Chaser Read online

  “And he did?”

  “I found some imageboard posts from someone calling himself Orestes.”

  “From the Greek play.” Tom had studied all the mythology related to Erinyes.

  “Right. Six months ago, asking a BDSM porn forum about how to upload snuff videos. He got a lot of tech information, a lot of email requests, and then someone pointed him to a .onion site on the hidden web. I went to the site, found more posts by Orestes, and a user named Romulus engaged him. Guided him through uploading to Usher House 2.0. I think it was the webmaster. The next day, the first Erinyes snuff vid appeared on the site. So Orestes has to be Cissick.”

  It was a logical trail. But Tom didn’t know if it was strong enough to get a warrant.

  “Can we bait Cissick on the imageboard?”

  “We don’t need to. This imageboard isn’t anonymous, so I talked to a friendly judge for a warrant and then emailed the owner. He gave up Cissick’s IP. A few calls later, I got a Culver City address from his Internet Service Provider. He’s using the name Brad Dunwich.”

  Stallone yawned. Tom yawned in solidarity. “Did you call the Feebies?”

  “Not yet. I called you first. Dunwich dropped his ISP two months ago.”

  “Did he move? Leave a forwarding address?”

  “Cissick got the service with stolen ID. The real Dunwich is fifty-two years old, lives in Ladera Heights. He canceled the service.”

  “So Cissick can still be at that address?”

  “Unknown.”

  Tom bounced it around in his head.

  If this were a bad thriller novel where the hero took ridiculous risks, Tom would check out the house himself. Then everything would go wrong, and Tom would wind up chained to a radiator, or hanging from the ceiling, being slowly skinned alive.

  Not happening.

  Both the FBI, and the local cops, knew all about Cissick. Rolling up on him with the law was the best, and safest, way to go.

  Or is it?

  My thoughts are muddy.

  Goddamn, I’m tired. I’ve never felt this tired before.

  “I’ll call the Feebies, and follow up and get in touch with the locals. Hopefully they’ll have him in custody by lunch.”

  “Sounds like a plan.”

  “Thanks, Firoz. I owe you one.” Tom noticed his voice slurred a little.

  “Everyone owes me one.”

  Firoz hung up, and Tom yawned again.

  Stallone snored.

  Tom got up off the bed and a massive dizzy spell hit him. He immediately sat back down.

  What the hell?

  He tried to stand, but his limbs felt heavy. Too heavy to move.

  Something is happening.

  Am I having a stroke?

  The stateroom began to blur and darken. He managed to get onto his feet, and immediately collapsed, falling to his knees.

  But his knees didn’t hurt. Not at all.

  As his thoughts became jumbled, Tom reached for his cell phone charging on the bed.

  Tom’s arm seemed to stretch on forever, but the phone was so far away.

  The closet door opened, and Tom saw the man standing there.

  A man wearing a black robe and a gas mask.

  The man walked over to the bed and picked up Tom’s phone.

  “Sorry, Tom,” the man said. “No calls. No calls ever again.”

  Tom’s last thought before he blacked out was; it’s Erinyes…

  ERINYES

  The Previous Day

  Cissick isn’t quite sure why he’s waiting around in the parking lot.

  A feeling? A hunch?

  An answer to all of my problems?

  People come and people go.

  Some to the tanning salon, which makes no sense because it’s a sunny California day. But Cissick is a Midwestern boy; nothing in Cali makes sense to him.

  Some, to the organic clothing store. Hipsters arriving in hybrids, thinking they’re saving the planet because the cotton shirts they buy use non-GMO family-farmed cotton.

  Some, to the Absalt & Schlimm clinic. A few arrivals have old bandages on their faces. Others who depart are wearing new bandages.

  I should remember that. A bandaged face in LA is practically invisible.

  Dr. Absalt leaves work first. He’s driving a Tesla, one of the cars in the lot that Cissick pegged as owned by a doctor.

  It’s another hour before Dr. Schlimm leaves, getting into his Mercedes.

  Cissick follows on his scooter.

  He’s not sure why.

  Dr. Schlimm has several things that Cissick needs, but Cissick has no guarantees this has any chance of working out.

  My gut tells me this is the right thing to do.

  Schlimm is an evangelist.

  Schlimm is fanatical.

  Schlimm is a kindred spirit.

  I punish sinners so they repent.

  Schlimm helps the needy so they are redeemed.

  And yet…

  Something about Schlimm tells me there is more to his story.

  As the sun sets over Beverly Hills, Cissick follows the Benz through the twisty/hilly stop-and-go traffic, staying a few car lengths behind, hoping no expressways will be involved because his scooter can’t go that fast.

  But Schlimm never goes faster than 35 mph, and even when Cissick loses sight of him, he’s able to catch up.

  Like this is meant to be.

  After twenty or so minutes, Cissick tails Schlimm to an upper-class subdivision in Hollywood Hills. The winding roads are sprinkled with McMansions, each surrounded by tall fences covered in ivy, ensuring privacy from neighbors and the riff-raff driving through.

  Cissick cuts his headlight and drifts back, forsaking safety to reduce his chance of being spotted. His gas gauge comes on.

  Nearly empty. And the steep grades eat up fuel.

  If Schlimm doesn’t stop soon, I’ll lose him and have to coast my way back down.

  But once again, divine providence intervenes, and Schlimm stops at an iron gate, which opens automatically. Schlimm pulls into his driveway, and Cissick waits until the last possible moment to slide through the opening before it closes.

  Cissick parks the bike behind a California fan palm and kills the engine, listening to the night.

  He hears an automatic garage door closing, but the property is heavily wooded, and the driveway longer than expected, so he doesn’t see the house.

  He walks along the pavement, turning a hard left, and seeing lights. A ranch, at least four bedrooms, with an attached garage, front porch lights on.

  He waits, sees another light come on in a window.

  What am I doing here?

  Am I expecting to knock on Schlimm’s door and be welcomed into his home?

  He decides against that route, and instead spider-creeps closer, circling the house.

  Except for how hidden it is by foliage, there is nothing unique about the property—

  —until Cissick walks the perimeter and sees the back.

  One of the window frames is completely bricked over.

  Interesting.

  Cissick hobbles closer for a better look, squinting through the darkness, then hears the automatic garage door begin to open.

  Leaving so soon, Doctor?

  He moves as fast as his canes can support him, shuffling up the side of the house, hiding at the corner and watching the driveway as an ambulance pulls out of the garage.

  At first, it makes sense. Maybe the doctor is making a house call.

  Then it makes no sense at all. A paramedic might take his work vehicle home for the night. A doctor would not. And Cissick doubts Schlimm is moonlighting as an EMC.

  The ambulance vanishes around a driveway curve, and Cissick makes a hasty choice.

  Let’s go inside.

  Puffing up his chest, feeling invulnerable, Erinyes moves quickly, slips under the garage door as it closes.

  He makes it—barely—and then looks around.

  Schlimm has a large shelvi
ng unit in the garage, stocked with medical supplies and various canned and boxed foods.

  No dog food. Good sign.

  He gets to the house entry door and turns the knob, opening it a crack and listening.

  No sounds.

  Erinyes stays still until he’s convinced the house is empty, and then enters, grinning a gummy grin at his violation.

  Dr. Schlimm’s house, while tastefully furnished, lacks any sort of character. The furniture, wall hangings, decorations; everything seems generic, genderless, completely devoid of personality.

  He doesn’t have a TV in his living room. That’s just downright un-American.

  Erinyes checks the fridge. Well-stocked, for a man who lives alone. A lot of premade heat-it-up meals.

  Nothing in the sink. In the dishwasher…

  A stainless steel bedpan. Interesting.

  Erinyes prowls down a hallway, locates a bedroom. Nothing of interest, other than the bland selection of shirts and ties in Schlimm’s closet.

  Finds an office next. The computer is on.

  What little he knows about computers is courtesy of Romulus and Remus at Usher House 2.0, who caught him up with modern technology. They’ve been patient, helpful, and even pay Erinyes a percentage when his videos get views.

  One thing R&R always repeat is, “Always use a password and a VPN.”

  Dr. Schlimm doesn’t have a password, or a VPN. His search history is just a few mouse clicks away.

  Erinyes spends half an hour, listening for the garage door while soaking in all the sites Schlimm has browsed over the last week. There are four he kept coming back to.

  First, an academic plastic surgery website with a lot of boring published medical papers.

  Second, a webcast by someone named Harry McGlade.

  Third, dozens of news articles about the criminal known as Plastic.

  Erinyes has heard of Plastic. Anyone who has spent more than a day in Hollywood has heard of Plastic.

  Erinyes shivers, excited. Then he checks the fourth site.

  A forum. For victims of Plastic.

  I think I know why that window is all bricked up.

  Why I’ve been drawn here. Sent here.

  It’s like a divine hand is guiding me.

  Leaving the computer and the office, Erinyes continues through the hall.

  A master bathroom with a sunken tub.

  Another bedroom, converted into a library filled with medical journals.

  And then, jackpot. An entire operating theater.

  Complete with anesthetic. This is perfect.

  There’s one door left. This one is steel, with a deadbolt on the outside.

  You naughty boy, Dr. Schlimm.

  Erinyes sniffs the air.

  I smell a sinner.

  He unlocks the deadbolt and opens the door slowly, letting the anticipation build.

  Inside, his suspicion is confirmed.

  Dr. Schlimm is Plastic.

  I knew something was up with him.

  Like recognizing like.

  It appears to be a hospital room, but without any windows. Two beds, the nearer one occupied by a snoring man, handcuffed to the rail. His face is swathed in bandages.

  Fearless, Erinyes approaches.

  I have to see what he did.

  Very few of Plastic’s victims consent to be photographed. I’ve been so curious.

  He gently begins to pull the bandages away, jittery, fascinated, excited.

  Like unwrapping a Christmas present.

  What he reveals is horrifying.

  Hideous.

  Beautiful.

  The man’s face has been filled with silicone injections, puffy and lumpy.

  Chipmunk cheeks.

  Lips like two fat earthworms.

  His ears have been swapped and sewn on backwards.

  Eyebrows removed and reattached upside-down.

  Chin filed down.

  Stitches and staples everywhere.

  He looks like a Frankenstein Mr. Potatohead.

  Erinyes can’t resist running a scarred finger over the man’s bloated features, caressing the golf ball-sized lumps in his face, moving down to his moist, swollen lips, dipping a finger inside to feel the wetness.

  If I still had a penis, I’d be aroused right now.

  “Are you hungry?” he woos the sleeping beauty. “I’ve got some crunchy snacks.”

  Erinyes pats the feeder roaches he picked up at the pet shop, and he’s eager to see if the man wakes up if a few are poured into his mouth. He reaches into his pants pocket, fishing out the roach tube, and tapping it to knock them down and popping off the cap. Then he tilts the open end to the man’s bubble lips.

  A roach drops out. It scurries down the man’s recessed chin and hides itself among the blankets.

  I hate wasting food.

  Maybe I should force them all into his mouth.

  Erinyes lifts the tube—

  —then hesitates

  If I share them all I’ll have nothing to munch on if I get hungry.

  Decisions… decisions…

  Erinyes shakes a single cockroach onto his palm and closes his hand around it, bringing it to the sleeping man’s face.

  I’ll force the first one in. See if he likes it.

  Then something catches Erinyes’s ear.

  The garage door.

  Plastic is home.

  Erinyes pops the roach into his own mouth, picks up his canes, and hobbles back into the hallway, closing the door behind him. He decides that the best place for a dramatic reveal is the living room, perched on the couch, acting like he owns the place.

  In a way, I do.

  I have Dr. Schlimm under my nubby thumb.

  He hurries, chewing as he walks, and plops onto the leather couch just as Plastic enters the house.

  “You’ve been a busy boy,” he says as the doctor is pocketing his ambulance keys.

  Plastic, to his credit, doesn’t startle. He focuses on Erinyes with a clinical eye, as if he were an expected guest.

  “Mr. Dunwich.”

  He’s not asking how I got in. Or why I’m here. Or how I found him. Or what I’ve discovered.

  Cool under pressure. I like that.

  “That’s how you grab them and drop them off without detection. In an ambulance. Hiding in plain sight.” Erinyes nods appreciatively. “Very clever, Plastic.”

  Schlimm’s face betrays nothing. “What do you want? Money?”

  “I don’t need money.”

  “Free surgery? We were already planning to help you.”

  “That’s why I know we’re kindred spirits, Plastic.”

  “Don’t call me that.”

  “I can tell that you like it. I’ll call you Plastic, you can call me Erinyes. Are you familiar with the Greek Furies? Deities of vengeance that punished sinners and made them repent. I’m like you, Plastic. I punish sinners. I make them pay for their transgressions. There is someone who needs to be delivered Penance, and I need your help.”

  Plastic didn’t say anything, but Erinyes could sense him mulling it over.

  “You have a choice, Plastic. You can help me punish this sinner. Or you can kill me.”

  No answer.

  Seconds tick by.

  Plastic really doesn’t hold up his end of the conversation.

  “Have you ever murdered anyone, Plastic?” Erinyes shakes his head. “I don’t think so. I can sense when someone has taken a life. You seek justice and retribution, like me. But you haven’t killed. Why is that?”

  After another pause, “There are things worse than death.”

  Erinyes grins. “I know that from experience. As you can see. What is your experience? What drives you to do this?”

  No answer.

  “If you want me to, I’ll leave. But you don’t want that, do you? I know you, Plastic. I know you’ve been wanting to share this with someone. Someone who won’t judge. Here’s your chance to unburden yourself.”

  “I was bullied. M
ade fun of. The punchline of endless adolescent jokes. My childhood was hell.”

  “Did that make you stronger?”

  “Yes. But it also made me angry.”

  “You changed yourself. But the resentment was still there.”

  Plastic doesn’t speak.

  I don’t need him to agree. We both know I’m right.

  “I’ve always been fascinated by stories of nature vs. nurture when it comes to people like us. The TV shows and true crime books and pop psychologists want us to believe we’re products of our environments. Abused, and you become an abuser. I was abused. I didn’t even know it at the time. I thought all children were beaten with coat hangers if they said their prayers wrong. I thought all housewives deserved a punch in the teeth if dinner was late. But that didn’t make me what I am. It just made me more… me.”

  “What do you want, Mr. Dunwich?”

  “I asked you nicely to call me Erinyes. Since you aren’t going to kill me, at least treat me with common courtesy.”

  “What do you want, Erinyes.”

  “Thank you, Plastic. These people you disfigure. Are they bullies who picked on you?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “Tell me how you choose them. Start with the one handcuffed in the back bedroom. The one with the window bricked-over.”

  Plastic isn’t the best storyteller. But his story is fascinating, even if it lacks enthusiasm. When he finishes, Erinyes smiles wide.

  “It’s brilliant. And you’re an artist. You should have a cult of worshippers, Plastic. I’m happy to be the first of them.”

  Erinyes bows in submission.

  After a moment, Plastic asks, “What is it you need?”

  “I’ve done some research on anesthetic gas. I saw some at your office today, behind the locked door with the yellow warning triangle. I also saw your operating room. Do you have some here?”

  “Yes.”

  “What kind?”

  “Halothane.”

  “What would happen if I opened up a cannister of halothane in someone’s bedroom? Could that put a person to sleep?”

  Plastic relaxes a notch.

  He’s talking about a comfortable subject he’s familiar with. Treating me like a colleague.

  “It depends. How large the person is. How big the room is. If it’s ventilated.”

  “He’s two hundred pounds. The room is a stateroom on a boat. I don’t know about vents or if the door will be open.”