I have no info on the individual authors of these chapters, please write about it in the comments.

CHAPTER FIVE
MISERERE NOBIS

Three knocks and no answer. Three kicks to the bottom of the storefront door, and only a scuff on his Bruno Magli to show for it. Finally, McAlister tried the handle. The door swung open easily. What he did next was taboo. When they had made their arrangement a little over a year ago, she had scolded him in her faux Gypsy intonations, “Knock three times, then no more. If nothing, then nothing. Return the next week.” The problem with that, in his mind, was that she’d never NOT been there, and his need for her secret knowledge had never been greater. This endless bear market was killing his portfolio, and he needed a little better advice than the swill the CNBC wonks were doling out daily.
He needed to know, and so he walked inside, into the studio of the only authentic haruspex he could find. God, she was good. When he first spoke to her two years before, he didn’t know why she had asked to see King, his pedigree lhasa apso, but he was desperate for any information that would give him an edge in what seemed to be a little market correction. Within five minutes of that first visit, he’d wished that he had looked up what ‘haruspex’ meant in a dictionary. Within two weeks, he was ready to drive his saintly mother to the prognosticator, if that would suffice.
As it was, he was carrying Ruggles, his daughter’s cat, purchased after the mysterious disappearance of Mr. White. She’d only known her–(it…it was easier to think of them as ‘it’s) for a few weeks, but he had made sure that it was quality time. The connection had to be there, or so he surmised. The crone had never said anything one way or the other, but he figured that it was better to play it safe. With so much riding on each reading, he didn’t want to lose his wad because Pussy didn’t get stroked enough.
The seer was there–mostly. She’d been gutted–tied spread eagle to the four restraints she’d normally use to subdue an animal, prior to a reading. Her eyes were bits of blue glass focusing on an object a billion miles away. Over his heavy cologne (he always wore a little extra, to cover over the inevitable stench of animal), he caught faint whiffs of the bloody tang of meat, not so different from what pumped out of the back of the butcher’s shop when the counter help popped through the swinging door to get a fresh cut. There were also the human smells–urine, bile, shit, and sweat. The majority of the seer lay face up where the gristly work was done. The rest was draped over the sides of the table, dripping and congealing on the shag carpeting. Some animal part of his brain screamed, “RUN!,” but a higher, more desperate node thought, “maybe I’ve seen enough that I could try a reading myself. How hard could it be?” Ruggles squirmed and hissed as his hands involuntarily squeezed into the animal.
He crossed to the table, and stared into her mess. He’d seen autopsy pictures and open cavity operations on cable, but this was something else entirely. He had talked to this woman, no more than two weeks ago, and with those lungs she had breathed out a tobacco-soaked response to every urgent question. He felt very wrong being here, so close, but her corpse was a black hole of secret knowledge, drawing him ever closer. He couldn’t turn away. It was the potential answer to his darkest question–if she got results like that from an animal, then what about a human?
But the goose with the golden eggs was dead, wasn’t she? And as in the story, her cavity proved oddly devoid of treasure. He wanted to be sick for even thinking it, and indeed he found his right eyelid had involuntarily begun to twitch, but he drove past the mere revulsion, closed his eyes, and imagined the seer as the animal. He dropped Ruggles to the floor, reached forward, and dipped his fingers into the sinews.

“Oh, God,” he moaned. It was awful. Her voice poured into his head, as the memories of what she had said and done came flooding back into his mind. He imagined that she was some sort of veterinarian, and probably a teacher, given her need to put on such a technically apt performance. She was dead, and yet he was sure that a part of her was still in there, as he pushed aside ropy strands of intestine and abdominal wall, searching for tell-tale kinks in the warp and weft of the gut. But he was a gnat trying to understand the nature of God, and suddenly he felt very ashamed for even attempting it.
He withdrew his hand suddenly, though the stiffening body did not surrender so easily. Strands of an awful mucous dripped from his fingers, and he scanned the small room, looking for something, anything to get this goo off his hands. At once, he caught sight of himself in a mirror. He was ashen white, so similar to the corpse. His hand ached with cold, and the rest of his body trembled for it. The shiver started right behind his lower spine, and radiated outwards. His testicles shrunk, his bladder ached with liquid heaviness. “What have I done?” he whispered. Ruggles emerged from beneath the table, her face smeared a light pink from trying to wash the blood out from her paws. He bent over to pick her up, and she began to lap delightfully at the treat that coated each fingertip.
“Mr. McAlister?”
The voice echoed in the small room. It came from the darkened doorway behind where the seer would sit, a place that he was never allowed to enter. He lost his balance, and fell backwards on his ass. His legs churned reflexively, driving him back towards the door, until his back touched its safe solidity. He caught a glimpse of Ruggles scampering through the doorway where the sound had come from, and disappearing through the dark threshhold. There was no further noise.
McAlister groped upwards and placed his hand on the doorknob. It turned silently. He breathed out noisily, and his heartbeat calmed to a mild staccato. He recalled hearing that voice once before, though he couldn’t quite place it. The certainty of escape infused within him enough courage to release his white knuckled grip on the doorknob, and rise from up out of cover to his feet. “What the fuck are you doing?” screamed his rational self, but he paid it no mind. Who knew he was here?
Still no sound. Perhaps he’d imagined it. He took another step into the room, and stared down at the mutilated corpse of the woman. Should the liver be that color? he thought absentmindedly. Another minute stretched into forever, and at last he was convinced that he was alone.
SNAP! An unmistakably familiar sound: the tight rasp of a latex glove being pulled off. His bladder had the final word as warm liquid fear ran down his pants leg. SNAP!
“Mr. McAlister?”
McAlister turned and fled into the night. Not once did he turn to see if he was pursued. He ran until his lungs burned for air, until his calves grated against the abuse. Blood pounded in his temples, and rushed through his ears. It was impossible to listen for sounds of pursuit, and almost impossible to think.
It took him a moment to realize, in his haste, that he had run the wrong way. His rental car was two blocks north of the studio, and he had run at least half a mile south of the storefront. Looking at the surrounding buildings, most boarded up and vacant, and none with the comforting glow of light and life, he knew that this would be a very long night.
His mind eventually mapped out two plans. The first involved reaching a cab, and getting the hell out of the area. In the time since he had started coming here, not once had he seen a taxi. The second plan was far more risky: circle back around, and get the car. Given that the man in the shop had known his name, chances were good that his car would be watched.
Then there was the far simpler plan of finding a phone and calling the cops, but the idea of answering all those questions sickened him. Maybe he could explain tonight with a carefully planned cover story, but even the most cursory of examinations would reveal frequent trips to the area with no relatives in the area, no clients to visit. Even if the truth remained hidden, the rumor and inference would destroy everything. No, he needed to get back to that car–
“Hey mister!” The sound came from as close as a whisper. It was male, and it stank of toothrot.
And just like that, McAlister dashed back into the night. He didn’t see the owner of the voice, a shell of a man, offering a roll of toilet paper, and helpfully muttering, “You pissed yourself.”
This time McAlister planned ahead, fleeing in a route that would take him back towards the car. He also stole looks back from time to time. He soon comforted himself that pursuit was unlikely, but neither did he slow his pace nor stop his backward vigilance. Because of that, he failed to notice the three two liter bottles filled with sand that had been placed in his path. His foot caught one head on, and it turned in pain into the swinging arc of the other leg. McAlister found himself hurtling with full force towards the pavement. Too late to put up his hands to absorb the blow, his lower face cracked noisily into the asphalt of the alley.
The pain was indescribable. It felt as if his jaw should have been shoved through the back of his skull, but decided to stick around to see what happened next. He tried to lift himself up, and became aware that a sudden blow to his kneecap sent him falling once again.
“Mr. McAlister,” the voice of authority concluded.
“Who are you?” he tried to say, but it was pointless. He tried to remember what Carl had told him about the people who moved in these special circles. There were all these names to remember, all these telltale signs, and Carl never got a chance to tell them all, before his unfortunate accident with the loaded gun he’d been ‘cleaning.’
Rubber gloves! Rubber gloves, surgical masks, and what else? He couldn’t remember, but he knew that he was dead. These guys didn’t screw around…but didn’t they always come in pairs? There was no one else around. Once again, he asked, “Who are you?” punctuating the question with bits of chipped tooth.
“Andrew Miller, S.E.C.”
SEC? What the fuck? The Securities and Exchange Commission? McAlister felt his hands being brought together behind his back. He tried to resist–these guys were one step up the food chain from rent-a-cops! A knee deftly placed at the base of his skull stopped all further discussion.
“I’m here to talk to you about your Form 8-K.”
And then there was darkness.

***

Andrew Miller dragged McAlister three blocks to his government issue Caprice, and popped the trunk. A few of the lost souls seemed almost willing to challenge his absolute authority in the matter, and aid a man who’d give them a dollar only if he used it to wipe his ass first. Miller’s singular scowl drove all altruistic thoughts from their skulls. He was the heavy hand of bureaucracy, come to bear with all its crushing weight on the individual stupid enough to stand apart from the rest. David McAlister had been very stupid indeed.
After the cargo had been loaded, he drove to a nearby payphone, and made the call.
“It’s done,” he spoke as soon as he heard the ringing stop.
There was the usual silence at the end of the line, then, “What time is it?”
“Two oh nine. I’m in Harrisburg, Pennsylvania, headed for Pigeon Hollow, Tennessee.”
More silence, punctuated by sleepy gasps, then “Who is this?”
He hung up the phone. It didn’t matter who he called. They’d get the message. They always got the message.
Then the pay phone rang. Miller stared at it as if it were a loaded gun in the hands of a meth freak. He picked it up on the fifth ring. “Yeah?”
“Please wait,” a calm, feminine voice requested. Unmistakably British, it was followed by the soft hum of a hold signal. Even though he knew he had to get back to the studio, and torch the place before one of the too-infrequent patrol cars caught sight of the mess he had left behind, this was unprecedented. He’d wait a thousand years for this call.
Finally, someone with a stern-father-type voice picked up and began to speak. “We have a situation developing near there. We’d like you to look in on the status of a field agent. She ran afoul of a perp that wasn’t on her dancecard, and we fear that she’s more injured than she’s letting on.”
He didn’t have to ask, but he asked anyway. “Agnes?”
There was an uncomfortable ‘harrumph’, then, “Yes. Just make contact, see that she’s not incapable of finishing her duties, and call us back. No more.”
Andrew hung up the phone, and walked back to the car. As he expected, the phone began to ring again. They would want to tell him where to find her, but he didn’t need to know that. He could always find her when she needed him, and often when she didn’t.
He glanced at his watch. One o’clock exactly. He’d be there in the hour.

***

Andrew Miller walked into the restaurant, Ruggles under one arm. He scanned the various patrons, looking first in all the shadowed corners. At last, he saw the back of her head, and smiled inwardly. “Stupid girl,” he muttered.
“You’re not bringing that animal in here,” the hostess muttered. She was pushing fifty in a big way, and this must have been near the end of her shift. He walked past her, making sure Ruggles hissed in just the right way as he passed.
He wondered if there was some tactical advantage facing that direction in this chair, but there were no reflective surfaces, and the light sources were too diffuse to cast proper shadows. He was convinced he had the jump on her, so he hammered the point home by throwing Ruggles over her head and onto her lap.
She jumped like…well, like a live animal had just been thrown into her lap. He used the moment’s worth of confusion to slide into the seat across from her. “Evening, Agnes.”
“Christ,” she muttered.
“I’m sorry, you’ve mistaken me for someone else.”
“I swear to God…one day, I’ll kill you.” There was no humor in her tone.
“I’d feel worried if I didn’t know you don’t believe in God. So how’s tricks?”
Agnes glanced about, convinced that a pack of other idiots were waiting to ambush her from all sides. She was missing her trademark sunglasses, and she had numerous cuts and scrapes dotting her face. There was a tang to her scent–a hint of accelerant and burnt polymers. Any other injuries were concealed by the overcoat, but he did notice a certain stiffness in some of her gestures that suggested further impairment.
“Don’t worry, Aggie. I came alone.”
“That’s the only good thing about you.” She stared at his face, which seemed to be misplaced on the looming frame of a psychopath. His soft brown eyes seemed almost kind, and his puffy, crooked nose had been broken at least twice. The worst was his cheery, million-dollar smile which made it almost impossible to hate him forever. Almost.
“Easy, there. I’m just finishing work for the day, and decided to drop by.”
“Oh? Here? What could possibly bring you to this town?”
“After last June, the order came in from on high that if they were using secondary resources, I had to catch them in the act. Sometimes that involves a bit of travelling.”
“Yes, June. I heard about that. I was convinced they’d sack you for good.” A smile played across her lips. In her world, ‘sacking’ was a permanent condition.
“Took me a while, but I justified it. Had to take a little break, though. Also lost some of my Bennies. I’m on my own, for the foreseeable future. I get the occasional crumb from Gleeson House, but they’re not my only source of information. Hell, all it takes these days is a day in the library, and I have a list of suspects as long as my arm. Just a simple matter of making sure all the t’s are crossed and the i’s dotted.” He smiled smugly.
“So why are you bothering me? And how did you find me, for that matter? If Gleeson House has set you free, as you say, I can’t imagine them telling you my location.”
“Lucky hunch.”
Agnes blanched. “I don’t like that word.”
“Hunches? Naw, it was an honest to goodness bit of detective work on my part. I called Patroni, told him the final disposition of the case–what and where and whatever–and he mentioned to me that you were nearby.”
He caught her eye-roll. “Don’t get mad at Patroni. I’m sure he had good reason.”
“That explains how you knew what town I’d be in. It doesn’t say why you came here.”
“Picked up the Yellow Pages, and found out who makes the best Tom Yum Shrimp. You’re a creature of habit.”
She set Ruggles on the tabletop, and the cat sniffed the bowl in front of Agnes. After a moment, she lapped at it with her tongue, then recoiled almost instantly. “She doesn’t like it either.” Agnes tried for a smile, but it died on the vine..
“What’s this I hear about you letting someone go?”
Agnes began to slide out of the booth, but Andrew stopped her by placing his foot flush with the end of the seat.
“Remove your foot. Now,” Agnes glared.
“Settle down. Sit back. Relax. I heard you had a bad day. I haven’t mentioned it yet, have I? I just need to know you’re all right, and then I’m gone.”
The unbelievable tension which ran across her forehead dissipated a little. She slid back, and he withdrew his foot.
“I’m concerned, Agnes. That’s all. The rumors. The lies. The obsessions. You’re drowning in it, and you don’t see it. I heard that you let someone walk away, and now someone gets the drop on you. I needed to hear it from you.”
“It wasn’t my call. Gleeson House approved it. If you have a problem with it, go talk to them.”
“No, there’s something more. How did they get involved at all?”
“How dare you! You stupid piece of shite! You come to me, and demand to know my business!” Her voice was loud enough to be heard by other patrons at the other side of the restaurant.
Andrew shook his head slowly. “Sorry, sorry.” He pulled himself slowly out of the booth. He paused, halfway out, and stared meaningfully at her. “Keep it simple, stupid. That’s what you told me. Keep it simple. I loved that about you. I don’t know what you saw in me, but I never questioned it for a second, because no matter what it was, I knew it’d be something simple. And now I hear that you’re pulling a Javert, and everything’s getting all complicated, and, well, you know how _that_ story ended, right?”
He picked up the check from the tabletop. “Stay off of bridges, Agnes. And keep the cat.” He paused, then added, “It’s 2:09.”
She instinctively glanced at her watch, to confirm what he had said. He didn’t need a watch. He always knew when it was 2:09. Every bad thing in his life happened at 2:09.
Ruggles gnawed on a shrimp head it had liberated from the soup. Neither Agnes nor Andrew turned to see if the other had turned. She was too old for games like that, and he had the advantage of a window by the door which clearly reflected her head. “Damn,” he sighed.
He handed the check to the hostess.
“Where’s the cat?” she sniffed.
“It’s a present for a friend. She looks like she needs one.”
The hostess ignored the comment. “Twelve-eighty.”
He smiled, reached into his left coat pocket, and pulled out the Dead Baby Face.
Her face fell into the familiar mask of horror, disgust, and incredulity. At last, the corners of her mouth tugged upwards in a monumental attempt to deny the reality before her. She cleared her throat of some bile which had somehow crept in there, and hoarsely said, “Thank you. Come again”
“Count on it,” he returned, and walked out the door.
In the parking lot, there was a squad car parked next to his rental. The lights hadn’t been turned on, but he knew he was in trouble just the same. A pounding issued from the trunk. Mr. McAlistair had awakened.
“Is this your car sir?” the first officer asked. He was straight out of whatever hole rookie cops climbed out of in this part of the country. His partner was already on the radio, no doubt calling in the sort of backup that makes the life of a hick cop worthwhile.
“Sure is. Here you go.” He pulled out the Dead Baby Face, and smiled cheerfully. He waited the requisite five seconds for it to sink into the soul of the rookie, and then asked, “Am I free to go?”
“Yeah. Sure.” The officer clutched his churning gut, then marched back to the car. His partner looked first at the rookie, and then at Andrew. The rookie paused only to spit out a mouthful of dinner before opening the door, and explaining everything to his partner. Andrew slid the Dead Baby Face back into his pocket, and waved at the officers as they drove off.
After educating McAlister on the value of silence with a tire iron, Andrew slammed the trunk and slid behind the driver’s seat. First the phone call to reassure Gleeson House, then time to make his passenger disappear.

***

Nan didn’t realize how secluded the cabin was until she looked up at the stars that first night. She felt stifled after the long drive through the backroads of America. Brian had insisted on avoiding the interstate, even though the chance of someone getting a good hard look at them was greatly increased when they drove through Podunk USA at 35 miles per hour. Then they spent a few hours getting set up–transferring the boy into his room, and repositioning the cameras to cover every square inch. She felt a little better as she watched Brian work–he knew what he was doing. Then he took off in the car, leaving her to watch the boy stir in his sleep, and finally awaken. She expected an unearthly caterwauling, but Jeffrey surprised her by staring intently forward, not at the door but at the two-way mirror where she stood, and waited patiently.
She could only stand those eyes for ten minutes before she stepped into the bathroom for a quick dust-up. By then, night had fallen, and the forest around them had come alive. She stepped out into the coolness of the night, stared up at the sky devoid of a moon, and saw the awesome spectacle of the Milky Way, a rare treat for those born and raised near the light-stink of the city. Nan stood there, hands on hips, and understood just a little what drove man to magnificence in all things. Maybe if she’d seen this before, she wouldn’t need the coke to make her life a little more interesting. Maybe, baby. Maybe.
Nan walked into the cabin and straight to the phone. This was all too fucked up. Too fucked by half. She’d make the call, and bring Drew crashing down on the head of this prick. Drew would make Brian eat the blackmail tape over the course of days. Drew was a scary motherfucker at times, but sometimes you needed someone willing to go too far. She picked up the phone and dialed the number. It rang and rang and rang.
“Nan?” Brian was back, his arms full of sacks from Wal-Mart. She slammed the phone, muffling the noise with her fingers. “Nan, grab the other bags.”
“Sure.” She walked as calmly as possible to the door, which, given the fact that she was somehow acutely aware of the speed of the earth’s rotation under her feet, wasn’t as simple as it sounded.
Of course Brian knew what she was up to. There was only one thing in that part of the cabin–the phone. He’d expected her to quail, even on the trip down. He had hooked up the phone with that contingency in mind. No matter what you dialed, it only called his number at home, and since he wasn’t there to pick up, it would ring forever. Even better, it saved the dialed number in a cache that he could retrieve later. He was planning on leaving the door unlocked, and letting the boy get access to the phone at some point. There was a camera trained on this very spot, waiting to capture the look on his angelic face when the phone finally picked up, and it was his tormentor on the other end.
But that was elation to horror–the wrong direction for his purposes. It would serve as a control for the main event, but that day was still a while off. There were too many variables unaccounted for.
He wandered over to the bank of monitors, to examine his subject, just as Nan came through the door with her load.
The boy was gone.
“Nan?”
Wearily, she dropped her load, and tromped over.
“Yes?”
He grabbed a handful of hair at the nape of her neck, and slowly pressed her face against the primary monitor.
“Where’s the boy?”
“Uh…uh…” she gasped, half in pain and half in shock.
He released her, and snatched at the doorknob…and stopped. His fingertips danced across the doorknob in an odd, syncopated beat. Brian smiled.
“The boy’s clever, Nan,” he whispered. He walked over to the control panel he’d installed, and switched off the lights in the room. Then he flipped on a thermal sensing camera.
The boy was under the bed. Not only was he under it, he was crouched, ready to spring the moment the door opened. Brian patiently turned his head, and saw that Nan had failed to close the outside door. A straight shot out.
This was unexpected, and a little unpleasant. Brian demanded one thing from his subject–sorrow to joy. That, and a face he could stare at for eternity. Normally, the boy’s intelligence would have been a happy discovery, and one that he could use in his games. But not this time. Not this boy.
He placed his finger to his lips, and gestured at the master bedroom on the other side of the cabin. “Check to see if he’s in there,” he said a little too loudly.
Not entirely sure what the plan was supposed to be, but pleased to get as far away from Brian as possible, Nan walked purposefully to the door.
As she moved, Brian placed four oak chairs in a line in the center of the room, silently cutting off the route to freedom. He flipped off the lights in the main room, and snapped the dim porch light on. The silhouette of the chairs only suggested an obstacle. Each weighed over 30 pounds. It would be enough.
He opened the door widely, and thus the lessons began.

***

On the way to the meat processing plant, Andrew grabbed his cell phone and checked messages. There was one from a few hours ago. The caller ID trace had been blocked, but that was pretty normal, considering the type of people who called him. Having nothing better to do, he retrieved the message. His greeting–a recording of three rings, and then an inaudible beep–always made him smile, as did the fumbled messages that usually followed.
“FIRST MESSAGE, SENT TWO OH NINE A.M. *beeep* ‘Nan?’ *CLICK*”
Andrew hurriedly swerved the car to the side of the road, and slammed on the brakes. Mr. McAlister’s body thumped noisily in the trunk, punctuating Andrew’s rage, with a low moan as a coda.
Nan. Little coke-head Nan. He hadn’t heard from her in three years, since a discussion with her abusive husband ended badly all around. He had been waiting for this call for a long time, and had lain awake at night, wondering how he would respond to it. Now that it had come, there was no question.
He stepped out of the car, and popped open the trunk. McAlister stared up in abject terror, and mumbled something through broken teeth and swollen gums, but Andrew ignored it.
“Don’t you work for AT&T?” he asked passively, as if McAllister was a stranger on a bus. McAllister nodded slowly, wondering if there was a right or wrong answer.
Andrew smiled broadly. “Looks like you don’t die, hombre.” The look on McAlister’s face, as it flitted back and forth between quantum states of emotions, was a sight to behold. Miller didn’t have time for elation.
“Today, I mean.”
He slammed the trunk down on his captive, and dialed a random number on the phone. He didn’t even wait for the caller to pick up before rattling off, “It’s 2:09. I’m taking some personal time. Miller out.”
Now he needed guns. He hated them, but not having them would complicate things to an unacceptable degree.
What was the name of Agnes’s contact?

***

Johnny Dancer woke with a start a little after three that night. He could have sworn he heard a noise like someone trying to break into the apartment, but he was dog tired, and the inventory was elsewhere, so let the fuckers take it all. He rolled over and went back to sleep.
A little after four, the sound of fingers tinkling ivories made it impossible to rest. He climbed out of bed, considering for a moment whether or not he should drag the belt along for show, and entered the living area.
Billy was seated at the piano, several bent butter knives and the shattered lock scattered around the instrument. The giant didn’t pause for a second, and continued to noodle through a song that seemed very familiar, and yet didn’t sound quite right at all. He forgot his annoyance, sat on the couch, and listened to the soft murmur:
“There’s a king on a throne with his eyes torn out
There’s a blind man looking for a shadow of doubt
There’s a rich man sleeping on a golden bed
There’s a skeleton choking on a crust of bread”
Johnny stood up hurriedly. “King of Pain? Fuck!”
He ran into the bedroom, threw some clothes and necessities in a duffel bag, and ran back into the room.
“Billy, knock that shit off, get dressed, and get going. We’re hitting the road before the road hits us.”