Faustus Resurrectus (9 page)

Not while I’m working. But there’s always tomorrow.

The colony of sea wasps, white against a bright red backdrop, was in its own tank, as though its deadliness required solitary confinement. The tank itself was a column of water that extended from floor to ceiling, with black rocks at the base and tendrils of green plant grasping skyward. He stared for a moment before reading the small, adjacent placard. The sea wasp, also known as a box jellyfish or boxfish, species
chironex fleckeri
, has a poison that attacks nerves, skin and the heart, causing excruciating pain before finally killing. Any attempt to remove the stinging tentacles makes them stickier and drives the poison deeper. He remembered the scorpions that had killed Mark Denschler and frowned.

Nasty, brutal stuff.

Here in the muffled, psychedelic room, he allowed himself free rein to think.

You wanted to help, here you are.
He thought about Father Carroll’s words, and about plans he might never understand.
Now what?

***

“Watch your mirror,” Valdes instructed Lude. “Let me know when the gate opens.”

She grunted, all her concentration focused on backing the truck up to the gate. The pink tip of her tongue wormed free.

“Now once we go, drive around to the front and wait there,” Valdes directed her. “Also, at the risk of sounding like a comic-book bank robber, keep the engine running. I’ll be back before you know it.”

“Gotcha! I’ll be ready to go!”

Her enthusiasm kept Valdes’s smile alive for another second before he turned to Coeus. “You know what to do when the gate opens,” he said.

“I’m not
stupid
,” the giant growled.

Valdes hauled Katz to his feet. “You’re coming with us.”

“It’s opening!” Lude called. “The gate’s opening!”

This is it.

Valdes savored the moment before nodding to Coeus. The giant slammed both of the back doors open. Valdes caught a glimpse of a sharply-dressed man standing outside. Coeus stormed from the truck, snatched the man by the shoulders and lifted him off the ground. The man shouted in surprise. Coeus slammed him to the cement and stomped a boot down. The man managed to roll away, rising to his knees as he drew a gun. Coeus growled and lashed a backhand out, sending the man and the gun flying in different directions. The gun hit the ground, bounced once and fired. The bullet ricocheted off a metal pole that supported a huge picnic area tent.

“Donovan!” the man yelled, staggering upright.

“Coeus, shut him up.” Valdes climbed down from the truck, pushing Katz ahead of him. “We have work to do.”

Coeus leapt forward, snatched the man’s lapels and flung him like a pillow. The man flew into the picnic area, slid over a table, and crashed to the ground in a motionless heap.

***

The more he wandered, the more heightened Donovan’s sense of unreality became.

Staking out a satanic murderer in the New York Aquarium? Yes, Father, reality
is an
extremely
flexible concept.

Rather than scaring him, the adrenaline rush had him ready, eager, to see what came next. He shook his head and smiled to himself.

Stay cool. Coming across like a hyperactive five-year-old won’t just screw your reputation, but Joann’s too. And if you ever want Fullam to ask for help again…

He stood still, eyes closed, breathing deeply, allowing his mind to calm. The nerves and anxiety quieted, but in the place where he should have been relaxed he still felt restless. He consciously loosened his muscles, but they tightened as soon as he opened his eyes. It was a sensation he’d experienced before, one whose meaning he’d never quite grasped. In this context he understood and, for an instant, the clarity of it startled him.

I’m restless because I’m in the wrong place.

He left
Alien Stingers
by the southern door. A picnic area sat adjacent to the building, filled with one-piece table/benches, shaded by an enormous tent. Next to it, the back gate stood open and deserted. The air was still and thick. Donovan peered around the corner. No one was there, no vehicle stood in the narrow alley leading to it. A faint waft of diesel floated within. His heart began to beat faster.

If they came and went, Fullam wouldn’t have left the gate open. If they came and are still here, where’s the truck?

He turned from the gate and scanned the area. No one was in sight, no shadows moved, but something lay on the concrete: Fullam’s gun.

Oh no.

A groan and movement in his peripheral vision made Donovan jump. He whipped the taser from his back pocket. About thirty feet away he saw a figure struggling to stand.

“Sergeant?”

“Don’t—worry about me, goddammit!” The arm Fullam used to brace himself to stand folded. He collapsed, banging against the table before he hit the ground. “Mister X! Him and the giant have got Katz!” He flung an arm outward. “Stop them!”

Donovan clutched the taser’s black pistol grip, eyes raking the area as he pulled out his radio. “Joann! Call 9-1-1! They’re here, and they’ve got Katz!”

“
What?
” Panic in her voice was a cattle prod in his stomach. “
Who? I see the truck in front on one monitor, but—
”

“Frank’s hurt! They have Katz!”

His urgency cut through to her, and he heard her prosecutor voice when she spoke. “
I’m on it! 9-1-1! Be careful!
”

“
What’s happening?
” Father Carroll’s voice chimed in. “
I don’t see anything!
Donovan, where are you?
”

“Father, there’s nobody there? You don’t see them?”

He heard the priest scuffling around the exhibit. “
No, nothing! I don’t see them!
”

Dread swelled his lungs as he fought to breathe.
That means—
“Go help Fullam! He’s in the picnic area next to
Alien Stingers
!”

“
What about you?
”

“They’re not at the octopus or jellyfish!” He started to run. “They’ve got to be at the Shark Tank!”

***

Coeus carried Katz slung over one shoulder like a side of beef, using both hands to keep the curator’s struggles under control. Valdes let the giant precede him up the stairs inside the building, then closed and locked the door.

“Keep him quiet until I set everything up,” he instructed.

***

The Shark Tank itself is enclosed within a larger building whose front is lined with oversized picture windows. A wooden tunnel encloses these windows, darkening the space to allow better viewing of the sharks, rays and sea turtles within. On the walls inside this tunnel are a series of large illustrations describing how sharks are “our friends.” Donovan ran across the plaza, past the photo booth, followed the outside of the tunnel to one end and slammed into the fence on the far side of the building. He searched for the “Authorized Personnel Only” door but he was on the wrong end of the tunnel.

Damn!

To his left the tunnel beckoned, pitch dark and mysterious. He stuffed the radio into his pocket, shifted the taser to his right hand and put his left hand on the tunnel wall. He’d just started in when lights flickered from inside the building and illuminated the tank. He went to the window, his face illuminated a ghostly greenish-white. Startled stingrays skimmed the tank floor, kicking up clouds of silt. Sea turtles and the sawfish darted about.

The sharks circled.

Eight swam in the tank: a small but aggressive female lemon shark, a lazy sandbar shark, and the largest ones, six sand tigers. Five were females, all from eight to ten feet, with a nine-foot male to court them. Long-healed gashes and scars in the sandpaper hides evidenced his efforts. Tails propelled the sharks along their preprogrammed ovular tracks, eyes never moving, jaws never entirely closing. He pressed his face to the glass and searched for the surface beyond the water, where Katz might be. He could only make out shapes. Something glinted and slashed down. Fluid spurted over the tank, and viscous red drops trailed to the sandy floor.

Blood in the water.

The sharks broke their circle. Donovan saw a struggle on the platform. A huge shadow—the giant, Donovan realized—threw something that hit the water with a cannonball splash: Katz. His feet had been cut off.

A cold wind blew through the tunnel. Donovan’s muscles hardened. Every nerve ending screamed about the presence, the evil, now in the air. It was everything he’d studied in books and never believed could be real. Suddenly he wanted to be back in midtown pouring drinks, doing anything but standing in front of the shark tank seeing this. He beat a fist on the glass.

“
No!
”

Katz struggled to escape, kicking feebly. His movement swirled the blood around, casting the scent wider. The lemon shark plunged through the widening cloud of red. Two of the sand tigers dove in, one driving her snout into his stomach before twisting to bite his ribs. The other seized a leg and dragged him under. Donovan had a complete, hellish view of the frenzy. The rest of the sand tigers attacked, eyes rolling backwards as they bit. Teeth shredded cloth and flesh, turning the water murky with gory debris. Incredibly the curator still lived, thrashing his way towards the side. One of the ten-foot sand tigers sped up behind him and slammed him into the glass in front of Donovan. Donovan jumped but he didn’t—he
couldn’t
—tear his gaze away. Katz’s face contorted, pleading for help, and his eyes rolled back in a ghastly parody of the attacking fish. Another shark came, and another. They seized his remaining limbs in their jaws and pulled. The last bubbles burst from the curator’s lungs as they tore him to pieces.

“Donovan!”

Father Carroll half-carried, half-dragged Fullam along the tunnel. The sergeant’s hair and clothing were mussed but he clutched his Glock with determination. The priest stared at the scene in the tank and groaned.

“They got him.” Donovan pushed off the window. The cruelty he’d seen ignited an anger he’d never experienced, one that burned away his fear. “But they’re still inside.”

He led them to the tunnel’s other end, where a wooden fence with a door prevented them from going further. Donovan couldn’t get the vision of Katz’s hell out of his head, and he let it feed his anger. He took a step back and threw his weight against the wooden slats. They splintered and slammed inwards. The “Authorized Personnel Only” door was five feet beyond it, leading into the tank’s building. This door, however, was heavier, and it took the combined effort of Donovan and Father Carroll to break it down. Fullam took the lead, limping up the flight of stairs they found. Donovan noticed his arm hung oddly from his shoulder but he managed to keep his gun ready.

The stairs led up to a platform that ringed about sixty percent of the tank. A narrow walkway bordered the rest. Fish-stink overpowered them, permeating the white walls and staining the rubber-matted floor. Buckets of food were stacked neatly along the platform rear, in a glass-fronted refrigerator next to steel shelves of SCUBA, cleaning and maintenance equipment. Above the water, ropes and pulleys led to a skylight that, presumably, allowed new sharks to be lowered directly into the tank. The skylight stood partway open in deference to the night’s warmth. Near the edge of the platform, in the middle of a fresh pool of blood, red wax shimmered while it cooled to solid. At the platform’s far end, a door stood open, revealing more stairs that led to the roof.

Fullam let out a yell of warning. Donovan dove forward, skidding through a puddle of splashed water as the giant swung an arm the size of a construction crane. He ducked and hammered punches into the giant’s side and exposed kidney. It was like hitting a cinder block, and about as effective at moving one. The giant swept his arm back. His elbow caught Donovan on the side of the head and spun him around. Blackness swirled at the edge of his vision. Behind him he heard Father Carroll suck back his fright. Blue sparks arced and the giant bellowed. He grabbed the priest’s arm and swung him around so hard Father Carroll’s feet left the ground and sailed above the tank’s churning surface. The taser went flying across the platform as the giant let go, sending Father Carroll crashing into an equipment rack.

“Nice try,
priest
,” the giant sneered

“Coeus!” A new voice came from the doorway, commanding the giant. “Let’s go!”

Donovan shook his head clear in time to see Coeus stomp towards the far door; the lights seemed to get brighter as he got further away. Fullam got to his knees and tried to aim with his awkward arm. The giant stopped, seized a rack that must have weighed over six hundred pounds, and lifted it above his head. Equipment, valves and flippers bounced everywhere. Donovan dove at Fullam and knocked him flat as the steel rack flew above them. With a deafening screech of metal against concrete it clattered down the stairs they’d just come up.

Father Carroll scrambled to his feet and lunged at the giant. Coeus laughed, an odd, staccato sound, and seized the priest’s shirtfront. Father Carroll beat at the enormous hands ineffectively. The giant marched towards the edge of the tank, eyes wide with anticipation. The priest tottered back, hands waving wildly. One foot slipped off the platform—

Donovan crab-scuttled across the slick floor, through blood and fish guts and the cooling wax, and slammed an uppercut between Coeus’ legs. The giant howled and staggered back. Father Carroll wrestled free from his grip but staggered above the blood-frothed water. Coeus retreated with a grunt. Father Carroll yelled as he lost his balance.

“Father!”

Donovan grabbed him by the belt buckle. Father Carroll grabbed his wrist. His momentum almost carried them both into the tank before Donovan heaved backwards, dragging them onto the platform.

“Come on!” Fullam barked, already back on his feet.

Coeus saw him coming and shot his arms out, hauling two more racks down across the doorway. Fullam pulled up short and reached to pull one aside.

“Don’t touch it!” Donovan shouted.

From around the corner of the doorway, the killer’s hand pressed Father Carroll’s taser against the steel. Fullam saw and jerked his hand back. The killer jammed the taser, still on, between the doorframe and one of the racks.