Season 1: Chapter Ten
Miles
January 21st, 2018 - Sunday morning. 9:46am. BANG. BANG. BANG. BANG. BANG.
My eyes finally open, the sound of constant banging at the door correlated perfectly with the gunshots in my dreams. For a moment, subconscious and reality had merged in to one. Suddenly realizing that the echoing noises were part of the real world, I shot up from the couch and became instantly aware of my surroundings. I had fallen asleep to the memories of war, and at my chest, a black hunting rifle to match it. I stood to my feet, cautiously approaching the door as the thuds continued to knock, though became duller, and duller. Bang... Bang... Bang... bang. Looking through the peephole, I was met with the back of a speckled-grey suit. This was no cop. Nor no parole officer. I set the rifle up-right to rest on the wall behind the door. I grabbed for the doorknob and opened the door quickly, swiftly hiding the guy behind it. The man was on his way out, just several feet down the stone walkway before he turned around. "Eh, look who's not dead yet." FUCKING Graham Rivera. A stud. A real womanizer and ladies man. "Fuckkk." I slurred as he walked towards me. Twisting my body slightly, I had to make a double-take as I began to smile. "6 years and not one fuckin' visit, ya prick." Graham launched his hand to grip my shoulder, squeezing it firmly as I welcomed him in to the house. Laughing, he shrugged. "Rules man. Too many rules." I closed the door behind him, "Yeah, yeah." Dismissing him, I lead him to the kitchen. "Sit, at least. Stay." Graham, my lawyer in the Beaverton Murders, pulled a stool out and unbuttoned his blazer. "You know I can't." He said, bluntly, while directly contradicting his words by sitting. Pulling out a bottle of whiskey from the upper cabinet and two glasses, I slid them over the island separating the two of us. Pouring two drinks on the rocks, I handed one to him. He took it graciously, a sneaky grin creeping his lips. He was here for something. He always was. "Spit it out." I teased him, "I know you better than anyone, Gray." I smiled, "I know that smile. To what do I have the pleasure of your most untimely visit." Raising my glass, he followed suit - air-cheering before the both of us took a sip. Graham cleared his throat. "I can't get anything past you, eh'?" His chocolate brown eyes squinted as he looked up at me. I leaned over the table, anticipating whatever news he was here to deliver. "Alright." He nodded slightly, his eyes falling to the glass between his fingers. "They wanna know." I stood from my leaning position, taking another sip - this time a gulp. They. It was always bad when it was They. "Mhm." I murmured through my drink and answered, "They already know." "No." Rivera was firm with his word. "They wanna know how long you're gonna keep up this charade. This escapade. How much more effort they have to place into sweeping away the tracks you leave after every takeaway." "Fuck you." A low rumble came from the back of my throat. Sighing, Gray opened his mouth to speak, but I knew exactly what was about to come out of his mouth. "Don't." I interrupted him, but he went to speak again. "Don't fuckin' say it." "Chopski asked about you." A surge of rage suddenly swept through my coarse veins. Chopski. It was a trigger. "God DAMMIT, Gray!" I shouted, slamming the glass down on the counter top. The glass shattered between the with the force of the strike, crushing the cup between the palm of my hand and the granite. Blood oozed from my palm, but I felt nothing. I stood tense, trying to reel in my emotion as my left eyelid twitched. Graham sat there, stone-cold. This was his job, there was no room for remorse, regret, compassion. He waited a moment, allowing a few seconds of silence to settle the intensity. "Listen, Davis." Davis. "You know better than anyone that Chops would be dead if you wanted him in a grave." Standing from the stool, he reclipped the single-button that held his stylish blazer together. I remained silent, slowly raising my head as Gray spoke with sincerity. "He's not buried, he's not at the bottom of the ocean, and there's no bullet in his head." Gray continued. "I don't do bullets." He scoffed right in my face, "You got'a sniper-head behind your front door, Davee." Nothing goes past Gray. I had taught him well. Too well. "You're a DELTA. You do bullets. Just not in this new game." With his hands firmly placed on the backrest of the stool, he sighed. The sound of genuine concern. "I miss you, man." Lowering his head, he tried to keep his feelings in check, unable to jeopardize their network. "Chops the most.”
Nicola
January 21st -- Sunday afternoon I sat stunned. Staring at my laptop screen. The windows were split. On the left, I had my email open -- one message coming from the campus crimewatch system. On the right was the local news website. I played the clip again. “Shocking news this morning...brutally murdered at the campus stadium...crucified...eyes and lips were painted red, with blood…” Painted with blood. “Jesus,” I murmured. Not even flinching at the poorly timed exclamation. Playing the clip again -- voraciously scrolling through the feeds on my screen, toggling away from the email. It was almost funny how terribly inappropriate the email was. A brief description of what happened, and then the same copy-pasted bullshit they put in all of the advisory emails. Yeah. Poor Kyle Turner probably wouldn’t have been slaughtered and trussed up like a Christmas decoration if he told the person to STAY AWAY in a loud voice. Objectively, the odds were astronomical. It wasn’t just me being narcissistic. I didn’t give a shit about football (nearly a crime at the U of O) -- but I was a Duck technically speaking. It was too close to home for something this gruesome to happen anywhere near me without the probability lifting some eyebrows. But something in my wasn’t that surprised. Dark things had followed me my entire life. Death followed me. So because of this sadly accepted fact, I flicked through Facebook conversations, eyes drifting curiously over the comments, with nothing more potent than macabre fascination. It was unnerving, of course. To say the least. The campus was completely terrified, social media lit up with their terror -- brighter than the North Star. That time I did flinch, scolding myself under my breath. Bad taste. Terrible taste. Idiot. Google searches for more information. Oregon State detectives had been deployed to investigate the scene. All football activities suspended until further notice. Now that was a big deal. A huge fucking deal. Kyle Turner was punched in the search bar and I paused. Perking a brow. Old articles -- several years old. The kid had been accused of rape years ago as a teenager during college football recruiting. He had been in the spotlight. A real hotshot. The Ducks were a big deal in the world of college football. It had come as a shock when the Portland native was accused. His rise to football stardom and the rape scandal had driven the media utterly mad. My nose wrinkled slightly. The media. Tch. Either way, that explained the carving on his body. Rapist. Sinner. The little hairs on the back of my neck shivered. I rubbed it away idly and dove a little deeper. Okay. A lot deeper. It was time to see if the internet had gotten a hold of some photos. Are you sure that’s a good idea. The little voice sounded like Michael and I rolled my eyes. Sure enough -- a little digging into some shady websites and I found it. I knew where to find these things. It wasn’t hard if you tried. Where the photos came from precisely I wasn’t sure. One of the people who discovered him? Although they’d have to be pretty sick to be snapping pictures in the face of seeing their friend -- said the girl looking at the pictures in the first place. Leaked crime scene photos? Unlikely given that the whole thing only happened this morning. Who knew but I was glad they were there. Not glad -- just appreciative of their helpful nature. Helpful in killing my curiosity. They were gruesome. Beyond gruesome. I was surprised to see the genital mutilation. The big-mouthed news anchor in the looping clip failed to mention that particular detail. The face painted with blood like some kind of morbid clown. Strange. I rubbed the back of my neck again. Why that, of all things? It was kind of beautiful in a twisted way. Heavenly. It was something I could paint. Something I would paint. I could see the lines of pain still etched in his frozen face. It would take a while. But I was sure I could capture it if I tried. I didn’t realize how long I had been staring at the photo of the late Kyle Turner’s face until the trill of my phone broke me out of the thoughtful trance. I scrambled, glancing down at the screen. Adam. Fuck. Right. This time I swiped to answer. “Hey.” “Oh! She finally answers, consider me blessed. What the hell, Nik?” I shrugged. Then realized he couldn’t see that and sighed. “I’m sorry. I thought I talked to you -- about it and stuff.” “Barely. It has been like a week and a half. I was worried I did something wrong.” I tried not to snort. “Well. Sorry. It’s fine now.” “Right. Well. Do you want to come down to Core and see what I have been working on? I miss you.” I looked at the photo again before closing the window. “Yeah. Sure. I’ll be there in a few.” I bundled myself up in a jacket, scarf, and boots and tromped outside to head to the Core-- a sections of classrooms in Northsite dedicated to the art department. When I felt stuck in my apartment, I often ventured there and set up shop to work. With a brisk pace, I walked down to Core. The snow had stopped early that morning. It was getting warm enough for the ground to get slushy. The space was empty. Most of the streets seemed empty too. So much different from the firestorm online. Right now, I liked it out here better. Too easy to get lost in the screen. Too easy to slip through time sometimes. My boots squeaked -- the damn slush -- as I ghosted to the studios to the darkroom where Adam undoubtedly was lurking. Sure enough he was leaning over one of the tables, working with some formula for his photos. “Hey,” I murmured. He started slightly and stood, turning with a look before he stepped over and smiled slightly. “Well, she lives. Jesus, I thought I would forget what you looked like,” he said. Easy -- a thick voice, each word pronounced clean and sharp. He stooped down, pulling me against him. A quick kiss, then he pulled me along to the developing tank -- above which a few shots hung. “Shot these just before the snow came.” Adam was good. Good enough to have gotten into graduate school and become a graduate assistant for the beginning photography course anyway. I took it during my first year. He told me all the time he “appreciated” me the moment he saw me. “I like that one,” I breathed. Genuine in my compliment. There was something about stags that drew me for some reason. “Yes. I spotted him when I was on the tracks. It is good I suppose. Are you hungry? We should get something to eat. Catch up.” I looked a moment at the photo of the stag again before nodding and following him out of the darkroom. We wandered down the halls. He didn’t take my hand. I knew he was sulking. My patience grinded slightly. The halls were lined with paintings -- but this was an old exhibition, due to turnover soon with new submissions. We passed a large one and I glanced up. Oh fuck. That’s right. I had forgotten one of my paintings made it into the gallery. It was well over a year old. I loved it when I finished it. I wasn’t so sure now. I paused a few steps, looking it over. A woman in red, stretched out, blinded and silenced by red. Crucifixion I had called it. I wished I could remember exactly what I felt when I finished it. Painted red, with blood. Crucified. My joints locked. Crucifixion. “Oh my god.” Turner. His face. The blood on his eyes and mouth. No wonder I felt compelled to paint it. Because I already had. I stared. A cold sweat prickled my skin beneath my coat as I stood gaping, trying to make sense of it all. Adam glanced over his shoulder. “Nik?” I couldn’t. Because it didn’t make any sense. At all. Whatsoever. A coincidence? Could it be? Turner’s bloodsoaked body -- flesh white against the drying blood over his skin. The pose. The face. Stiff as a board, I glanced over my shoulder. Habit bringing my nails to bite in my palms. Jaw tense. I swallowed hard. Fear. Too close. Death followed me. Follows me. A thought that turned my guts to water cropped up in my head. Him. How. There was no way. He wouldn’t come here. He has no idea that I’m here. Stop. Breathe. You’re being paranoi-- NO. Dark eyes smiling. Stinging stink of hot blood. Glass biting in the bottoms of my feet. White skin. Red cuts. “Nikki!” Adam barked. He reached out to grab my shoulder and I nearly jumped clean out of my skin. “S-sorry,” I stuttered, pulling away -- recoiling. “Sorry. Adam. I have to go.” And with that I turned from him and all but ran from the building, leaving him standing there looking very perturbed.
Miles
“Oh my god.”With my back up against the wall, I kept my hands hidden within the confines of my jacket pocket. I was at the edge of a corner, out of sight and out of mind. Well, not to dear Nicola. I listened as your breaths shortened, your words became choked up, and you became unresponsive. I kept still. Quiet. I had wondered how fast you were pick up. You were smart. Smarter than I gave you credit for. So much so that I found myself appreciating just how quickly you put two-and-two together. I couldn't help but simper. I could hear the boy scoff as you ran off. Nikki, he would call you. Nikki. My head leaned to the side, my eyes shifting to peak around the corner. He was visibly frustrated, shrugging his limp shoulders and as he spun around - confused. He scoffed again, this time without company; thinking he was alone in this hall. "She's a basketcase. Freakin' nuts." He would murmur under his breath. My fingers curled into a furious, clapsed fist. Biting the inside of my lip, I clenched my balled-fist so tight, my knuckles began to whiten. Adam grabbed his stuff off the floor and began his way towards me. Right as the boy would turn the my superior form would spring out. Slamming my shoulder into him, the weight of my figure literally body-checked him across the hall. The kid hit the ground hard - the strike sending his bag, books, papers, and photographs fluttering about. They lay spread across the floor, as did he, in complete disarray. Moaning, the juvenile prick was disoriented - possibly concussed. Holding his head in his hand, he tried to lift his chin and with one eye opened - searched for the source of the assault. Nothing. No one. Body aching, he attempted to pick up the pieces of his scattered belongings, he shuffled his papers and photographs into a single, disordered pile. But something caught his olive-green eye. Atop the pile, a sheet - a printed notice. The Crime Advisory.
STAY AWAY.
Encircled dozens of times in black pen. Adam shot his head up, frantically throwing himself around to look around him... Confused eyes would find himself alone. Abandoned in a silent, empty hallway.