Boy Sorceress Pt. 02

I reached above me and grabbed the wrist of the hand in my hair. I heard another groan of pain and the fingers clenched against my scalp. When I let go, so did he and his limp hand fell out of my hair. I rolled over to the side and grabbed a guy's knee in passing. His leg turned as hard as stone. When I let go and stood up from my roll, he collapsed on the floor.

With Kurt and a friend on the floor and the barkeep lying atop the bar, holding his hand, the rest of the patrons were hesitant to fight me.

I smirked and held up my tiny hands. I stopped imagining the invisible currents and said, "I'm fully trained in Krav Maga nerve strikes. These hands are lethal weapons. Any of you try and touch me again, I'll prove it!"

The patrons glared daggers at me and looked ready to fight, but they stood their ground. Kurt spoke up. "I bought you a beer, you fucking whore! You think you can just get free stuff and not give anything in return? It doesn't work like that, cunt!"

Wow. This shithead thinks that two sips of beer and ten cents' worth of phone time gives him the right to spread my legs. My smirk grew disdainful. "You bought a beer, and got a few gropes in return. Fair trade. And, let's face it! A piss-poor shithead like you can't afford anything more than that." I dripped sarcasm as I smiled at him and said, "Darlin'."

After a tense second of silence, the four standing patrons burst out in laughter. They moved to help their fallen friends and one of them loudly said, "She got you there, Kurt!"

Kurt and the bartender swore at me, even as the rest of the men tried to calm them down. One of them approached me. He was a bit short, but he had very wide shoulders. His faded blue shirt was tight over his big muscles. His hair was a shaggy mane and his face was a collection of mismatched features. His smile was practically screaming, "fake". I raised my hands and imagined the currents again. He raised his hands in a peaceful gesture and said, "Hey, no one wants to call the cops. Right? Things got a little heated, but this was just a tussle between friends, right? Like you said, you're even."

These guys looked ready to rape me half a minute ago and now one of them wanted to play friends? Fuck that shit! I had half a mind to find out if I could shoot fireballs out of my ass, right then and there. I was still calm enough to know that was a bad idea. I could pass off Tazer-hands as fancy martial arts shit, but tossing around fireballs was a bit harder to explain. Since I wasn't in the mood to kill any witnesses, I decided that a simple retreat was the best course of action.

I pointed at the negotiator and said, "Anyone follows me and we're going to have trouble."

Kurt called me names as his friends sat him up on a stool. The negotiator smiled and held an inviting hand towards the bar. "Look, let's just sit down for a few rounds and talk things over."

I backed up towards the door. "Anyone follows me..." I glared at the barkeep. "And I come back here to burn this place to the ground."

The negotiator chuckled malevolently. "Now, that's not a nice thing to say, is it?"

I opened the door and felt along its edge and the doorjamb, glaring at the sweet talker the whole time. The door was solid, made of sturdy wood. The lock on it was metal, as was the corresponding part of the doorjamb.

Kurt shouted more insults at me, and the sweet talker ominously said, "I think you should stay here. Dangerous world out there."

I backed out of the door and slammed it shut. Immediately, I imagined the door locking itself and the lock welding itself fused with the doorjamb's metal fitting. I willed it so and I could see a faint, red glow coming from between the door and the jamb.

The knob half turned before I heard a pained howl from inside. "The fucking knob is hot," the sweet talker yelled out. "It burned my hand! Look!"

I was suddenly feeling dizzy and nauseous. A painful beat throbbed in my temples, radiating down to my jaw. The pain was so strong that it was making my vision dim in waves. I was having a hard time just staying conscious, but I stumbled blindly into the night. I guessed that the bar had a back door and fear made me try to get as far away as possible. Each step I took, however, made my skull explode anew. I wasn't going to get far.

I made it one block before I ducked into a side alley and gulped air to catch my breath. The pain in my head was subsiding, only to be replaced by my shoulder hurting like a motherfucker. I made a mental note to never again make myself stronger without also making my joints tougher at the same time. I had enough experience with injuries to know that this wasn't a big one. It was probably just a minor sprain. Compared to the exploding skull syndrome I just suffered through, it was a delight.

I caught my breath and got my bearings. I had stumbled towards the impound lot and away from Dakota's shop, so I decided to keep going. I kept to the side streets, just in case the assholes from the bar were out looking for me. I imagined my clothes being toasty warm again.

Half an hour later, I found the impound lot. There were two cars parked across the street from the entrance and I recognized Kurt sitting on one of the hoods. There were two other guys from the bar with him.

Shit. They were waiting for me and they were camped right between me and the front gate. A car rolled to a stop and I could just about make out the sweet talker as he leaned out the open window and shook his head at Kurt. I chuckled as I saw that his hand was bandaged. He rolled on down the street and turned a corner. I was considering going back to Dakota's and asking her for help in getting my car out of there when the sweet talker drove by again.

He was circling the lot to try and catch a glimpse of me. Of course he was. Why wouldn't he be? Why wouldn't I pick a random bar that contained criminals? Why wouldn't they roam the streets looking for revenge for stuff I did in self-defense? The universe's fist was perpetually located just underneath my asshole, after all. I couldn't beat up the cold, uncaring universe, but I could beat up these assholes some more.

I decided it was high time for them to get a fucking lesson. I circled around to the back of the lot and waited for the sweet talker to drive by again. As soon as he turned the corner, I dashed across the street, jumped up and used my power to float over the fence. I landed softly and looked around. The two white stripes on my Interceptor made me spot it right away. I crept over to it and unlocked the door. I checked and made sure that everything was still there, particularly my money. I sighed with relief, but it was short-lived. There were still assholes to tear apart.

If I was going to wreck some cars, I needed to be my old self. I didn't trust my slender, weak, Ashley limbs to wrangle the Interceptor. I stripped naked. I made the flower retract into a bud and was Kevin again. I got dressed and blew into my hands to warm them. I psyched myself up as I fastened my four-point safety harness. I couldn't keep the grin off my face when my fingers closed around the wheel. I pulled my hoodie over my head and cinched its hood strings to turn it into a mask.

I watched for Sweet Talker's car coming around the front again. When I saw it coming, I turned the ignition and floored the clutch. I swept the stick into first and worked the pedals to make the Interceptor leave its parking place without the squeal of tires. I aimed for a section of fence right next to the front gate and shifted into second. I could see the night watchman look out his window just as I shot past the front office. The chicken wire fence didn't even try to stand up to the surging Interceptor.

My timing was perfect. I t-boned Sweet Talker's car into his friends' cars. I was rattled by the impact, but nowhere near as much as they were. I had built my Interceptor as a stunt car, after all. Kurt and his friends had dived out of the way and I shifted into reverse before they could get up. I backed out of the pile of metal and reversed all the way to the end of the block.

Kurt and his friends stood up, only to grab their heads in dismay at the damage to their cars. Sweet Talker leaned out the window of his car and struggled to open his dented door from the outside, using only one hand. I did a one-eighty and tore out of there laughing. I made a few turns to shake off any possible pursuit, and then did my best to get my bearings. Again, all I could do was head east until I hit the edge of town.

I reached the city limits and the street turned into a simple, country road. It took me the better part of an hour, but I found my way back to Riverside. My dashboard clock read 21:15 by the time I was on familiar turf. I decided to keep away from the center of town, where the cops might still be examining the site of the murders.

Fuck! The cops!

It finally dawned on me that I might be in trouble. I had stolen a car and crashed it into other cars with witnesses around. Even if Kurt and the cavemen didn't want to call the cops, the night watchman was sure to do it and report the theft of a car from the lot. Yes, it was my own car, but that only made things worse. I was the first guy the cops would ask about it. I had caused a car crash.

My throat went dry as I realized I could be arrested for attempted murder. Vehicular homicide was the term, I think. I had to blink my eyes dry. Slamming into those fucks had been awesome. The potential consequences? Not so much. I had to do something to get myself out of this shit.

I thought of one of the salvage yards where I harvested free car parts. The dogs were too scared to even bark at me and the guy running the place was a drunk who didn't keep records. He bought metal whenever it was brought to him and he sold metal whenever he needed to go get more booze. I could just drive the Interceptor in there and hide it in the stacks somewhere. At least until I figured something out. The front grill of the car was busted up, so the drunk probably wouldn't even notice it among all the scrap.

That got rid of the smoking gun, but what about the rest?

I racked my brain, trying to think of what to do. Should I wipe the car for prints, in case the cops found it? No, that would be suspicious. The car is mine, my fingerprints are supposed to be all over it. I decided I needed to act like I had no idea where my car was. That meant calling the impound lot tomorrow as myself and asking about getting it back. Yeah, that would throw the cops off the scent. Make me look innocent.

With a solid plan underway, I was starting to feel much better. Well, less like I was going to throw up at any moment. I hid the Interceptor in the lot and walked home.

As I walked through town, I noticed a crowd gathering not that far ahead of me. I turned away, almost by reflex. As I shot a few looks over my shoulder, I saw that the people were carrying candles. I took another look around and realized where they were gathering. It was in front of the grill joint where Jen Malone had worked.

The vivid memories of the mass sacrifice flooded back into my mind and I nearly retched. I drew deep breaths through my nose until my stomach settled. I wanted to go home and get to sleep. The day had been a horrible roller coaster. I had woken up as Ashley, masturbated as her, switched between herself and me, gone shopping for women's clothing, nearly gotten caught by the werewolf, had a marathon fuck session with a lesbian, gotten assaulted by jackasses, gotten towed, stolen my own car, crashed it on purpose, and it wasn't even ten o'clock yet.

Despite being bone tired, I found myself moseying closer to the crowd.

"Hey, Kevin," Skip said, nearly making me jump out of my skin.

I gulped air as my heart raced for the millionth time that day. For a guy that hardly did any cardio in almost a year, I was in really good shape. "Shit, Skip, where the fuck did you come from!?"

Skip pointed off to the side. "I was standing over there, talking to John's sister."

"Who?"

"Olive Barton," Skip said, as if that name should mean something to me. "She went to school with us. She was a year younger. You remember her, right?"

I frowned as I stared at him. "No."

"Oh, I thought you knew her," Skip said. "She had a crush on you, back in the day." He smiled. "But you only ever had eyes for Ashley."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah..." I didn't like to be reminded of Ashley, or my last conversation with Skip, but it brought to mind the medical lawyer he had mentioned and I could use a lawyer of any kind in dealing with the Springfield cops. "Listen, Skip! Could you give me the number of that medical lawyer you mentioned the other day?"

"Sure," he said and dug his phone out of his pocket. He worked the screen. "I was going to swing by John's place tomorrow. Care to come with me?"

I honestly had no idea who the fuck this John Barton was, or why Skip would care about him. "Um...why?"

Skip looked up at me like I was stupid. "To make him feel better."

"Well, what's wrong with him now?"

Skip shot me a you-gotta-be-kidding-me look. "He handled..." Skip trailed off and looked over the crowd. They were mostly quiet as they stood their candlelight vigil. Skip leaned in and whispered, "He handled the bodies."

My mouth fell open. "He did? Why?"

"Because he's the coroner's assistant, Kevin. How do you not know this? The whole town has been hounding him for info all day today. Him and the Doc."

Finally, a source of information! "Um, I was busy today. Out of town business." I needed to know everything. Well, anything would be a marked improvement to my current knowledge. The old Skip had been a very taciturn fellow. I had no idea if he knew anything, or how to get him to talk.

"Olive says both John and Doc Hampton are all messed up," Skip said.

Oh, cool, he's a gossip when he's not doped up.

"She says that not only is everything they say on TV true, but that there's even more to the story and it's all freaky as hell," he said.

"Go on."

He shot another furtive look around before continuing in a whisper. "I mean, John and the Doc are both pretty shook up, you know? They've both handled bodies of people they knew before, but...it was never anything like this."

"What was it like?" I asked. Skip frowned and shot me a look. "I mean, what was it that upset them the most?"

Skip sighed. "Well, Olive says John was as pale as death itself when she saw him." He shook his head. "That man is going to need some serious help when all this is over."

I was desperate for any info, so I tried to fish for it. "I get that it's thirteen dead people, but I don't think it was as bad as all that. Particularly not for someone as experienced as Doctor Hampton."

Skip snorted in disbelief at my words. "That'swhy it was so horrible, man. Ten of them were Hampton's patients, for crying out loud. He knew each and every one of them."

"All thirteen were from Riverside?"

"No, just the ten. The other three were a drifter and a young married couple that was just passing through. Feds think those three were just in the wrong place at the wrong time." He tapped my stomach with the back of his hand. "The goddamned Feds think that we've got some kind of 'Breaking Bad' situation going on in this town. They think that this was part of a war over meth." Skip looked me over, squinting at my middle with a small measure of suspicion.

I shook my head in disbelief at the news. I had half a mind to make an anonymous tip to the Feds and set them straight, but what could I possibly say to make them take me seriously? Half the time I was all but convinced I had hallucinated the whole thing. "This is fucked up," I muttered.

Skip looked around again and spoke in a low voice, "You have no idea. Olive said that John said that the bodies really did have their heads cut off by the knives they were holding. Doc Hampton matched the blades to the cuts. But that's, like, the only thing that makes any sense."

I was all ears.

"Apparently, Doc Hampton says that the heads were cut off with several cuts and only the first cut was done while they were alive. The rest of the cuts were made post mortem. And the angle of the cuts?" Skip took another look around to make sure no one was listening in. "The angle makes them look self-inflicted. Can you believe that?"

I actually could, but I shook my head no.

"They cut their heads off after they died. The Doc was completely freaked out. And their other hands?" Skip shook his head and let out a low hoot. "That's where it gets really weird! The dead people were clutching their own hair. Seriously clutching it." He tapped my chest with the back of his hand. "And rigor mortis only set inafter they brought them in."

I frowned. "What do you mean?"

"I mean, and this is what Olive told me happened, John told her. Apparently, the corpses had their heads clutched in their hands, you know, by the hair. And the knives, too. The rest of their bodies were completely loose. Just the fingers were clenched. After they brought them to the morgue, the entire bodies went into rigor mortis. That's not supposed to happen. Doc Hampton told John that rigor starts with the face and hands and then spreads out. He said the heads were severed so their rigor goes at a different pace, or something, but John could tell the Doc was just saying that. Neither of them had ever seen rigor set in the hands at least three hours before setting in the wrists."

I had seen those people murdered on Stony Mountain. I had seen the Asian chick revive their corpses and use them as litter bearers for their murderers. Hearing Skip's words still made the hairs on the back of my neck rise.

"And that's not all," Skip said. "Doc Hampton did temperature measurements to determine time of death. It came out that they all died early last night. Their rigor should have fully set in long before they were discovered. The Doc now thinks that the bodies had been chilled, or something, to gum up his measurements."

I knew they had been killed hours before midnight, but I wasn't going to chime in with that information. "What's...what happened to the bodies?"

"They're still at the morgue. The FBI is bringing in some experts of their own to take another look at them tomorrow. They even chased John and Doc Hampton away."

"Why?"

"Well, Doc had John cut off the hair the dead people were holding their heads by, so he could examine the heads. Later, he had John carefully burn the hair away with a lit match, so he could examine the hands themselves. He was looking for, like, uh, needle marks, or electrical burns, anything that could explain why their hands had been clenched before rigor set in."

"And?" I asked impatiently.

"And they couldn't find anything. The Feds got annoyed and told them to take a hike. So now, John and the Doc are sitting on their asses. They're probably freaked out by the gruesome deaths of people they knew. I know John is freaked out by the rigor discrepancy. Made him doubt everything he ever learned." Skip drew a deep breath and took another look at the crowd. "Their phones are probably off the hook. I know people have been calling all day long. Despite all that, I'd say that the thing that bugs those two the most is that they're unable to keep looking for answers." Skip shook his head. "It's unfair, man. Fucking unfair."

Since I knew that had been the work of black magic, I didn't expect anyone to find any reasonable explanation. John and Doctor Hampton would just have to suffer. I heard a voice and looked up. An older man was standing in front of the grill joint and addressing the assembled crowd. I nodded at him and asked Skip, "Who's he?"