The most twisted hero of them all returns in his latest adventure.
Musical tones pierced his sleep, dragging Cain back to awareness. He rolled over, groping blindly on the nightstand for his wireless phone. His eyes barely open, he mumbled into the receiver. "Yeah?" "I want to see you--now!" a female voice said. "Iris? Is that you?" "That's Detective Wright. There's a Starbucks down the street from you. It should be open by the time you get there. Order me a black coffee and a bear claw. I'll be there soon." The phone connection broke. Cain muttered a mild obscenity and dressed quickly. There was a purr and a rub against his ankle. He looked down to see a black cat with white toes. He didn't know the long-haired cat's breed, but her legs were too short for her body. It was weirdly amusing to see her walk. He smiled. "Give me a minute, Sheba. I'll feed you before I go." As he went to the kitchen, the animal weaved underfoot, nearly causing him to fall on his face several times. "I wish you would stop doing that," he complained, reaching the cabinets. He found a can of ocean whitefish. After pulling the ring top, he raked the mush into the cat's bowl and tossed the fork across the room, into the sink where it landed with a clatter. The empty can was rebounded off a wall, into the trash can. Cain petted Sheba a moment. She growled to warn him away from her food. He smiled, straightened, and headed for the door. Outside, he greeted his car with a friendly smile and a pat on the fender. His mustang was black, sporting ice-blue flames on the sides and a large scorpion on the hood. He climbed in and roared away. Houses and business flashed by as the radio spewed a sonic hash that passed for music. He pulling up to the coffee house, parked, and went inside. The line inside was long. Fortunately, the manager knew him. He waved and she came over. "Cain! You're looking rather--tasty. Good to see you again." "Hi, beautiful. Got any Brazilian ultra roast?" "Sure. Anything else I can get for you?" "A regular coffee, black, and a bear claw." "You're meeting a lady?" the manager's tone soured slightly. "She's no lady." Cain explained. "She's a cop." "What did you do this time?" He smiled with cherubic innocence. "Now, you know I'm a law-abiding individual." "It's a small universe Cain; I've heard the stories." "Don't believe anything you hear, "he warned, "and only half of what you see." A few minutes later, his order was ready. The manager waved his money away. "It's on me. Call me sometime, if you're not in jail." "Cain gave her a look of confidant conviction. "That's not going to happen. Thanks for the coffee." He turned and left. Outside, he saw Iris leaving her car. Her partner, a bald man with a hard stare, stayed in the vehicle. Cain ignored them, choosing a table. He sat down as Detective Wright approached. He waved her toward an opposing chair. "Sit if you like." She raised an eyebrow, sitting down. "How generous." "I can't help being cursed with virtue," he said. "Why call me up after all these months?" he asked. "I thought you were done with me." "This is business not pleasure." "I'm crushed." "Never mind that," the detective said. "I want to ask you something." "Go ahead, but I should warn you; truth and I are not on the best of terms." "Kill anyone lately?" Cain put his fingers around his chin, rolling his eyes skyward as if in deep thought. "Well, there was this cockroach on the wall this morning, nailed it with a shoe…" "Killed any people?" "If this were anything more than a fishing expedition, I'd be in a police interrogation room, having a detailed confession beat out of me." "Not likely; last time we looked at you in connection to the head-hunter murders, You had an army of lawyers spring you from custody in record time. When I bring you in, it will be for good, wrapped up in a case tight enough to permanently wipe away that annoying smirk of yours." "Someone lose their head last night?" Cain inquired. "Not exactly. This time the victim was pinned to a gallery wall with a sword through her mouth. Someone was making a statement." "And you suspect me?" "Your name was in the gallery receipt register as having bought a painting there the day of the murder. Eye-witnesses place you at the center of a violent disturbance before leaving with your purchase. You can understand why we might glance at you with a gleam of speculation in our eyes." Cain smiled. "Such pretty eyes…the ugliness they must have seen!" He shuddered with mock-pleasure. "I can only envy you." "You are seriously twisted." "That's news to you?" "Tell me where you went last night after leaving the gallery." "Well, I took a lady to dinner. We hung out for a while, then I went home." "This lady will corroborate your whereabouts for around midnight?" Cain took a sip of coffee, sighed with pleasure, and offered the detective a lopsided grin. "Iris, half the ladies in town will vouch for me if I ask them. Is any of this getting you anywhere?" She stood up, grabbed her bear claw and coffee, and withdrew. Cain admired her assets as she walked away, indulging in a rather unlikely fantasy. That was why he noticed the other man watching her. The stranger was tall and thin, with broad shoulders, and dead black eyes. His head was shaved, and a tattoo of a dragon biting it's tale formed a circle on his arm. The man climbed into a black van, as Detective Wright entered her own car. She pulled away, and the van followed. Cain flipped a mental coin to see if he was going to get involved in this or not. Not yet, he decided. She's a big girl with a big gun, and a partner at her side; she can deal with Shadow-Man on her own. He finished his coffee, and tossed the empty cup into a trash can on the way to his mustang. Once behind the wheel, he started the engine and backed out. A few minutes later, he was roaring down the road, weaving past the slower drivers. He went to a local fitness center, where he had a year's membership paid up, signing in at the front desk. He strolled past high tech weight machines and exercise mats. Most of those present were woman wearing bright two-tone leotards that could have been spray painted on. That was the main reason he used this place. Cain carried a long canvas bag from his car trunk. He kept work-out sweats, a change of street clothes, a towel, a travel kit with personal items, and a sheathed sword inside. The rest of his body armor was still in his vehicle. After a brief change in the dressing room, he continued on to a back room that he knew was not in use. I should have a good hour before the Jazzercise class needs this space. That's more than enough time for a practice session. He removed his shirt and dropped it on the carpet, revealing a heavily tattooed torso. A great European-style dragon slithered up his belly to his chest, fanning great ribbed wings. A scorpion with a tao symbol inside its curved tail occupied the forward section on one shoulder. The other shoulder had a pair of yellow-eyed skulls on it, with drops of blood falling from one fang. The opposite arm had a flame wreathed cross on it. Tribal markings on his upper back completed his collection. Cain drew a katana out of the bag at his feet. Sword in hand, he glided to the center of the room. He drew a deep breath and began to move with agonizing slowness. His blade swept around him as he danced. Must clear every thought away; free myself from static patterns of response. Every movement must be freshly improvised, spontaneous. If I refuse to chain my techniques together, they cannot be broken, or interrupted. He entered a dream state where thought was alien and time an inconsistent bitch. Muscles played against each other as he moved languidly through countless combat postures. Once warmed up, he increased his speed, making his sword blur. Stay fluid, relax--that's the key to power. Imagined opponents were at all quarters. They attacked high, low, and mid-level with their own weapons. He took them out, one by one, two at a time, and occasionally three at once. He leaped, rolled, and added kicks and elbow strikes into his sword routine, remembering that he was the weapon, not the steel in his fist. Finally, with a last flourish, he was done. His face streaked with sweat, Cain wiped his eyes with the back of his wrist. He noticed that the door to the room was open. There were numerous observers peering in. As he headed their way, the crowd dispersed, sensing they'd trespassed upon a sacred, deeply personal ritual. He returned the sword to his bag, and picking it up along with his shirt, he hit the shower room. The water sluiced the sweat off him. After Cleaning up, he toweled, dressed, and headed back for the front desk, bag in hand. A young girl in black shorts and sports top was on duty, having replaced the previous attendant. Cain knew her from previous visits. "Hi, Sherri. How's the body building going?" Bending forward, she assumed a classic hunched over pose, flexing arms, crunching abs. "You tell me," she said. "Looking fierce," he said, signing out at the counter. "I bet you could bench press a Buick." "Just about," she said. "I've a state wide competition coming up next month. Why don't you come out and cheer me on?" "Love to," he said, "if I'm still in town." She smiled brightly. Her glance was sexually charged, her interest obvious. "I'll keep my fingers crossed." "You do that," he said, heading for the front double doors. Outside, he strolled to his car. It started with a soft rumble. He backed out of parking and cruised toward the street. Finding a gap in traffic, he headed home, enduring the presence of sub-standard drivers in his lane with surprising good humor. His muttered curses lacked heat and sting as he weaved around the motor-skill-challenged. He reached home without yielding to criminal impulses, and parked outside his house. He went in, locked the door, and returned to his bedroom. It took only a moment for him to shed his clothes and drop onto the bed. Darkness closed in.
The looming figure wore white marble robes. Blindfolded, she carried a balance. Her free hand pointed at Cain, a silent accusation. "What the hell do you want?" he asked. Justice chanted, "mene tekel upharsin…Mene tekel upharsin…" "What's that? Persian? We speak English in this country," Cain reminded her. "You are tried in the balance and found wanting…found wanting…found wanting…" The voice trailed away into a vast space choked with shadows. Cain knew this for a dream and was frankly tired of it. He raised his hand, pointing back at her, his thumb pulled back like the cocked hammer of a gun. His pointer finger locked onto a spot between the eyes of the monolithic figure. His thumb fell forward. His hand jerked back--as if in recoil. "I've got your justice right here," he said, grinning. As if caught in some gelatinous medium, Lady Justice dropped her scales, falling slowly backwards. Blood spurted from her forehead. The spray languidly splattering her stone robes. She hit the ground in total silence, shattering. Cain noticed with interest that lady justice was hollow; a shell had shattered, not a solid mass. He knew that was psychologically significant, but didn't have any interest in figuring it out. He turned his back and walked away into the deeper darkness, in search of a better dream.
An insistent pounding accompanied by muffled voices shattered his sleep. He opened his eyes, sat up in bed, and reached for his clothes. He was dressed by the time the front door was kicked in. Now what? He wondered. He left his room, strolling into a swarm of police. He allowed them to spin him around and slam him into a wall. Cuffed, gun muzzles were set to each temple. Informed he was under arrest for murder, read his rights, he was dragged toward the front door. The officers were highly agitated. Cain went along quietly, knowing the wisdom of picking battles that can be won. As he passed his mustang, he noticed that someone had planted a bloody sword in the back seat, in plain sight. A police photographer was taking pictures. The police had his trunk forced open and were ogling the armor, first aid kit, spare swords, and repelling gear inside. He was hustled into the back of a police car and locked in. The bloody sword told him most of what he needed to know. Being framed for murder made him pause for reflection; I’m being framed for murder and mayhem. I wondered who’s behind the set-up--the cops, or someone else? I doubt it’s an old enemy; I’m not stupid enough to leave them lying around. Oh, well, I’ll work this mess all out--I always do. Despite the discomfort, he stretched out as best he could and willed himself to sleep. One way or another he was going to catch up on his rest. He needed it to stay sharp, and it demonstrated both his iron control and his untroubled conscious; an amorphous concept to him. He grasped it intellectually, but not with any real conviction. In his youth, a psychologist once labeled him as a borderline sociopath. He suspected that he no longer straddled the fence. Thinking such thoughts, he drifted into sleep.
The next thing he knew, irritated cops were dragging him out of the patrol car, shaking him violently. "Wake your scrawny ass up," he was told. Cain understood the psychological tactic of making a victim feel vulnerable and helpless with verbal intimidation. This kind of police response was reserved for only those people they felt were dangerous and felt most threatened by. Cain appreciated the compliment, glad of the effect he inspired. He gathered his feet under him, standing under his own power. If he wanted to escape, this would have been the perfect moment, while the cops had him near the heart of their comfort zone, but before he was actually inside the building. He had no doubt that that he could over power the police guarding him, but that would only complicate things. It was to his benefit to see just what the cops had on him, and find out how they'd been herded his way. He'd play along for now. He was hustled into the police station and soon found himself several flights up in an untraditional interrogation room. It was less austere and sterile than those he'd seen before, more like a business office than anything else though isolated from disturbances. There was actually a fish tank in the room, pictures on the walls, lamps, and other homey touches. Cain suspected that all this was calculated to relax suspects. He was placed in a chair that was comfortably padded. Another one just like it kept him company. The chair across the table from him was much larger, implying that a more important person would soon be talking to him. Cuffed to a table leg that was bolted to the floor, he was left to his own devices. Cain let his eyes rove to a huge mirror on the wall. He grinned at the people he assumed where watching him through the one-way glass. He wondered what they'd say if he were to swallow one of their goldfish. The door opened. Detective Wright entered with her partner in tow. Cain smiled. "Hello, Iris. You needn't have gone to all this trouble just to see me again." Detective Wright's partner lunged against the table, jarring it. Leaning across the table, he rammed a stubby finger into Cain's chest. "Shut up, you bottom-feedin' freak. Wait 'til we ask you a question, then answer promptly. Got it?" Detective Wright laid an appreciative hand on the cop's arm. "Let me handle this. I'm a big girl, you know?" How cliché, Cain thought, a rather bad rendition of good cop-bad cop. These guys need new material. He caught Iris' eye and jerked a thumb at her partner. "The hairless ape got a name," he inquired, "or should I just call him…?" "Detective Coleman will do," Wright answered hastily--not wanting Cain to get too creative. "As long as you're being helpful, how about a confession?" "Yeah, right," he said. "Like that's going to happen. Tell ya what, I'll give you an answer for every one you give me. Deal?" "Save you questions for your analyst," Coleman said. That's not how this works." "Where did you go after I talked with you earlier?" Wright asked. Cain's first impulse was to lie. He suppressed it, deciding that the truth would serve him better. He outlined his movements without embellishment. Coleman jotted the information down in a small spiral-bound notebook. When Cain finished, the detective gave Wright a look packed with meaning and hurried out of the room. Cain knew there would be a lull in the interrogation with the detective absent; they weren't going to risk a suspect saying anything that couldn't be corroborated in court with at least two witnesses. Detective Wright smiled at him, taking the chair beside him. He knew the psychology behind that. By not taking the bigger, official chair, she was trying to suggest to him that she was sympathetic and if he'd only confess, she'd do all she could to help him. He wasn't falling for it. "Can I get you something while we check out your story, coffee, a soda?" "No, thanks, but I am puzzled about a couple things. Perhaps you could tell me about the new murder. Seeing the bloody sword planted in my car, I assume another lady was found dead. Was she beheaded or pinned to a wall?" "What do you think?" Wright asked. "I think you're sexy when you try to be sneaky," he said. "Let's not go there," she suggested. He sighed with disappointment. "Alright, maybe you can tell me what brought the uniforms to me so quickly, without you or another detective leading the charge. An anonymous tip came in from a pay phone maybe?" Cain noticed that Wright's eyes narrowed, her gaze went to infinity, indicating that the gears in her mind were shifting into high. He suspected that she was actually considering the remote possibility that he was innocent. "You're telling me this was a copy-cat crime?" she asked. He shrugged. "The guy you want is still out there and he's going to kill again. Believe what you want.” "How's the real killer even supposed to know about you in connection with the murders," Wright asked. Your name was never released to the press as a suspect. The killer would need access to official records to plant the sword on you." Cain thought about the bald tattooed man he'd seen following Detective Wright from the coffee house earlier. "Either that," Cain said, "or you've been careless; letting yourself be tailed by the killer as you investigated." Wright's eyes flashed with anger. She growled low in her throat. Cain thought for a second she was going to punch him for suggesting she was anything less than perfect. Her face relaxed as the urge passed. "Maybe," she conceded grudgingly. Incredible, Cain thought, a completely honest response. I didn't expect that. The door opened. Detective Coleman entered, his face abandoned to glowering disappointment. "His alibi is rock solid. We're back to square one." "Not necessarily," Wright said. "He was framed. Maybe the killer has a grudge against him. Maybe they know each other." "So why not kick me loose and see what game the killer plays with me next?" Cain suggested. "You're being too helpful," Wright said. "What's in it for you?" "Off the record?" Cain asked. Wright and Coleman nodded in unison. "If this murderous framing psycho were to accidentally get a sword shoved up his…uh…posterior region while trying to take me out, I'd expect a medal, if not a parade. There should be no reason for anyone to look too closely at my actions. Agreed?" "You want a friggin' license to kill?" Coleman asked. "We can't condone vigilantism." Cain laughed with mock-amazement. "The foundation of all government, local and federal IS vigilantism. Go read the first three words of the constitution; it’s WE THE friggin’ PEOPLE. Vigilantism is the foundation of all civil authority. Just because society acts for the individual, doesn't mean the individual losses the right to act when justice isn't secured by reasonable means." "I'm not going to argue philosophy with you," Coleman said. "Get in my way on this, and I'll be the one to shove a sword up your--" "Go home, Cain," Detective Wright interrupted, unlocking the cuffs. "Stay there until I tell you different." He rose, walked over to the fish tank, drove a hand lightning quick into the water, and retrieved a goldfish. He swallowed it on the way to the door. The room was eerily quiet as he left.
Hours later, night swept the streets, leaving pools of shadow everywhere. The street lights were few and far between on the edge of the industrial sector where Detective Wright made her home. Cain knew all about her situation, having purchased a comprehensive background report from a friend at the National Security Agency who possessed dubious morals and a gambling habit. Thanks to a generous divorce settlement with her ex-husband, a corporate C.E.O, Iris owned a two-level home that had been a warehouse in a previous life. Watching from across the street, atop a Chinese take-out place, Cain used a night scope that rendered everything in green. He'd have used his helmet visor for this but the telescopic power of the scope was better for distance reconnaissance. I figure Shadow-Man's beenfollowing Iris, playing head games with her because he thinks were together and he wants what's mine. He'll make a move on her soon, and I'll take his head. It was difficult to see into the house. Few of its windows were clear glass. In most places, planes of frosty mica had been installed instead. All he saw of Iris was an occasional shadow when she blocked a light source. Cain sighed with disappointment; he'd hoped for a gratuitous shower scene. Ah, well, another time… He panned his scope down to the street as headlights drew near. Perfect! It was the black van he'd seen following Iris earlier that day. The Shadow-Man's making his move. I should do the same. He stashed the scope in his belt, put his visor on, and crossed the roof to the fire-escape. He climbed to the ground, releasing the bottom section of ladder there so it could retract back in place. Not having fire escapes accessible from the ground was supposed to keep the criminal element from having too easy a time breaking into buildings. The thought was absurd. All he'd had to do was roll a dumpster up, and leap fearlessly off it into space--piece of cake. He ran toward the street, up to his mustang. He nodded at three black teenager checking out his wheels. Wide-eyed, they stared at his body armor and the blade sheathed across his back. "Keep an eye on my wheels," he said. "I'll pay you well for your trouble." The guys huddled a moment for a quick discussion. Then, faced him. Their spokesman nodded agreement. "Sure, we got a little time to kill. Your pockets jus' better be as deep as this cherried-out pony suh-gests." "Don't worry about it," Cain said. "I won't be long." He crossed the street to the black van, feeling the eyes of his guards on him as he drew a knife and punctured two tires. If Shadow-Man tries to run off, he'll not get far. I Better go see how Iris is making out. He walked up the front stairs as the windows in Iris' building went dark. Shadow-man's cut the power. He imagines that will give him an edge. Either he's good in the dark, or he's got the same high tech gear I do. Cain activated the infrared capabilities of his visor. The world went bright green. He dispensed with knocking. In time-honored heroic manner, he kicked the door in, barely breaking stride. He scanned an immense space where different areas yielded to different functions without walls for transition. The floor was concrete, covered sporadically with area rugs. Off to his right, he saw two doors. Having seen a floor plan, he knew they led to a bathroom and walk-in closet. To his left, a spiral staircase coiled upward. He stood there a moment, off to the side of the front door, letting his perfect stillness absorb all sound. Shadow-Man would be quiet but he knew if given a chance, Iris would be raising hell. As if on cue, he heard her call from the top of the stairs. "Who's down there? I have a gun, a badge, and PMS--you don't want to mess with me." Cain didn't answer, stealthily gliding to the staircase. Ascending quickly, he reached the top landing. There were scuffling sounds. He saw Iris grappling with a larger figure. She lost her gun in the struggle. Cain ducked as it went flying past his head. Indignation flooded his heart; Shadow-Man was a devout copy-cat. He wore pads, chest protector, shin guards, boxing head gear, and infrared goggles that made him seem part crustacean. He looked like an second-rate artist's conception of Cain's O Scorpion persona. Cain was not amused. He launched himself in a high vault, drawing his katana. Shadow-man scrambled back as the blade sliced downward, separating him from Iris. Cain pivoted. Keeping his sword in motion, he teased Shadow-Man with its dancing point. Back-peddling, the killer quick-drew a sword of his own. Blades collided with a clang. "You're not going to beat me with a sword," Cain whispered to disguise his voice. “Not on your best day." "Cain? Is that you?" Detective Wright called out from behind him. "No," he lied, deepening his voice dramatically. "I am O Scorpion." He parried a sword thrust away from his visored face. "You have confused me with some other paragon of valor." His sword licked out, attacking the straps and buckles that held Shadow-Man's gear on his body. As Cain pressed in, his foe began shedding pieces of protective gear. "I am the internment of the grave," Cain mangled a piece of scripture. "Yea, verily, he that offends me, though he live, yet will he die!" He side-stepped a slash, bringing his katana around in a lightning arc. His sword sheered completely through Shadow-Man's blade, snapping it off near the hilt. The copy-cat tossed the handle at Cain, turning to run. Cain let him get across the space, to a closed bedroom door, timing a throw of his sword so that it pinned him there. "I love doing that," Cain confessed. He strolled over, planted a foot in the small of Shadow-Man's back, grabbed the katana hilt, and wrenched his blade free. Before sheathing it, he cleaned the blood off the sword with the dead man's shirt. "Cain, that is you! Isn't it?" Detective Wright asked. He walked back toward the stairs. She stopped him with a revolver in the midsection. He whispered a question. "You really want to use that?" "I know you acted to save my life," she said, "but you can't just walk away from a body. There are formalities, statements to make, and Gawd--the paperwork…" Cain laughed softly, pointing toward Shadow-Man's sprawled body. "I think I've made enough of a statement here." He continued on, wondering if he was going to be shot in the back for his good deed. Reaching the stairs alive, he descended hurriedly. His business here was done. Cain returned to his mustang. The kids were still there, leaning against it with folded arms, untied shoes, droopy pants, and incandescent boxer shorts, putting out a professional vibe of cold menace. They studied Cain silently as he drew his wallet and extracted three big ones. He handed the bills over. "Thanks, Dawg. I appreciate the assist." "No big thang. Pleasure doin' business, Scorpy. You need me 'n' my boyz again…" "I can always find you," Cain said. Dawg grinned, displaying a snap-on gold cap on a front tooth. "I sure heard that! Later." He drifted away, flanked by his friends. Cain glanced into his vehicle, making sure his stereo was still under the dash. It comforted him to see it there. Who says you can't get good help? He stripping off his armor and gear, throwing everything in the trunk, then settled into the driver's seat. The car started with a rumble. The headlights came on, cutting the side-alley shadows. He put the mustang in gear and fed her some gas, pulling out into the street. As he passed Iris's place, he saw her framed in the front door, watching him. He waved and yelled, "You up for a booty call?" She fired off a middle finger salute. "I'm wearing you down," he told her. Iris drew her weapon and sighted down the barrel at him. He laughed in response, slamming the accelerator pedal to the floor. Just a matter of time.
Strong story here, I found your link from a review you left on Hasan's story. You got some skill as well with this. I am just going to see what you have with the horror genre as well, but this one is one that reminds me bit of John Woo. I liked the middle finger salute. I don't read many action stories but I have a feeling after reading this one, I will have to wander around this genre a bit more.
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