inch. She could only listen to the footsteps. They were almost on top of her now. Any second now. And she couldn't move.

But she did move. Ever so slowly, she fell against the building next to her and slid down it into a crumpled ball, eyes wide, breathing shallowly, heart racing, listening. And then the footsteps stopped. And so did Heather's breath.

Heather waited. She waited to hear another step. She waited as long as she could. She waited until her chest stung. She waited until her head pounded. She waited until her whole body shook with each beat of her heart, and then she gasped in a breath loud enough to hear it echo, wishing she hadn't. She wished it again when, in the wake of the echo, she heard a footstep, and then another, and when she saw the shadowy figure of a man emerge from around the corner, and she did the only thing she could; she screamed. She screamed as long and as hard and as loud as she possibly could. She screamed as if her life depended on it, because, for all that she knew, it did. She screamed so intensely that it practically knocked the figure back a couple of feet and on his ass (actually it was the man's shear shock of coming around the corner to be screamed at by some girl crouched in the shadows of the building).

"What the fuck!" the man exclaimed, picking himself up off the ground. He nearly continued with, "What the hell's the matter with you?" when he saw how completely frightened she was, saw how she could barely breath, barely move, and then all he could say was, "My god!"

She never took her eyes off of his. Her eyes were wide and red and locked open. Her breathing was ragged, her heart was weakened, and she was pale and tired and trembling and looked like death warmed over, but not warmed over by much.

"Are you okay?" he asked, then thought, Of course she's not okay, she looks half dead.

He tried to think of a better question, but could only come up with, "Do you need help?"

Her only answer was to look around frightened and tremble some more.

"Okay," the man said, "Look, I'm not gonna just leave you here, it's not safe. The hospital is just up the street. I'll walk you. You'll be safe. Okay?"

Heather nodded slightly. The man took as a "yes", and then helped her to her feet.

"C'mon, let's go."

The man pulled Heather to her feet, who promptly fell back against the wall behind her, her whole world in a whirl wind, her stomach in her throat, and her brain turning inside out. Her head lolled around like it was sitting on a plate of jello, and she collapsed forward into the man's arms. He wrapped one of her arms around his neck to help support her weight, and began walking her back the way she had come from, although she had no idea. She was too busy trying to make the little spots in front of her eyes go away.

They had only gone half a block, when, just as she was starting to feel normal again, the man pulled her into the alley that they were passing, and slammed her up against the wall, pinning her to it with his body. She struggled against him, pushing to try and gain some space between herself and the wall, her arms flailing and swinging wildly. He grabbed her wrists pinned them over her head, and held them there with one hand. She shouted and screamed, and he pushed his mouth hard onto hers, thrusting in his tongue. She did the only thing she could; she bit down as hard as she could.