Dark Earth – Book Two: The Harbingers – excerpt II

The parking lot he was approaching was a shortcut to the bridge over the Tiber River. Anyone walking to or from the clubs would take the same route, so it was a good place to possibly meet someone.

A figure stepped out as he was passing under the lot’s sign. He was shocked at first, but this quickly changed to disgust at the sight of the shabbily clothed man standing in front of him. His hair and beard were matted, and his clothing had seen better days. He smelled like a mixture of urine and sweat. Paolo nearly gagged. With effort, he resisted the urge to hold his breath, though he tried not to breathe too deeply.

Thoughts of the mysterious mummified bodies which had been turning up around Rome suddenly crossed his mind. He nearly laughed out loud at his overactive imagination. It was highly unlikely the derelict in front of him could be responsible. He was ready to dismiss the vagrant and walk around him when he noticed the man’s eyes. The hobo was blind but didn’t have the normal look of a sightless person. Initially, Paolo thought it was a trick of the light, but soon realized it wasn’t. His eyes were milky; but while one was white, the other was yellow.

A shiver inched down Paolo’s spine, and he started to walk past. The vagabond moved and blocked his way. He tried to sidestep him, but the man moved again.

“Look, I don’t have any spare change,” he said.

Those sightless eyes seemed to stare through him.

“It is not money we seek.”

Paolo shook his head due to the combination of the bum’s bad breath and his strange remark. “Then what the hell do you want?”

The vagrant stepped closer, leaned in and audibly sniffed at his neck.

“Get the fuck away from me!”

He shoved him back, but the fellow simply smiled. His teeth were caked with plaque. Paolo looked around. He’d said we. Maybe some of his homeless friends were lurking in the darkness between the parked cars. His fear eased when he saw that the shadows hid no one. At the same time, his pride was wounded at realizing that he was afraid of vagabonds. He’d never feared a street person before, but something about this guy had him on edge. After what had happened at the club, however, he now refused to be afraid.

“Don’t fuck with me,” he warned. “I’m not in the fucking mood.”

“Oh, we’re not going to fuck with you.”

His smile increased.

“Then get the—”

Before he could finish his sentence, the vagrant closed the distance. The man’s hand shot out, seized him by the throat and lifted him from the ground.  He stared horrified into those strangely coloured eyes and grabbed at the fingers around his neck to pry them loose. It was like trying to straighten bent steel rods.

The hobo held him in his outstretched arm. His shabby clothes and bony frame hid massive strength.

His attacker suddenly pulled him closer and Paolo Marconi’s feet hit the ground with such force that his knees buckled. The man now towered over him and increased the pressure on his neck. He brought his face close again. His breath was overpowering.

To his continuing terror, those eyes shifted colours. First, the left was milky white and the right milky yellow, then the right became white and the left yellow. It was as though a lantern was moving behind them. The change made no sense and at that moment, he didn’t care. All he wanted was to be as far from the terrifying hobo as possible,

The bum opened his mouth wider, and the stench of his halitosis intensified. Marconi continued to struggle in his grasp. He tried to call for help but felt his trachea being crushed, cutting off all sound save a strangled gurgle.

“No, we are not going to fuck with you,” the vagrant growled.

He then flung him away like an oversized rag doll. Paolo flew through the air and landed painfully on his side, banging his right knee and elbow before rolling heavily onto his back. The impact left him winded, and he struggled to regain his breath. He pushed himself to focus through his agony.

Closing his eyes tightly, he willed the pain to stop. When he opened them, he saw his attacker stalking toward him. The man strode with the determination of an angry titan. Though his knee and elbow throbbed, he managed to push himself to his feet. Paolo admitted the man had gotten the drop on him. It wouldn’t happen again. He refused to be beaten by a smelly, penniless hobo.

His knee ached, but he continued to put weight on it. He couldn’t let his opponent know he was injured; he had to make him think he could still be a threat. It was unfortunate he didn’t think of himself the same way. He’d never met anyone with the strength this vagrant possessed, and he did his best to quell his fear.

Thoughts of the mummified bodies briefly flashed through his mind again, but he didn’t have time to dwell on them; his attacker was almost on him. Like a cobra strike, the derelict’s right hand lashed out and caught the left side of Paolo’s face. The force knocked him back, and stars exploded before his eyes. His head swam and his world tilted like a funhouse ride. Had it not been for the car he stumbled into, he would have fallen heavily back onto his back.

He managed to stay on his feet, but this was no blessing because his assailant gripped his throat again and dragged his face inches from his own. The vagabond then forced him to his knees before flinging him away once more.

 

Dark Earth – Book Two: The Harbingers – excerpt

As he’d half-expected, nothing seemed out of place or suspicious. He was surprised to find some of the Harrison children’s things still in their rooms, as though they’d be returning home at the end of the day. Photos of the family were no longer on display, however, and the blood from the massacre had long since been cleaned. Apart from the children’s area, it appeared as though Dillington had done a good job of making himself at home.

Bright noticed that a set of monogrammed hand towels still hung on a rack in the main ensuite bathroom. Maybe it was the doctor’s way of paying tribute to the fallen, his way of thanking his benefactor, but something about the man didn’t make that a likely scenario.

They returned to the living room with the doctor trailing like an over-eager shadow. He didn’t offer them a seat and neither of the detectives tried to take one.

“So, about Richard Harrison. How did you two meet again?”

“We’ve been through this how many times Detective Mugabba?”

“One more time won’t hurt, will it?”

Dillington sighed. “I suppose not.”

“So?” Bright prodded, when the doctor didn’t add anything further.

He sighed again. “As I’ve already told you, he was a patient of mine. And I don’t think I should be discussing anything more about him in that regard.”

“Understandable,” Bright acquiesced. “It’s just that no one we’ve spoken to can recall him ever having been to a psychiatrist.”

“Is it that much of a surprise, Ma—Mugabba?”

The ruse had been a long shot. It would have been perfectly natural for someone in Harrison’s position to have kept it a secret he’d been in therapy. His policeman’s instincts also picked up on Dillington’s second slip with his name. Was the man getting nervous? The temptation to push further was irresistible.

“And how is it that you came to be his beneficiary?” he asked.

“I guess I’m a better therapist than I’d thought. I helped him address whatever was bothering him and he felt the need to reward me.” Dillington smiled.

“Reward you at the expense of his family? The children were his. His wife hadn’t been having an affair,” Bright stepped closer.

Dillington looked at him, and another smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

“Are you—”

“And if you had helped him with whatever was bothering him,” Mugabba cut him off. “Then how do you explain him murdering his family and then blowing his own head off?”

Dillington stood his ground. The same half-smile playing on his face. “As I was saying, are you trying to intimidate me, detective?”

Bright also stood his ground for a moment, but then stepped back. It appeared he wasn’t going to shake the psychiatrist with that line of questioning.

“Where did you say you got your degree?” he changed his approach.

“I didn’t.”

Mugabba rounded on him again. “I know you did something to him. I know you’re not who you say you are. I’m going to find out and then I’m going to pull all of this down around you,” he gave an encompassing wave.

Dillington continued to look at him with the same outward expression, but behind his eyes, Bright saw something pass. It looked like a brief moment of inner conflict. The reaction had been small, nearly imperceptible, but it confirmed his suspicions.

“Are you quite finished, Detective? I’ve told you before that I’d done nothing to the man. No crime has been committed.”

No crime has been committed,

Bright shared a look with Ross. Since his gambles so far had been successful, one more wouldn’t hurt. It would be his biggest yet, and his partner might laugh at him afterwards, but he had to try. It was now or never.

“Your hypnosis didn’t work on me last time, why would you think it would work this time?”

From the corner of his eye, he saw his partner shake his head.

The psychiatrist’s eyes narrowed. “You’re only half right Man-child. Ross, kill him!”

Bright turned to Gordon and saw him reach under his jacket to his shoulder holster. In an instant, the gun was in his hand, levelled at him. Before the African detective could completely unholster his own weapon, there was a muzzle flash as his partner fired.