Arrival By Wrath Part 16

For the second time, he found himself near the computers surrounded by broken pieces of plastic and metal. His train of thought had been broken, then it slipped away. In that moment, Preston pictured the newspapers describing the end of the case. In them, he died in that office.

Preston ran over what had just happened in his head. The gun hadn't flown away because he'd been thrown. The gun left his hand before he felt the force of impact, as if someone had walked up and s.n.a.t.c.hed it away. Could they have dosed me with something? he thought. Perhaps there was something in the air or laced on the keyboard. Is this what it feels like to be on Bloodstrife?

It seemed like hours pa.s.sed as he stared at nothing but the once sterling clean linoleum in the darkness now dotted with the remnants of the workstation. Scattered drops of blood stained the floor, interspersed with the pieces of the computers. It didn't feel as if there were many more fresh cuts from the fall. The damage seemed internal, mostly to his face. If he survived, he would swell up like a pincushion.

At that moment, Preston wondered if perhaps he should have brought someone along.

His vision began to blur, but he forced himself to stay alert. Without his sight to guide him, Preston struggled to look up, hearing the metal sc.r.a.ping sounds coming closer.

His head continued to stir and scream. If the Detective was saying something to him, it was too jumbled to hear. His whole body ached, but still not as badly as what Gluttony had put him through, not by a long shot. At that moment, his head cleared, focusing on the task at hand. He'd been through much worse already. This was nothing "I have heard that before," Preston managed to say aloud, raising his voice toward the darkness. The detective had managed to realize the truth. "It's the sound of a wheelchair, isn't it?"

He snapped his head up, looking at Doctor Shannon Morrissey as she came into the boundary of the light cast by the remaining unbroken monitors.

She looked at him in silence for a few moments more, as if studying him.

"I have to say I'm sorry," she said emotionlessly, her eyes locked on his in a dead stare. "I was ordered to."

She no longer wore the lab coat she had at the hospital. Until that moment, it was how Preston had defined her as a person. It was as if the coat symbolized her willingness to help.

Instead, Shannon's clothes were now minimal and tight. She wore a black tank top and a pair of biker shorts that didn't go past her knee. Her hair was down, flaunting good looks that Preston hadn't noticed when it had been tied behind her head at Chicago General.

After noticing the way she was dressed, he peered a little closer, seeing a single letter tattooed on her forehead. An S was positioned there, slightly off center. His eyes pulled back, taking in a wider view of her. On each limb was another letter, five in all. Together, they spelled the word "Sloth."

The last time he'd seen her, she'd been so willing to help. Had she been leading him on the whole time? A sudden nausea enveloped him, the detective growing both sickened and angered by the thought. As painful as their first meeting had been for him in the back of the hospital wing, it had helped. Now, she was sitting before him in the shallow darkness of another facility related to Bloodstrife, probably not feeling the slightest ounce of guilt. Infuriated, he seemed to let the Detective speak for him.

"Whoever is branding you guys with those tattoos has a twisted sense of humor," Preston said through blood-reddened teeth and a defiant smile. "You don't really move much, do you?"

Shannon didn't appear to take offense at the remark. In fact, he noticed that she seemed to be fighting back a few tears since she first began speaking. Her cold demeanor was crumbling. She wasn't like the others.

"You're getting awfully close," she admitted. "Wrath is eager to put you out of the picture."

"Wrath?" Preston said, grappling with pure shock, instantly struggling to rise. He hoped she wouldn't swat him back down, choosing to cast Preston aside like a nuisance. The c.o.c.kiness in his voice subsided. "Is that who's running everything? You have to tell me," he said, his voice reeking of desperation. "What's his real name?"

Shannon raised her left arm. Despite her thin frame, her bicep was that of a well-seasoned athlete. The letter H on the muscle bulged as she flexed it.

At the hospital, she'd always been hidden under the white lab coat and the illusion provided by the wheelchair. He'd never noticed how strong she appeared. Perhaps the surgeon had been right after all. The tattoos could move, or at the very least be hidden. There had been no evidence of a letter on her face before.

Normal healthy veins began to grow beneath the surface of her skin, similar to what Gluttony presented, although not nearly as large. They weren't black, but they pulsed quickly, sending vast amounts of blood throughout her arm.

Despite the tattoos and the blood rush, she looked perfectly normal, even beautiful, he admitted to himself.

Without apparent reason, Preston's body was tossed into the air, sending him flying five feet to the left. He cried out in sudden surprise, crashing back down on a mostly undisturbed section of the floor. Upon landing, he grunted in pain as the wind rushed out of him. His mind began racing again, trying to discern the reason behind her actions. It seemed impossible, until he remembered Jason McGovern's theory.

"That's the pure form of the drug, isn't it?" Preston stammered, regaining some semblance of his composure, but unwilling to rise from the floor for fear of what she would do next. "You inject yourself. It gives you the power to do that."

"My," she said, growing more detached and sullen. Shannon lowered her head slightly, as if trying to keep herself together. "He was right about you. You almost know exactly what's going on." She brought her left hand to rest loosely over her mouth, appearing to gather the strength for what she had to do.

"I can help you," Preston said, noticing her body language. "Whatever this guy's got on you, we can stop him. I can see you're not here by choice."

Shannon's hands grasped the chair's wheels, moving her forward. She repositioned the wheelchair again, now facing him. Her body began shaking as she moved within a few feet of the battered detective, still out of arm's reach. Her left leg, adorned with the letter T, moved. Her foot rose above its resting place, hovering for a moment before she placed it on the floor with only a moderate amount of difficulty. Her right leg followed soon after. The letter O quivered as she hoisted it in to the air and down again.

Soon after, she had risen out of the wheelchair and her handicap with relative ease.

"I wish I could go with you," she said, wobbling, but gradually became steadier. "But you can't offer to fix a broken spine-not like he can."

"Jesus," Preston said aloud. "Bloodstrife may have been able to help you, but look at the cost. My G.o.d, what are they having you do?"

She brought up both her arms, letter H on the left and L on the right. Straining, she flexed again. Her arms erupted with more normal veins and sudden muscle definition. Without touching him, Preston was once again thrown across the room into the dark labyrinth of cardboard. He crashed into a few boxes, sending them flying and toppling into one another, reminiscent of when they were struck by the bullets earlier on.

Preston stared on in shock. It was still too much to process as his body came to rest. He grappled with the possibility of an apparent head injury, albeit a mild one. Drowsiness was starting to rear its head. He just wanted to fall asleep.

Kind of dark back here, don't you think? the Detective said clearly, cutting through the fog.

Of course, he realized. Before she attacked, he hadn't been able to see through the darkness of the room, even standing in front of the monitors. Now, she had smashed two of them, allowing the light to fade. Even with her strange abilities, there was no reason to think Shannon would be able to see in the dark. This was his chance to escape.

"I would have preferred you didn't come to see me," she said, her shaky voice permeating through the darkness like spider webs. "They figured you'd probably reach a dead end after Gluttony."

Preston remained silent, unwilling to give away his position. He treaded lightly, keeping an eye on the shadowy visage of Sloth as she moved away from the monitors. The shape of her body was a dark ghostly figure bordered by dull artificial light. At that distance, he couldn't see the expression on her face, but a.s.sumed the delicate facade was still on the verge of breaking.

By then, Preston had regained his wits, forcing himself to breathe silently and slowly, camouflaging his presence in its entirety. It had been some time since he'd needed to utilize this level of stealth. At his age, he wondered if he still could.

The light switch, if it still worked, was located right near the door, not too far from where Sloth was. If she began to move toward it, he would have no choice but to rush out of the maze and tackle her.

Sloth had the upper hand, but he knew how to turn the tables. He remembered where his gun lay after she separated him from the weapon. The moment before she threw him backward, he had traced its trajectory, veiled in just enough light to see where it would end up. That was where he needed to get to.

"I can end this for you now, if you like," she said, directing her voice blindly. Preston scoffed at the fact her voice was actually full of compa.s.sion, even now. Shannon just wanted it to be over, because it was hurting her to prolong the fight. Sloth was going to try and kill him no matter what. At least she'll feel bad about it tomorrow, the Detective chuckled. Preston smirked at the thought as well.

Taking a few steps to the right, he silently made his way through several stacks of boxes that had been arranged in such a way as to allow a narrow path through the maze. They hadn't been affected by either the bullets from earlier or Preston's subsequent landing. Moving forward, he felt his sleeve catch on a piece of cardboard sticking out from between a stack of boxes. There was a tug on his arm from the fabric, threatening to pull the whole pile down. He froze instantly.

After gently working the fabric free, his hand moved to a small box near the top of the pile. Just enough residual light from the monitors shone on it, allowing it to stand out like some divine message. Preston carefully picked up the small container, seeing the unstable tower wobble slightly as he removed it. Holding his breath, he brought it down, grasping it cleanly in both hands and ensuring that his path was clear.

Silently, he flung it to the other side of the room.

When it crashed at the other end, whatever pile the box had struck fell over in a thunderous cacophony.

Shannon was ruthless in her response. She advanced toward it, flinging everything within a ten foot perimeter around with her ability. It sounded like a missile strike inside the small building.

At that moment, he moved slowly, then picked up speed. While he proceeded, Preston took note of the other sounds she produced. There was a small hum, almost like the sound of a wind turbine. Then, when she let loose the full brunt of force, a dull vibration shook the immediate area followed by the sound of suction, as if all the air had been removed from the room. Boxes weren't just being toppled over; they were being torn apart as she looked for him. It was clear Sloth could rip him to shreds if she got him in her sights. Whatever she had hit him with earlier had been nothing but a love tap.

As she was distracted, Preston made a beeline for the gun, Shannon now having moved to the opposite side of the room in search of him. Still, she had also moved away from the monitors, so he couldn't keep track of her exact position either.

In that moment of increased adrenaline, he let his feet strike the ground a little too loudly, alerting her to his position.

Preston heard the hum, this time much louder. Quickly, he looked to the other corner of the room. A wall of boxes had been scooped up by the shock wave and was hurtling toward him. The dull vibration sound forced him into a defensive position. The debris. .h.i.t him all at once, just a moment before he'd been able to grab the Beretta.

The wind was knocked out of him instantly, and he felt himself moving through the air. As if in slow motion, he was drawn parallel to the ceiling, looking up at the perforated sheetrock above. In that moment which seemed to stretch on forever, Preston felt he had enough time to carefully count the thousands of minute holes in the material.

After crashing back down to the hard linoleum amid a hail of cardboard, he knew he was broken and bloodied. He could barely move. Painfully, he swung his arms, managing to move a few of the boxes away, hoping she'd been stupid enough to get close so he could strike her.

Hitting nothing, he forcefully extricated the upper half of his body from the debris.

Shannon was there, sitting in her wheelchair again. Although only a few feet away, he could see her clearly in the growing darkness. They were back by the monitors again. Somehow, the remaining screens had been spared the force of her attack. False light was beaming from Preston's left, only a few feet away.

Subtly, he tried to locate the weapon in the small area illuminated by the glow, but the gun was nowhere to be found. Then, there was a clicking sound that filled his mind with unrelenting fear. Her left arm, the letter H, held the gun on the side of the chair and brought it up for Preston to see. After a moment of hesitation, she pointed it directly at him.

Her eyes were red and on the verge of overflowing with tears. Her hand was shaking in irregular hysterical spasms.

"I saw how you cared," Preston managed to choke out, noticing blood pooling in his mouth. The taste of copper nearly overwhelmed him, but he allowed it to spill out unceremoniously from his lips. "You wanted to help every one of those addicts. You still can."

Shannon was genuinely moved; he could see it.

"You're right," she affirmed. "When Wrath positioned me at the hospital, I knew I could do some good. It's just that for every one I nursed back to health, I was required to make sure that three more never kicked the habit." She moved her right hand to her face, wiping away her first tear. "It would have been too suspicious if we never had any recoveries, but I just can't do it anymore."

"Like I said before-"

"No!" she cried out, then began to laugh while still crying. "If I tried to betray him, that would be the end. I don't have any family," she sobbed, "but he knows that killing a few random patients would be the same thing for me. You can't help me; no one can."

"Let me return the favor," Preston said truthfully, gently pushing away a few more shredded boxes. "You've already helped me more than you know. Not only did you save me, but . . ." He paused. "I was starting to feel something for you. I know you felt the same."

The lingering smile of frustrated futility faded away, replaced instantly by pure grief.

"I know." Then, after a long silence, she continued, "I was looking forward to seeing you again."

"Help us solve this thing-if not for me, then for the patients."

"I suppose I can help you once more," she said, finally. "You're on the right track. Follow Myers-Echowan." She appeared deep in thought for a moment before she transferred the gun to her right hand and placed it on her temple.

Preston brought out every ounce of strength and forced himself to move, sending pieces of cardboard in to the air. The blood in his mouth sprayed as he shouted, "No!"

She flexed her arm again, flinging Preston back into the pile of boxes, albeit gentler than before. He felt a force holding him there as he looked in to her eyes, helpless and struggling.

"I'm truly sorry about Elisabeth," she said with gentle tendency. "I wish I could have met her."

"Don't!" he yelled.

She pulled the trigger. The left side of her head erupted in a sick aerial blood display. Preston had been so focused on her face, staring into her deep green eyes, that he barely heard the sound of the shot as the life faded from them.

Immediately, his body was able to move again.

Preston was on his feet before her body collapsed, still supported by the chair. The gun fell from her lifeless hand, clanging loudly onto the floor and echoing throughout the facility.

"Shannon!" he screamed. "G.o.d d.a.m.n it!"

Preston began to cry.

Pulling her body from the chair, he held her for a few moments, seeing that it was impossible to save her. Gently, he placed her on the floor and closed her eyes, covering her with his coat.

Preston looked down at his hands and chest. Both were now covered with blood, but he couldn't be sure to which of them it belonged. In the dim light, even his own blood appeared black. He took out his handkerchief again, trying to wipe away as much as he could.

After a few moments of uninterrupted silence, the detective found the strength to stand. He noticed the extreme numbing pain for the first time that rushed to his head and chest. Perhaps, he reasoned, it had been there the whole time.

Preston let out a moan as he walked toward the workstations. He searched, blindly at first, his hand moving across the wall. Eventually, he found the light switch by the door. The lights flickered on, some shooting off sparks as the power surged. Preston hadn't heard gla.s.s breaking during the fight, so he a.s.sumed they must have been shattered before he got there. It took nearly thirty seconds for the dim bulbs to grow in enough intensity to offer normal light. He stood there, breathing heavily, waiting.

Finally, he saw the true extent of the damage to the room.

Most of it lay in shambles. The worst hit was the part she had attacked after he threw the box as a distraction. It was clear she'd intended for a quick strike at the time to end it. All the boxes were shredded practically to pieces and spread out in mid-waist high piles. There were even large dents in the walls, shaped as if larger than life invisible fists had struck them or monsters had been clawing at the plaster in the darkness.

With more light, he could see that a small hallway curved around and separated the main room behind the workstations. The wall was temporary, composed from the same dividers used in office cubicles.

Preston moved around back, to the newly discovered hall behind the monitors, looking for more clues. At first, he found more computer towers nestled together and wrapped in cords on the floor. Undamaged, he couldn't wait to see what they had to offer. Looking up, he took in the rest of the cramped s.p.a.ce.

He froze as he saw it, hanging on the wall, smiling at him with a sick sneer.

It was a white Noh mask, similar in make to those that dotted the collection at Argosi's mansion. Maybe it's not sneering, the Detective said. It's how you look at it, remember?

Preston approached it, careful not to touch anything around him. Like before, the mask was displayed on a wooden plaque, centered below a small light for maximum effect. Beneath the face was another t.i.tle, this one displaying the word "Happiness" in bold letters.

Preston quickly ran outside, barely noticing that the rain had lessened. The drops were so thin and small they now floated in the air like mist. He grabbed his phone from the pa.s.senger seat of his car, barely taking the time to close the door before running back inside. Along the way, he dialed the station, requesting to be put through to the officers guarding Argosi's estate.

"This is Jeffries," the Uni on the other end stated after a hit of static on the line.

"This is Detective Burroughs. Change of plans," he said, arriving back at the Noh display. Looking closely, Preston never took his eyes off the mask in front of him as he spoke. "I'm on my way. Until I get there, keep an eye on the guards and especially Argosi. Make sure no one leaves."

Chapter 15.

Jack arrived only a few minutes before his partner. The rain had let up about an hour earlier, and although he was only parked outside Argosi's front gate, the detective took comfort in the fact that he hadn't needed to confront the man and his army of bodyguards during a storm.

It was only about eight hours earlier that he'd last been to the CEO's home, getting him adjusted to the newly appointed police presence. After leaving, Jack had enjoyed a late dinner with his family, followed by a few hours of dreamless sleep.

After receiving a phone call from the Unis describing Preston's new orders, he'd been out of bed instantly, barely noticing the thirty minute drive to the edge of the city. Along the way, he'd obtained a warrant from a judge as Preston requested, waking the man up in the middle of the night.

All he could think about was the case and the wellbeing of his partner.

Jack motioned to the guard to open the gate as he saw Preston's car roll up behind him on the hill, seeing it in the rear view mirror. His partner drove through the entrance behind him. There were no sirens. Neither car offered any sign of an impending raid. Just as Preston had informed the officers on patrol, they were only to keep the CEO from leaving. It wasn't long before security guards began taking notice as the two cars progressed down Argosi's lengthy driveway.

Marked police cruisers remained outside the gate, parked like wolves awaiting the signal to pounce.

The two detectives exited their cars quickly, but casually made their way to the front door.

"Can we help you gentlemen?" the first guard asked Jack politely. He appeared to be the same man who escorted him into the house hours earlier.

"No thanks, we're just going to see a friend of ours," Jack offered coolly.