Beyond The Veil Ch. 01

As if making sure the entirety of the head was included, Kyle thought wonderingly. Does that mean something?

After turning over the coins for a few minutes, he got online and began looking up rare coin dealers in the area. He was surprised to find more than a handful in the city. Rare coins, apparently, were more common than he thought.

Okay, let's start with 'A,' Kyle thought, taking up his phone.

*****

The building was a corner brownstone hailing from the Victorian era, built with the intention of hosting shops on the ground floor and apartments above. There were numerous such buildings across the area of downtown to which Kyle had come. This one, in particular, felt right at home beneath the overcast sky and whirling winds.

It was late in the afternoon when Kyle walked through the creaking wooden door of the antiques shop known as Curious Curios. The scent of age was heavy in the air; not an inch of space seemed to have been wasted in the endeavor to showcase a wide variety of antiques in numerous display cases. There were Civil War era uniforms and weapons, hand-blown glass decanters and vases, a variety of furniture, and vintage clothing dating back to the time of Fay Wray.

Gentle music drifted out from hidden speakers, a jazz tune straight from the era of flappers and zoot suits. The haunting melody was right at home with the wares on display. Feeling the weight of the coins in his coat pocket, Kyle wandered through the aisles, peripherally glancing about for the shop's owner or an employee.

"Mr. Tillby?"

A door toward the back of the small shop opened, then closed. Footprints, light and telling of leather shoes, shuffled across the waxed floor. Kyle looked toward the sound, waiting for the man to appear. He was slightly shorter than the anthropologist and dressed in an inexpensive suit of classic tweed. His features were thick and round, the face friendly above a round body that evoked comparisons with W.C. Fields.

"Good afternoon, sir," the man said in an amiable voice, tinted with an English accent. "Wayland Tillby. May I assume you are the gentleman I spoke with over the tele?"

Kyle smiled in return. "That would be me," he confirmed, then indicated the store with a wave of his arm. "Nice place you've got here. You have a lot of interests."

"On the contrary. I am only interested in that which is old and unusual."

"Broad field."

"Quite," agreed Tillby. His eyes wandered briefly to the loose, dangling right sleeve of Kyle's coat, but he said nothing of it. Instead, he turned his attention to the reason for his visitor's arrival. "May I see the coins?"

Kyle produced the burnished discs, setting them face-down upon the counter. Tillby was quick with a pair of spectacles, perching them upon the end of his bulbous nose before taking up the two coins. He rubbed them together, thick lips pursed in contemplation. "Hmm, yes, these are the ones," he muttered. "Eighteenth century British pennies. Not terribly valuable, but something of a curiosity because of the error in minting."

"Oh?" prompted Kyle.

"There is no minting date," the collector explained. "That makes these coins easy to duplicate, which accounts for their diminished value. But a good collector or numismatist can tell the difference rather easily."

"How so?"

"Copper," Tillby said simply. "Most coins are a mix of metals. These, however, are almost pure copper. Unmarred, as these were when I initially sold them, they are worth about three American dollars each."

"Do you remember who you sold them to?"

"I have a ledger, Dr. Perrin, if you would follow me," he said, turning toward the rear of the store. But he paused amid an afterthought and looked warily back at the anthropologist. "You know, it is highly unusual for me to share the details of my ledger with anyone. I pride myself on propriety."

"Mr. Tillby, if you'd like to call Detective Dacosta, I'm sure he would be willing to verify that I am working on his behalf."

The round little man worked his thick lips a moment, then shook his head with a waddle of fleshy jowls. "I suppose that would not be necessary." Without another word, he lead Kyle toward a series of display cases toward the rear, most of which showcased glass shelves upon which were arranged hundreds of various coins, many individually sealed in plastic, others sitting open within small cardboard cases.

Stepping around behind the lowest of the cases, Tillby reached beneath and took out a leather-bound book with aged pages. He turned to the page marked by a red ribbon, then flipped back. "Oh, yes," he said at last. "A Mr. Alan Darness purchased four dozen sets of the coins. All I had, actually. I made him a deal for an even two hundred dollars. Glad to be rid of them, in fact, especially now."

Kyle cocked his head quizzically. "Why's that?"

Tillby removed his spectacles and snapped the book closed. "Because of the very reason you are here, Dr. Perrin. I have been in the collecting business for over thirty years. I've come to understand that certain things sometimes attract a distasteful clientèle."

"I assume you're talking about the symbol engraved on the coins," Kyle intuited.

Tillby sighed. "As I said, the coins were unmarred when I sold them. I can only imagine what ridiculous modern pagan ritual they were used in, which compelled someone to engrave them so. Probably something involving small animals and disturbing the peace, I'd wager."

"Actually, the crime was a bit more grave than that," Kyle said. "But I really shouldn't share any details."

Tillby made a sour face. "Better that you don't."

Kyle made an effort to appear casual. "I don't suppose you have an address on this Darness guy?"

"Actually, yes," Tillby said distastefully. "Let me fetch a slip of paper . . . ."

*****

"Detective. Kyle Perrin. I found a lead on your coins. They were purchased by a man named Alan Darness, who apparently bought almost a hundred of the same coins from a collector. I emailed you his address. Let me know if you need anything else."

Kyle snapped his phone closed and tossed it aside on the couch in his living room. He stared blandly at the television for a moment, anticipating yet another boring night of banal programming. His computer beckoned with the pleas of numerous unfinished books and other projects, not that he enjoyed much of an audience for his work except amongst the lunatic fringe. Even Graham Hancock rarely answered his correspondence.

Speaking of email . . . .

The laptop sitting open on his desk beckoned, swirling with a random pattern of colored lights. A tap on the mouse pad brought up the wallpaper image of a surreal, post-apocalyptic landscape from some future battle between man and alien. Kyle liked the picture because it reminded him of the cycle of civilization according to his and his former mentor's theories.

He cycled through the list of emails, many from what few fans of his work he enjoyed. Others were from academic colleagues, one from his father – the usual forwarded email chain letter – and one from Dr. Wasserstrom from the ME's office. Kyle grinned as he clicked on it, and read the report quickly.

". . . tissue and organs show signs of pre-mortem bleeding, suggestive of inhibition of vitamin K recycling. Likely cause of death: internal hemorrhaging brought on by ingestion of a vitamin K inhibitor, such as rodenticide."

Kyle leaned back in contemplation. So . . . he was poisoned to death, then someone held onto the body for a few weeks before finally shooting and stabbing it? What kind of necromantic crap is this?

He sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. Turn it off, Kyle. You shouldn't even be reading coroner's reports anyway. Dacosta's the detective, not you.

He rose, absently reaching to the stump of his right arm beneath the shirt's short sleeve, scratching at hard, gnarled scar tissue. The kitchen was tiny, barely room enough for the appliances which inhabited it. The door of the refrigerator nearly hit the stove across when Kyle opened it, reaching in for a bottle of cold Paulaner Hefe-Weissen. He popped the top by means of a wall-mounted bottle opener and poured the golden, unfiltered liquid into a glass from his cupboard. Taking the beer back to the living room, he retook his seat upon the couch, facing the TV. It flickered on with a touch of the remote. Kyle sipped, watching the listing of shows as it scrolled slowly on the screen.

Seven o'clock and not a damn thing on, he mused sourly. His eyes flickered briefly to the pair of aged coins laying atop his coffee table.

Sip.

Should probably get some work done. That new information about Mesa Verde is promising.

Sip.

Hmm. New episode of 'Jurassic Fight Club.' That's always interesting.

Sip.

All right, fine. I'll call Gina . . . .

*****

Upon the street below Kyle Perrin's apartment, a pair of hardened eyes watched the attractive blonde woman as she ascended the stairs of the building. Despite the cold, she wore a short, tight black mini beneath a leather jacket and thigh-high boots that were more for show than function. Given her attire and the fact that she arrived by taxi, there was little mistaking her profession.

The owner of the eyes, a stocky, bald-headed man with strong Hispanic features, turned away from the disappearing blonde. He chewed on a toothpick and grumbled under his breath, hands tucked into the pockets of faded and scuffed blue jeans beneath an aged leather jacket. Striking along the street from the building, he kept his gaze trained ahead while his peripheral vision scanned his surroundings.

A block up the street, he marched to a large black Monte Carlo sedan which looked as if it recently rolled off the assembly line from 1975. Even in the darkness, with clouds overhead to obscure the moon and trees to block the street lights, the glossy paint glistened and chrome gleamed. As he approached the classic vehicle, the man took a cell phone from within his pocket and pressed a button.

"Cortes," he said by way of introduction once the other end was picked up. "Let me talk to Malcolm."

He pulled open the door as he waited on the line, and slid onto cool black vinyl. Automatically, he slipped the key into the ignition beside the steering column, but did not turn it. Patiently, he held the phone against his ear.

"Anything interesting to report, Victor?" came the deep voice from the other end.

Victor Cortes soured, shifting the toothpick around with his tongue. "All quiet on the western front," he growled. "Looks like Perrin's packing it in for the night."

"No signs of activity?"

"Not if you don't count the hooker."

A disapproving rumble sounded from the other end. "We don't need any witnesses."

Victor frowned. "I sure hope you ain't suggesting that I--"

"Of course not. I simply have a feeling."

Victor rolled his eyes. "Don't you always?"

"Often," corrected the owner of the commanding voice. "And, if you'd bother to think about it, I've thus far never been wrong."

"Right. Sure. So, lemme guess: I'm gonna hang out and stare at a dead street all night."

"I wouldn't say all night."

"Of course you wouldn't."

An amused chuckle filtered from the other end. "If anything happens, use your best judgment. But phone me again if there are any interesting developments."

Victor shrugged. "I ain't exactly holding my breath."

"Better that you don't. An unconscious sentry is no sentry at all."

"Smartass." Victor clipped the device closed and eased back in his seat. He thought for a moment, then lifted his hand to switch on the CD player mounted beneath the dash, eliciting the haunting voice of Sarah Brightman. Might as well pass the time, he thought.

*****

Only with Gina could Kyle be as forward and blatant as to wait upon the living room couch naked and sipping a beer. He was already erect in anticipation of the delights his lover would bring him. And only Gina, alone amongst all the women Kyle had known, found forward and blatant to be a turn-on.

The lights were off except for the flickering television. When the knock came, Kyle did not budge. He merely waited. After a few seconds, the lock turned and the door opened. Kyle heard it close behind him. His cock twitched.

Cool, but soft, hands slid down his torso from behind, fine-boned fingers lightly scratching his skin. The aroma of her perfume drifted around him like a cloud of seduction. Gina's breath was warm, her lips moist as they brushed his ear.

"I'm guessing you didn't call me because you wanted to play Scrabble," she whispered.

Kyle chuckled. "Maybe after," he said.

Gina laughed softly through her girlish nose, then kissed Kyle's ear before stepping around the couch to stand before him. Her expression was a mixture of amusement, sultriness, and arousal. "Twice in one week, baby," she commented, letting the leather jacket slip from her shoulders and fall to the floor. "Enough to make a girl wonder."

Kyle cleared his throat, watching as Gina reached under her tiny skirt and shimmied a tiny black thong down her lean legs. "Well, um . . ." Words faltered as she pushed her skirt up to her waist, brazenly exposing her sex. Perhaps it was the light, or maybe wishful thinking, but she certainly looked slick with arousal.

She giggled softly, straddling him. The heat of her pussy settled comfortably upon the underside of Kyle's cock. "Don't worry, honey, I won't get the wrong idea," she murmured, soft blonde hair falling about both their faces. "You wanna fuck, and so do I."

He looked up to her face, her beautiful face with the soft green eyes and button nose, the catlike lips and eternally pronounced cheekbones. The only thing Kyle didn't find attractive about Gina was her profession, despite the fact that were it not for that, she would not have been there.

"You know, sometimes, I wish I could afford to keep you," Kyle whispered.

She bit her lip, sliding back and forth, bathing Kyle's cock in the sweet warm emulsion leaking from her pussy. "Well," she said, moving up just so, allowing the lips of her labia to spread around the head of Kyle's penis. Like a hand, they seemed to take hold of his cock and line it up with the entrance to her sex. "Maybe we can talk about something like that later."

A moment's anxiety coursed through Kyle's mind, caused both by Gina's words and the fact that she was impaling herself upon his naked shaft. "Baby," he muttered quickly. "I don't have a condom on--"

"Shh," she hushed him, pressing wet lips against his. "It's okay."

Kyle's resolve – such as it was – vanished as her pussy sucked him in, pulling and tugging on his cock with expert finesse. All fear of unprotected sex with a prostitute, even one as choosy as Gina, evaporated from Kyle's mind as she leaned back, her hands upon his knees, to afford him the stark, tantalizing view of his cock sliding in and out of succulent pink flesh.

*****

Kyle was just popping the top off a pair of beers when the doorbell rang. Ah, pizza! he thought, leaving the beer on the counter. He grabbed the twenty-dollar bill he had set aside on the breakfast bar near the door and pulled the portal open. His attention was immediately focused on the large padded bag the man carried, and not the man himself who stood on the doorstep. Eagerly, he offered the twenty . . . and stopped.

The figure before him had once been a man, that much was obvious in the shape of the creature's face and the cut of its dry, wiry hair. But what should have been living skin was instead dry and dark, like thin cured leather. What should have been lips were shriveled masses of purple tissue framing stained, cracked teeth. And what should have been eyes were instead dimly glittering copper coins.

"Jesus!" exclaimed Kyle, scuffling back quickly. The twenty-dollar bill fell to the floor before the abomination's advance.

With a hollow-sounding emission that was like wind passing through a fissure in a graveyard, the figure marched forward, tossing the pizza bag aside. Kyle stared with a mixture of horror and fascination, wondering if what he saw was real, while at the same time making instant connections with what he had seen in the morgue just days before.

Reacting quickly, Kyle dove out of the way of the monster, reaching for the first weapon of opportunity he could – a standing lamp with a six-foot pole, atop which was an inverted dome that housed the bulb. Tucking the pole beneath his arm, he whirled about and faced the creature, which lumbered clumsily, hands balled into fists at its sides.

A loud gasp sounded from the bedroom doorway, making the monster hesitate and Kyle to glance back. Clad only in a towel, arms and legs glistening from her recent shower, Gina stared in abject shock at the scene before her. "Who the fuck is that?"

Kyle said nothing, deciding instead to take advantage of the walking corpse's apparent confusion. Valiantly, he charged forward, aiming the lamp pole like a makeshift lance. Both the glass bowl and light bulb shattered against the creature's chest, and the pole itself bit into rancid, dry, decayed flesh.

The monster barely staggered on its feet, grumbling. It reached up to the pole, ripping it free and jerking it from Kyle's grip. It lashed out with a powerful punch that sent Kyle stumbling backward, against the back of his couch. Stunned, Kyle touched his nose and pulled back fingers smeared with blood. The metallic aroma filled his senses.

A glass punch bowl filled with matchbooks collected from dozens of bars and restaurants sailed through the air, crashing against the monster's left shoulder. "Leave him alone!" shrieked Gina, forgetting her towel. It lay on the ground behind her as the naked young woman looked for another impromptu missile.

The monster bellowed again, making them both wince. But Kyle was determined not to go down without a fight. Desperately, he took a step and threw his weight into a single punch, which cracked against hard, dry skin and stony teeth. The monster paused, dead lips twitching. A single tooth fell from its mouth to the floor. It grumbled menacingly.

"Yeah, fuck you, too," snarled Kyle.

In response, his attacker raised both pummeling fists and bellowed once more.

"Kyle!" cried Gina.

Oh shit, here it comes, Kyle thought briefly.

Thoomp!

The sound barely registered in Kyle's mind. He was more focused upon the sudden explosion of dead tissue and bone just beneath and to the left of the base of the monster's neck . . . and the faint sensation of something shooting past his head.

Briefly, his eyes darted past the monster, seeing a stocky bald man clad in jeans and a leather jacket in the doorway, a pistol held in outstretched hand sporting a thick, heavy black barrel.

"Get on the fucking floor!"

Kyle didn't think; he fell instantly to the hardwood floor, as the monster turned about to face the newcomer.

Thoomp! Thoomp! Thoomp! Thoomp!

The strange sounds, Kyle realized, were the muffled explosions of the pistol the man used which was equipped, ostensibly, with a silencer. For that single long second, the only other sounds were that of empty brass shell casings dancing across Kyle's hardwood floor.

The monstrous figure stumbled on wavering feet, chest and back exploding with pieces of decayed flesh, pulverized bone, and congealed ochre. Something that looked like black paste splattered on the wall beside the entrance to Kyle's kitchen. With a groaning exhalation, the creature dropped to its knees, wavering back and forth.

Calmly, the bald man pulled aside his jacket and slipped the pistol back into a holster beneath his left arm. He then reached behind his back, extracting an intimidating knife. Stoically and without finesse, he advanced upon the monster, gripping the top of the sepulchral head in one hand before stabbing viciously with the knife through the creature's skull. The monster twitched for a moment, then went limp, toppling back.