Spiral

“Jesus Christ, stop squirming!” Ostrand yelled as he struggled to get the cuffs on the Japanese kid. He’d spotted the guy two minutes ago, shirt half off, running past the TKTS booth at the north end of the square, screaming his head off about dragons, blood, and darkness. His right hand was wrapped in gauze, bloodstained and half unraveled.

The psycho had knocked over a couple of tourists, pushed an old lady to the side, leaving a trail of mayhem until Ostrand got to him. The guy’s eyes were wide, his pupils the size of quarters. He looked to be in his mid-twenties, relatively clean cut, which was a surprise. You get one of these every now and then-someone off their meds or on a bad acid trip. This guy was the latter, he was pretty sure. He had every indication of being blown out of his mind. Not unusual in itself, but this one looked like a business-school kid. It was nearly five p.m. on a Wednesday. Maybe on a Saturday night in the Village, but a Wednesday afternoon?

Ostrand took a closer look at the gauzed hand. The bloodstains were centered at a spot where his middle finger should have been. Shit.

“Can you hear me?” Ostrand asked once he had the guy cuffed and sitting up, being careful of his injured hand.

“I am the blood,” the guy said, eyes rolling back in his head.

“What is your name?”

“I am the blood. My lady can see in the darkness.”

Jesus. Look at that. Ostrand pulled back the unbuttoned oxford shirt. His chest was a mess. Some kind of symbols carved into the flesh.

“Hey, Officer?”

Ostrand ignored the voice behind him, mesmerized. Blood was caked around the edges of the cuts. What did he do this with? A knife? A razor blade?

“Officer?”

“Get back.”

“Hey man, I got a picture.”

Ostrand turned to face the guy. He was skinny, maybe twenty-five, with a shaved head. A crowd had started to form behind him.

“A picture of what?”

“The woman. The babe that dropped him off.”

“Dropped him off? You saw it?”

The kid nodded. “He was in the trunk, man. She just popped the lid, he jumped out, and she took off. Right over there.” He pointed.

“What kind of car?”

“I don’t know. Red.” He held out his phone. “Check it out. It’s a good shot.”

Ostrand took the phone. It was a good shot. Broadside, catching her in profile. Mid-twenties, Asian, pretty face. A gray jacket, green cap on her head.

Ostrand held up the phone to the crowd, a bad feeling rising up his spine. “Anybody else see this woman?”

14

JAKE BROUGHT HIS SUBARU TO A STOP IN FRONT OF MAGGIE Connor’s place. He glanced down at the letter. It was a single sheet of blank yellow paper, no letterhead, no date, only six handwritten words. Liam Connor’s lawyer had delivered it to him twenty minutes before. After talking to Maggie, he’d gone to his office and found the lawyer there, a tall, silver-haired man Jake had never met.

He gave an envelope to Jake. No explanation, just an envelope. The letter inside was to the point: Jake, Please watch over them. -Liam.

The sun was playing hide-and-seek with the clouds, stippling the walkway with light and shadow as Jake approached the front door. He had never been to Rivendell before. Liam had introduced him to Maggie years ago, and he’d felt an immediate attraction. They’d seen each other at one function or another, and once or twice in the lab when she came to see Liam. She was very attractive, that was certain, in the casual, no-makeup-and-old-jeans Ithaca way. And wicked smart. She’d left her mark on the mycological literature, with a citation record that would be a ticket to a faculty job at most any institution in the country. Liam was forever going on about her encyclopedic knowledge of everything from hockey to Hockney. But she’d stepped off the academic fast track, more interested in making fungus art with her son than winning at the publish-or-perish rat race. Jake respected her for that. He definitely had a thing for her, and he thought she knew it. Yet Maggie was always reserved around him.

About a year ago, one hot day in July, Jake stopped in at Liam’s lab after a run, sweating like a river. July 23, he remembered. Maggie and her son Dylan were there, visiting Liam.

Jake also took an instant liking to the boy.

Dylan was a fanatic for the Crawlers, immediately hitting him with question after question. Why six legs and not eight? Answer: six was enough; you don’t put in more than you need. How much does each Crawler cost? The first one? Millions. But if put in full production, a Crawler should set you back no more than a mocha Frappuccino. They’d kept going like this for half an hour, talking shop, until Maggie dragged him away.