The three-story Victorian was packed.  Once a residence, the structure now served as an elite art gallery.  Well-dressed couples ebbed and flowed around painted plaster torsos, sculpted iron monstrosities, and paint splashed canvases.  They sipped wine, nibbling hors d'oeuvre off of napkins with the logo of the Gay Dolphin Gallery. 


     Sheathed in a black leather duster, Cain let himself be pulled along by the crowd.  He kept sunshades on his face--protection from garish colors as he vainly sought a gay dolphin anywhere.  Acrylics look like they were pissed onto canvas by plastic catfish, he decided.  Why did I agree to come here?  

      He saw the answer clearly, the only reason a man subjects himself to universe of pain; a truly beautiful woman.  His breath caught in his throat.  His heart stilled until she encouraged its life with a smile, offering him back his hidden dreams in a smoldering glance.  Green-eyed, blond, perfect in face and form, hip-hugging denim and a floral top—she approached with a determined certainty, sure of her effect and purpose.

      Gliding into intimate range, she melded her glance to his.  Her hand fell against his leather vest.  "Mr. Cain?"
 
      "Yes," he admitted.

      "You’re not as I pictured, having heard of your...exploits."

      "Strange," he murmured.  "But at least I have not been disappointed.  You are the one I was asked to meet with, Ms--?"

      "Mandi Cole.  You can call me Mandi.  Have you seen the rest of the exhibit?"

      "No."

      "Come with me."  She took his arm, wedging herself firmly against his side, setting herself to resist terror.  They soon reached a series of canvasses where the background consumed life and hope.  The black would have been pure except for a hint of red.  In the center, strands of webbing spiraled in from off-canvas to anchor a number of grisly trophies. 

      The webbing teasing offered an inverted arm, pale and cold.   It hung disjointed, causing the mind to search vainly for missing pieces of anatomy.  Lumps and bundles wrapped in webbing were suggestive, mysterious.  The next painting brought the arm closer and added a woman’s decapitated head in hand.  The face was oddly expressionless, almost peaceful, as if death had come in a merciful rush.

      The third painting was entitled Adulation.  It showed a female torso caressed by her own dismembered hands and a few others.  In place of an artist’s signature, it had a red squiggle that looked like a half-squished spider.  "Now this is good," Cain said with a sigh.

     Hearing a muffled sob, he turned to the woman at his side.  Her eyes were shut.  Her face was white with shock.  She trembled, turning into him for support.  "What’s wrong," he asked.  "A little too realistic for you?"

      "It’s not that," she whispered.  "The primary model used in these works is my sister Sara.  She vanished a month ago.  The police can’t find her.  I don’t think they’re looking very hard.  The man who painted these was unhelpful.  He told the police that she was wild, a party animal with an expensive habit.  I don’t believe this was true .  I’ve talked to her old roommate, her teachers..."

      "People go off to school, and fall in with the wrong crowd all the time," Cain said.  "Thousands of them just drop off the face of the earth, day by day, running from something--to something else until they are destroyed in the seeking."

      "My heart won’t believe it," Mandi said, stopping.  Her hand clutched his sleeve urgently.  "I want you to find the truth whatever it is." 

      "I don’t think you can afford me," Cain said.  "I don’t
come cheap."

      "I don’t have a lot of money, but I talked to your sister, Andrea..."

      Cain winced, guessing the rest.

      "She promised you’d help me."

      "Well," he offered her a resigned smile, "if that’s what she said, I guess I’ll have to."

      They reached another painting.  Cain studied it dispassionately.  It had several women in it, their hair twisting, rippling upward into the darkened rafters that supporting them.  As the hair strands grew distant, they grayed, then whitened, finally thinning into spider webs, where blue-black spiders prowled with eyes of molten red.  The women were screaming, their faces a study in fear. 

      Mandi turned from the picture, covering her mouth, trying not to be violently sick.  "Excuse me," she said, "I need a little air.  I’m going outside."  She walked hurriedly away.  Cain understood; recognizing Sara in the new painting. 

      His thoughts went back to his formative years in Florianopolis, Brazil.  He’d grown up hard in the streets, dispensing his own brand of justice as needed.  He knew terror, having inspired it often.  What he saw in the painting was real, not something whipped up out of an artist’s imagination.
 
      I must have this one, he decided.  It is exquisite.  He scanned for the price tag.  Five thousand dollars.  It was nothing.  After picking up a new mustang, he usually spent three times that much in customizing it. 

      A thin man in an ill-fitting sports coat joined him.  Cain smelled the distinct odor of turpentine.  An artist, he decided, maybe THE artist.  The man wore thick-lenses in a golden frame, and sprouted a goatee from an undersized chin. 

      "You like it," he said.  "I can tell. I can always tell."

      "It’s not bad," Cain admitted.  "You do have a gift for forcing cold terror and realism on a surreal universe." 

      The artist shrugged.  "I paint what I see."

      Cain nodded to himself.  He’d guessed right.  This man was the painter of this macabre series.  "I suppose you’re already working on your next exhibition."  Cain raised his voice at the end of the statement, making a question of it.

       "Certainly.  One must strike while the muses dance within one’s head."
 
      Cain extended his sword hand.  The artist jiggled the top
two fingers in a parody of greeting.  Obviously a fag, Cain thought.  Probably bends his wrist when he smokes too, if he IS man enough to smoke.  Cain smiled.  "I sure would like to get a preview of the work in progress.  I might see something else I want to buy."

      "Something else," the artist said.

      "Yeah."  Cain pointed out the picture they were standing before.  "I’m taking this one for my bedroom.  Is cash all right?"

      "Why--I’m sure it will be."  He waved to an anorexic blond across the room.  The woman smiled, waved back like a beauty queen, and started their way.  "That’s Delphi Makepeace, the gallery’s owner coming over.  She’ll be happy to take whatever you got."

      "One can only hope," Cain muttered.  He examined the woman as she drew near.  Her red dress was tight.  He thought he could count every rib.  On a cold night, asleep, she probably did an impressive imitation of a corpse.  She smiled, displaying perfect teeth.  She took the artist’s arm, sipping from a glass of white wine.

       "Archie, who’s you’re friend, and how many paintings is he buying?" she asked, eyes glazed but hungry.

      Cain nodded a greeting, noticing a faint trace of powder under her nose.  The woman liked the finer things of life--not all of them legal. 

       "He’s taking this one here," the artist pointed over his shoulder with an incautious thumb.   "He’s got cash to burn, it seems."

      "How nice.  Well then, we shall certainly do our best to relieve him of some of it." 

      She laughs like a horse, Cain observed.  I wonder how she’d scream?  He shook the thought away.  He was here on business--not pleasure.  He drew his wallet from an inside coat pocket, opened it, and shucked off five thousand dollars.  He hesitated in handing over the money.  "I’ll need a receipt," he said. 

     Delphi smiled crookedly, "of course.  If you will come with me to the gallery office..." 

      They threaded he crowd, reaching the office in under a minute.  The door closed with Archie leaning against it, unwilling to let a live prospect escape.  Delphi went to an oversized desk and rummaged around furiously.  Finally, she held up a receipt book with a pair of jumping dolphins on its cover.

      "Got it!"  She exclaimed.  Slumping into her chair, Delphi scribbled a few moments, then offered Cain the receipt.
He leaned forward and took the slip, letting his belt buckle press against the edge of the desk. 
 
       Without looking, he knew what was happening; he’d designed the glass-faced buckle to open by pressure, depositing its contents unobtrusively.  The realistic scorpion within it scrambled out on mechanical legs, using photon-cell sensors to steer away from strong light, burying itself in the closet shadow. 

      The woman held firmly onto her end of the receipt for a moment to secure his complete attention.  "It’s been a pleasure.  I do hope you will return again sometime to sample my wares?"

     "You can never tell what the night may bring," he said, offering everything and nothing all at once.  Tucking the receipt away, Cain turned for the door.  If you will excuse me," he said, "I have a friend I need to check up on.

      He left, and the door closed on him with a soft finality. Pausing a step, Cain heard it being locked.  He activated a receiver in his pocket, and a micro-speaker built into an ear-piece of his glasses began to feed him sounds from inside the room.  They were wild, animal sounds--indicating violent passion. 

      During acrobatic excesses, Cain heard Archie speaking,  "...three-bit whore!  You were coming on to him!"

      "It’s my job.  You don’t think most of this crap can sell itself do you?"

      "I hope you’re not talking about my work," Archie said.

 Cain heard true fear for the first time as Delphi answered.    "Oh, no!  "You are the real deal, a certified..."

      "Madman?"

      "Genius!  But if you think I need it, you can always spank me."

       "You’d like that too much.  Let’s try this instead…"

       "Ooooooooooooooooooh!"

       Amateurs!  Cain shook his head side to side.  I was doing that one before I started shaving.  He dialed down the volume on his receiver, knowing it would be a while before there’d be any important information exchanged.  Guess I better go get my painting. 

       He retraced his steps, weaving through the crowd.  A few minutes later, he reached the painting.  A small group was gathered before it, staring with fascinated horror.  Cain eased past them, walking up to the canvass.  He grabbed the frame and began to take it down. 

       "Hey, where are you going with that?" one of the watchers demanded.  "I’m not done lookin’ at it!"

      Cain ignored the man, until a beefy hand fell on his shoulder.  He set the painting on the floor, and let it lean back against the wall.  The hand on his shoulder turned him quickly around.  Tucking his fist and arm tight across his chest, Cain went with the turn.  The man before him was large, bald, and might once have been an athlete before soft living took off his edge. 

      Flying with blinding speed, Cain’s fist rocked the man’s head, sending him stumbling back into a plaster torso that toppled from its stand.  Cain winced, imagining the price of the sculpture.  "I’m not paying for that!" he announced.  "You broke it.  Now stay down, or you’ll need a bank loan to get out of here."

      The man stayed down, as Cain picked up his painting and left.  No one else made any attempt to stop him.  Cain headed for the front door.  Better go see what’s happened to Mandi, he decided. 

      He found her on the front deck of the building, leaning against a column.  He strolled past her with the painting.        "Coming?" he asked.


     "Where to?"

      "I know a restaurant near here, serves something that almost passes for Brazilian coffee.  I don’t know about you but I’m starving."

      She shrugged, and followed him down the front stairs.  Cain led the way to a black Mustang with an electric blue scorpion painted on its front hood.  Supported by a single curved strut, the spoiler on the car had the look of a scorpion’s tail.  The upholstery was black leather of course. 

      The painting went into the back.  Cain settled into the driver’s seat, and started up the engine as Mandi slid in beside him.  The stereo system came to life with the engine.  Angst-filled grunge rock filled the air.  Cain dropped the volume; he was on a case.         


      The vehicle swung smoothly out of its spot.  Cain shifted gears, stepped onto the accelerator, and the Mustang leaped into the street.  Eyes glazed with cold contempt, he guided the car around numerous slow and stupid drivers.  Approaching an intersection, a blue-haired matron cut him off with an illegal lane change.  Cain’s eyes locked onto the back of her head, promising a swift execution if he were to ever find her in a dark alley. 

      "What’s that stuff?"  Mandi asked.

      "What stuff?"

      "In the back seat with the painting, a helmet with a plastic visor, shin guards, a chest and back protector..."

      "Oh, that stuff.  Sparing gear for full-contact martial arts."

      "Really?"

      "No, I’m lying to you."

      Mandi blinked.  "Are you," she asked, "or are you now lying about lying?"

      Cain grinned at her.  "Never try to understand O Scorpion."  He gave the name a Portuguese pronunciation, elongating the second oh in Scorpion.  "I only give up my secrets in bed."

      He pulled the car into a parking lot and found a space.  His hand flipped a hidden switch, disabling the ignition system.  It was an anti-theft measure he employed in all his vehicles.  Turning in his seat, he swept the gear in the back into the floorboards where it was less visible.  A moment later, he left the car, heading for the door of a dinner, painting in hand. 

      The neon sign over the door once read "Waffle Café".  Now, with the first letter gone dark, it was the "affle Café".  Cain therefore referred to it as the Awful Café when talking about the place.  He liked the fact that it stayed open all night.  The food was uninspired, but the waitresses were easy on the eyes.

      They were led to a booth.  Mandi sat down and slid into the curve.  Cain took the opposite side.  He kept the painting on the seat between them where it horrified all those passing by.

      A waitress approached the table with a too-short skirt that displayed her shapely legs to best effect.  Her nametag said Roxy.  One eyebrow raised, she glanced at the picture, then at Cain.  "Is that really necessary?"

      Cain gave her his stare-of-total-innocence with a hint of confused-bewilderment.  "What?" he asked.

      "Never-mind."  She handed out menus.  "You want the usual--large sprite with a shot of cherry flavoring?"

      "Sure," he answered.  "Toss in the steak and shrimp special and give the lady whatever she wants."

      "Just coffee," Mandi said, face buried in the menu, "cream, and a slab of French-silk pie."  She folded up the menu and handed it back. 


     Roxy wrote their order down beginning to move away.  "Sure, coming right up."  

      "So what happens next?" Mandi asked.

      "We eat, drink, go to your place, and I let you have your way with me, continuing to gather information electronically until it’s time for decisive action."

       Mandi laughed.  "You’re rather sure of your effect on women aren’t you?"

      "Nothing ventured, nothing gained," he said.  "Hold on."  He assumed an attitude of intensive listening, eyes closed, head tilted.  After a few moments, his head straightened.  He pulled off his glasses and stashed them away.  His voice altered, acquiring a low-pitched, cutting edge.

      "Archie says he’s almost done with his current model.  He plans on finishing his last painting tonight, and then...moving on."

      "Which means..."

      "If he knows where your sister is, if he’s been…making use of her…then her time is almost up.  My instincts tells me that this is not a good thing."

      "So what are you going to do?"

      "The time for decisive action has come sooner than I thought.  You’ll have to sleep alone tonight."

      "I think I shall survive the disappointment," Mandi muttered. 


     The waitress brought their drinks, then left to greet some new arrivals.  A moment later, she led a pack of teenage girls past their table.  The girls wore retro-sixties fashions, exhibiting bare midriffs, platform sandals, and hand-woven leather belts that dangled at their knees. 

      "I wouldn’t mind a belt like that," Mindi said.

      "I wouldn’t mind being one of those belts," Cain muttered.  He watched a girls break away, moving toward the restrooms.  "I wouldn’t mind being her toilet seat, either."  He heard a sputter and cough, and turned his head to Mandi.  She seemed to be choking on her coffee.  He shrugged.   

     "Was it something I said?"      

                                       *   *   *

      The drive sloped sharply downward, curving to the back of the strip mall.  On foot, in Kevlar armor, Cain slid along the side of the building.  Behind and under the storefronts were a series of warehouse spaces.  It was in one of these, that Archie had his studio.  A quick riffling of the Gay Dolphin’s office had secured the address for him when he swung by to retrieve his little mechanical pet. 
 
      If I am in time, Sara will still be alive, but either way, this spider is getting squashed.

      He turned the corner, hugging the building.  A Doberman on a length of chain sprang out of the shadows.  It was well trained, rushing silently for the kill.  O Scorpion’s heart kept an unhurried beat.  He smiled at the challenge.  That’s right, jump for my throat.  Tear my head off.  The beast acted as expected; it sprang in, clamping jaws on empty space.  O Scorpion moved with perfect timing, slapping its ears, rupturing its eardrums.  The animal collapsed, shuddered, dying.  Cain ended its pain with a stab and twist of a throwing knife. He stepped over the body, continuing on.

       The door was locked to Archie’s space.  O Scorpion considered kicking in the door, but he didn’t want to give warning he was coming.  He pulled out a small leather case, and produced a set of lock-picks.  A moment passed, and the door opened.  He entered, paused to let his eyes adjust to the deeper darkness, then continued on, listening carefully for any sound.

      Slipping like a shadow, he made no noise drifting toward a crack of light that indicated a second door.  His hands explored dark shapes in passing, canvasses on stands.  He paused, producing a flash with a red lens.  It cast an infernal glow that showed him finished pictures, each more ghastly than the last.  After I kill this guy, I need to gather these up.  They’ll be worth more with the artist dead.

       He killed the flash and stashed it away, reaching the second door.  He checked to see if the door was locked.  The knob turned smoothly in his hand.  He paused before going through, trying to determine how many people were inside.  He only heard one voice, Archie’s. 

      "Must you whine like that?  I’ve made you immortal with my art.  It’s only fair that you pay me for my labor.  I ask so little, only your life.  After all, beauty needs a touch of suffering to give it place in the mundane world.  That’s your part to play.  What’s that?  Sorry, I can’t understand you with that gag on.  I’d take it off, but your screams might grate on my nerves.  Besides, the chainsaw’s going to be loud enough as it is."

      That was all O Scorpion needed to hear.  Palming a throwing knife, he opened the door and strolled in like a tourist seeking directions.  His eyes encompassed the room.  He saw Sara, wearing a rope harness.  It secured her while secondary lines created a web around her that was anchored to rafters and support beams.     

      She was immodestly displayed, but well beyond caring.  Her eyes were wide with terror as she struggled weakly.

      "Say, Archie," Cain called out, "got any more paintings for me?  I need something for the kitchen."

       The artist spun around, but kept his chainsaw where it was, partially screening by his body.  "Mr. Cain!  I’m kinda busy just  now.  If you could call again later..."

      O Scorpion brazenly advanced, openly admiring the model.  She watched him approach, and tossed her head wildly.  She tried to scream through the gag.  Cain studied the ropes that circled her breasts, her waist, and limbs.  "You tie a wicked granny knot.  This scene looks incredibly real.  You’d almost think she expected to die any second." 

      "She’s a talented lady."  Archie’s laugh was forced.  "That’s what she gets paid for.  Now, if you don’t mind, this really isn’t the best time for"

      O Scorpion turned.  He looked down at the chainsaw blade, sticking out from behind Archie.  "About to cut the lady down?" the Scorpion asked easing closer.

      "You could say that."

      Cain smiled.  "I just did."  His hand was a blur as it darted out.  Relaxing his whole body, he leaned forward through the delivery, torquing his hips and thrusting with his legs to produce a wave of power that ended at his fist.  The punch was delivered with a small bend in his elbow and wrist.  This cost him a little on his reach, but eliminated the possibility of a counter-move snapping his arm if the punch missed.  The precaution wasn’t needed, but Cain always employed defensive techniques in his attacks. 

      The fist landed with the central knuckle of his middle
finger slightly extended.  The scorpion fist concentrated his power in a very small space.  Cain hit Archie in the temple where the skull was the thinnest.  I love the elegance.  Six pounds of force and a man dies before hitting the ground.

      The chainsaw fell with a metallic clatter.  Archie toppled to lay beside it, his face frozen in a mask of disbelief.  Cain was turning back toward the girl when he saw a blur out of the corner of his eye.  He managed to jerk his head back a little.  It saved his life.  A thrown fire extinguisher glanced off his head.  As his vision darkened, he recognized Delphi Makepeace, the gallery owner.  Never heard her, he thought.  The droppin chainsaw must have drowned out her footfalls.  Damn.  I think I’m losing...consciousness...

       He awoke with his backside cold and his front warmed by someone deliciously soft.  He tasted cloth; he was gagged.  His head hurt.  He registered the pain, then forgot it, trying to move.  It was no good.  He forced his eyes to focus.  Sara’s face was immediately before him.  She no longer struggled.  Her eyes "spoke" volumes, communicating disappointment and despair.  Cain realized he was naked as well, tied to her in Archie’s spider web. 

      "You needn’t thank me."  The voice came from behind him.  It was Delphi.  "I thought, as long as you’re going to die, you might as well go out with a little…pleasure.  And trust me, I’ve seen what hangs between your legs.  Little IS the right word."

      Her comment made him suddenly aware of "little willie".  Proximity to Sara had stimulated it mightily.  His reproductive organ was far from little, but he was stung by the insult anyway.  You bitch. I’m going to kill you slowly for that remark, if I survive. 

      He heard her moving about, splashing something around.  Two distinctive odors assailed his nostrils; turpentine and gasoline.  He realized that the gas was from the chainsaw.  As for the turpentine, well, it was an artist’s studio.  Fear began to gnaw at the back of his mind.  He knew of only one reason anyone would soak a room with combustible fluids; arson.  He and Sara were about to die, accidental deaths in a fire.

      "I’ll be back in a few minutes to strike a match," Delphi said, her voice fading as she crossed the room.  "First, I’ve got to gather up all those lovely paintings in the next room.  They’ll be worth a fortune now that the artist has died a tragic death.  I shall weep all the way to the bank."  Her laugh was chopped off as she closed the door behind her. 

      Cain drew a centering breath, focusing his thoughts on a way to escape death’s clutches.  He tested the ropes to see how much play was in them.  Not much.  The ropes on his wrists only tightened, cutting off his circulation.  There was just one hope; the impending fire itself.  He could only hope it destroyed the web before debilitating him.  It was a slim chance, but the only one he had. 

      Soon, Delphi was back.  "well, Mr. Cain have you had a…moving experience?"

      Mannerless bitch. 

      "It’s a real shame I must kill you now, but I can’t afford loose ends," she said.  The sound of a match being struck was strangely loud.  A moment later, Cain heard the whoosh of flames and the sound of retreating steps.  Smoke thickened the air.  His backside felt the heat of a blaze.     

      The fire reached the support posts that anchored the web he was in.  His head rolled back.  He stared up at the lip of a loft.  It was only four or five feet away, but that might as well have been light years.  The flames ate at the lower strands of web, climbing it.  The ropes were going fast, having had accelerants splashed across them. 

      As the heat and smoke became torturous, Cain found his feet swinging free of restraint.  That’s a start, he decided.  A coughing fit shock him.  It was difficult to breath.  Still, adrenaline was flooding his system, dimming the pain in his wrists.  Cain pulled his lower body up, wrapping his legs around Sara.  Live or die, they’d do it together. 

      The ropes on the left side burned through.  The two of them swung suddenly to the right, slamming into a post.  The breath was knocked out of Cain.  Daggers of pain told him his ribs were cracked, but he still had the girl.  He spat a small curse, fighting for consciousness.  He used his teeth to loosened the rope on his free hand, shaking it, willing circulation to return. 

      It was not completely functional, but he could wait no longer.  He had to make his move--or die.  You can do this, he told himself.  You’re an urban legend, remember?  By sheer force of will, O Scorpion joined his hands on the last rope holding them both and inched upward.  He gripped the rope with his good hand, looping the slack around his numb hand so it could act like a break against gravity. 

      He dragged Sara up to the loft with every muscle and nerve screaming at him to stop.  He pulled them over the deck and sprawled, exhausted.  Sara moaned next to him though no longer conscious.  They coughed in unison for a moment.  Then, Cain bared his teeth in fresh agony as the coughing aggravated his cracked ribs, causing them to grate against each other.  He almost blacked-out then. 

      By animal instinct alone, he worked the last knot free.  He rolled over onto his hands and knees.  A lesser man would have packed it in at that point.  Few men alive, could even have saved themselves, let alone a second person as he had done.  But he was deceptively compact, with a strength and endurance that bordered on the miraculous.  Since childhood, his father had rigorously trained him to become the killing arm of the Family.  Though he’d walked away from that destiny years ago, it had left its mark on him.      

      He carefully picked Sara up, trying to favor his side.  A staircase him down to the floor.  He was able to skate the edge of the flames that were concentrated thickest in the center of the room, reaching the adjoining space where the paintings had been.  The air was better there.  A moment later, he had Sara outside. 

      Cain carried the girl to his car, past a gathering crowd that shouted confused questions.  He ignored them all, depositing Sara in the front passenger’s seat.  He went to the trunk, and pulled out an emergency blanket that he threw over her, reluctantly covering her nakedness, treating her shock.  He thought briefly about just leaving her for an ambulance, but  knew he could get her to the hospital much faster.  Unlike EMT drivers, he was not afraid to drive on sidewalks when necessary.  

      First though, he threw on a spare suit of armor from the trunk, where the rest of his swords waited for use.  As the scream of fire trucks drew closer, he slid behind the wheel, pulling away.  He’d see to Sara first then, he’d head for the Gay Dolphin.  He had unfinished business with Delphi Makepeace.  She was going to learn that he ruled the heart of darkness.  His was the face of fear.


                                             *    *    *


      He found Archie’s paintings leaning in a stack against the lobby wall.  Delphi had thought them safe there temporarily, with the building locked and the alarm system on.  Disabling the alarm, had proven child’s play to Cain.  Unobserved, he carried the paintings out in several trips, loading up his car.  Then, he found the phone line to the building and tore it down.  With his weapons cinched on, he was nearly ready for the main event.  He just had to set the scene.

      Locating the breakers, Cain killed the lights.  The leather gloves he wore prevented his prints from being left behind.  He knew the layout well, having studied it earlier.  He waited in the room near Delphi’s office.  His stolen armor was there.  Delphi had spray-painted bands of neon blue, green and pink across the sections and slung them on one of the weird manikin exhibits, making an insulting imitation of him. 

      One more reason why she has to die. 

      Delphi approached with flashlight in hand.  Cain stepped out into the beam, giving her a good look.  "Boo," he said.  She dropped the flashlight, screamed in startlement, and fled back toward her office.  Cain followed at an unhurried pace.  He reached her office door and discovered it locked.  He listened through the door.  She was on a cell phone, calling nine-one-one.  He made a tisking sound of mild reproof.  "That’s not how the game is played."

      He kicked in the door, and crossed to her desk.  She froze like a sparrow facing a snake, as Cain leaned across the desk and gently removed the phone from her fingers.  He put it to his face and whispered to the emergency operator.  She can’t talk to you now, she‘s busy being murdered."  He deactivated the phone, dropped it on the floor, and ground his heel into it.  The plastic case shattered.  "Pity," he said.  "They don’t make these things like they used to."

       Delphi burst around the desk, heading for the door.  Cain let her get by, spurring her on with a soft laugh.  He turned and followed.  Delphi’s fear interfered with her memory of where everything was.  Cain heard her crying with frustration and dismay as she barreled into statues and tripped over velvet ropes. 

      He overtook her quickly and pulled her along by her collar.  He knew just the right place for her; a room with a massive wooden cross on one wall.  Crucified, was a female Christ in a Playboy bunny costume.  The sign above her head said: SHE BARES THE LUSTS OF THE WORLD. 

      "Turn me into a piece of art, will you?" 

      Cain held onto Delphi with one hand while wrenching the figure off the cross.  The gallery owner wailed piteously, as he pulled a chair over and made her stand on it.  Cain drew his sword with phenomenal speed.  He pinned the woman, driving the blade into her gaping mouth, piercing her vertebra and severing her spinal column.  The weapon’s tip sank deep into the wood.   

      The light of life dimmed in Delphi’s eyes, as blood spurted, painting her shirt crimson.

      He heard sirens and hurried toward the lobby.  The cops were there, fanning flashlight beams around.  He retraced his path, making his way to the forest of manikins.  He quickly popped the catches on his armor, exchanging it for the garishly painted pieces on the display.   


      He finished just in time.  Standing with his fingers splayed, his arms jutting out bizarrely, he struck a pose as cops rushed by.  The lights came back on.  He blinking once, but didn’t otherwise move as the police searched the building. 

      They gave up on finding an assailant, gathering around Delphi, their voices loud and angry, thick with horror.  There was no one between Cain and the door.  He strolled out, returned to his car, and drove off, grinning. 

       "Just like a bitch, to die with her mouth open."