Ink: A Novel

By Beth Ann Luna

Beauty is skin deep. A tattoo travels all the way to the soul . . .

That’s Eddy Gruber’s motto. Bound by the miseries of inner-city life and his mother’s unrelenting cruelty, a troubled boy finds refuge inside a most peculiar place—the neighborhood tattoo parlor. There, he meets Hatch, the parlor’s lecherous tattoo artist, and a dangerous kinship forms. Through Hatch’s twisted guidance, he learns the craft and cultivates his hunger for beauty, power, and perfection. Then Eddy’s brilliant young mind sets a diabolical plan in motion, securing his deadly calling for the future.
Baltimore Homicide’s Alex Ryder and Jimmy Hansen are opposites, as ice is to fire. Alex, the stern but witty senior detective and the dry but detailed Jimmy are the top cops in the biz. When a Jane Doe is found dead in the heart of the warehouse district, her entire body camouflaged in fresh ink, the detectives are plunged into the toughest serial murder case of their careers and the ultimate test of their partnership.
Blind to the tattoo subculture, the detectives seek the advice of an expert and enlist local artist, Kat Barton, to help. Alex can’t deny the inexplicable connection that exists between them and his attraction to her is immediate. But with little evidence pointing to the suspect and the body count rising, the trio is forced to tread a perilous riptide of lies and deception, where Alex and Kat’s desire for each other could pull them all under permanently.
Get immersed in Beth Ann Luna’s first thriller, Ink: A Novel, and you just may be inspired to run to your neighborhood tattoo parlor and get your own permanent ink.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Beth Ann Luna
• Release date: Jul 2, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476377308

Book preview

ink

BY beth ann luna

Ink: A Novel

Copyright 2012 by Beth Ann Luna

Smashwords Edition

For Craig and Stephanie, the sparks

For Zac, Caitlyn and Evan, the oxygen

Beauty is skin deep. A tattoo travels all the way to the soul.

~Eddy Gruber

Chapter 1

Baltimore, Maryland 1985

SHE LOOMED OVER HIM—pinning him to the stained and tattered mattress, her face so close that it blurred his vision. Two hours had passed since the sun had withdrawn its glow and the hollow shades of night had engulfed the room, but he could still make out the beads of sweat glistening like flashes of Morse code from the light of the street lamp just outside his window. With slow, calculated gravitation, they rolled to the center of her forehead and dropped, one by one, splashing his face in timed torment. He closed his eyes and purposed to keep them closed as each of her heavy breaths rushed the sickening stench of whiskey into his nostrils, permeating his insides. He lay rigid as a corpse, hoping to quell what lie ahead when Mama was on one of her notorious binges.

Pretendin’ you’re asleep ain’t gonna work, you worthless little parasite, she slurred then snickered. You can’t fool me . . . .

From the stillness, the rushing force of her hands slammed his small frame to the floor, leaving him stunned, unprepared and powerless. She continued the assault, swinging a wild kick and landing a solid foot into his stomach that sent him sliding across the floor. His body met with the opposite wall where his lungs expelled their oxygen then refused to give him more. He pulled his knees to his chest and huddled, struggling to regain his breath while watching her silhouette from the corner of his eye. Mama was staggering toward him, coming to inflict more pain.

He tried to whisper an appeal for mercy through intermittent gasps knowing she wasn’t going to listen; another perpetual run of same life, different day. His experience in this twisted art of abuse by his mother’s hands was compounded by his pleas falling upon her deaf ears. Beatings and pain were normal elements of his life, but ones he was growing evermore tired of.

What the hell did you think you were doin’ earlier? Did you think I was gonna let you get away with defyin’ me? He tried to crawl away as her voice grew louder, her anger intensifying. "Where do you think you’re goin’, you little bastard? I’m nowhere near done with you yet!"

Please, send the colors, please . . . send them, he chanted under his breath while trying to separate himself from her impending wrath, but as she closed in his actions again proved futile.

She grabbed his ankle, twisting it violently, forcing the rest of his body to follow. Once on his back, she jumped on top of him. Her legs straddled both sides of him, pinning his arms; almost covering his entire frame. Using her weight to keep him in place, she slipped each of her hands around his neck and began to squeeze, but applying just enough pressure to make him struggle for breath and remind him who was in control.

Her grip tightened.

I told you never to embarrass me in front of company, she hissed as tiny droplets of spit misted over his already sweaty face.

Her thumbs applied even more force.

If you’da just done what you were told, I wouldn’t have to beat your ass! Her snake-like voice turned to resounding rage. "Why do you push me? Huh? Why do you make me hurt you—why?"

Her fingers were collapsing his windpipe, his cheeks turning hot and swollen. His heartbeat was pounding in his ears, and his blood was rushing against the walls of his veins. His eyes were bulging from the pressure of her grasp, and tears began streaming down the sides of his face, but he could still see her.

Through the darkness and cast of shadows, Mama’s face appeared twisted, deranged . . . evil. Her face showed the uncontrollable monster that plagued him all his short life and he reasoned that if he made it through this night’s episode, he would make sure that Mama never laid a hand on him again.

He fought off the blackness of oblivion expending every last molecule of air inside his lungs though believing the battle to be lost. Each eyelid slid shut to shield his view from the nightmare hovering inches away from his face and he felt his heart and senses starting their slow but direct descent. Weakness crept through his body and a precious few seconds was the only thing separating him from existence and the end. But as he was accepting the finality of his situation, his appeal for mercy was answered. Through smothering blackness and the shadows of doom, the colors came.

Their arrival brought him comfort, peace, and above all else, beauty. Vibrant ribbons of deep sea blue, sunlit yellow, dark amethyst, and emerald green swirled together, dancing around him in rhythmic patterns, shielding him from the horror of the moment and carrying him away from his pain. His focus remained fixed with awe while drifting between the realms of life and death, and the only thoughts lingering in his mind were of the beautiful colors and their perfection.

Then in the flash of a moment, everything went silent around him and all the colors united, and faded to white.

***

Eddy Jacob Gruber was just a child, but he was wise far beyond his eight years of life and the days of sheltered innocence and unspoiled youth had been long since beaten out of him. His mother exposed him to the ugliness and perverseness of her life while showing him no love or mercy. Mama was always telling Eddy he was to blame for his father leaving and reminded him, almost daily, that she hated him for it.

Eddy had no recollection of his father, and for a time, curiosity occupied his brain. He had never seen a picture of him and wondered if he shared his features. He often contemplated on what he’d done to make his father go away and wondered if he would ever return. For Eddy, though, those were matters of a past he had never known and their focus had lost their importance.

What flooded Eddy's memory now and what was becoming of a great consequence was the stream of men flowing into the apartment like contaminated waste into an unspoiled tributary. A few of them seemed nice enough and would acknowledge him with a kind word, but most were disgusting and perverse. They would drink and get high with Mama and do their business, sometimes right in front of him. Other times, the men would beat her and force her to do things she wasn't inclined to do. But in the end, their actions were always ignored as long as she got her money. With Mama, life was about cold, hard cash, and if Mama couldn't satisfy their tastes she would offer up Eddy for a nominal fee.

Eddy could live with the beatings and the bruises and any other torment Mama unleashed on him, but what Eddy couldn't put up with—wouldn't put up with anymore was Mama using him as a consolation prize to satisfy her company. His refusing to comply with his mother's demands is what had triggered tonight's torture session, but Eddy felt the beating a much better trade.

When he was four, Eddy couldn’t stop the abuse, but now he was just a few months shy of nine. He was older, stronger, and smarter; Mama was coming to realize it too. Lately, Eddy's defiance was increasing in their numbers, causing her attacks to increase in their violence. She was getting sloppy with her blows, leaving visible marks, which Eddy could do little to hide in the city’s hundred degree heat.

At Eddy's elementary school, his third-grade teachers questioned him several times about the bruises on his arms and legs, but he was a smooth talker. He always assured them that he was just a clumsy kid who lived to skateboard, though lacking its accomplishment. Eddy had an honest face and had become a superlative storyteller to thwart his mother's promise of a painful end had he ever revealed the truth. His teachers, along with everyone else, believed his lies. To them, he was an agreeable student, giving them no reason to doubt him.

His teachers may have been clueless about his home life, but they were conscious of his intelligence. He scored nearly perfect on each of the academic placement tests and made honor roll on a consistent basis. Unfortunately, someone of Eddy’s caliber would slip through the cracks because of the lack of programs available to help a gifted but poor white kid attending an inner-city public school. On several occasions, his teachers spoke to Mama, using the word prodigy to describe him, but if their words didn't translate into dollar signs, she wasn't interested in listening.

The teachers knew he had potential. Eddy knew he had potential, but Mama knew nothing. She was uneducated, ignorant, and blind to anything which didn't get her high or paid, and if Eddy was going to have his way, she wouldn't live long enough to see the possibilities awaiting his future.

***

Eddy's room was quiet except for rhythmic muffled thumps of heavy-metal music rising from the tattoo parlor located one floor below. Their vibrations roused Eddy, and his eyelids lifted in an attempt to focus on the stained ceiling tiles spinning in slow circles above him. As the haziness receded, he tasted the remnants of dried blood that had collected at the corners of his mouth, and became aware of the sharp stabbing pain in his left side sickening him as he pulled himself up.

He crept to the bedroom's entryway, taking care not to step on any old wooden floor planks which would alert Mama to his consciousness, and rested an ear against the door. He strained to hear any movement coming from the other side. To Eddy’s relief, he only heard silence. With a careful tug, the door opened, and he stepped out.

Mama's naked body lay lifeless on the raggedy yellow-flowered sofa. A single leg curled over the armrest, while the other draped off the front cushion and rested on the floor. Her arm hung from her torso as if floating in air, the rubber tubing still tied around it. Her clothes were scattered about and the syringe she had used rested on the rug where she had dropped it.

Placed beside the old sofa was an equally aged wooden end table. On it sat an empty whiskey bottle, some empty beer cans, and a twenty-dollar bill left by some trick she had serviced while Eddy was knocked out.

Eddy stared at her for a moment. He would have supposed her dead if it wasn't for the slow, steady rise and fall of her chest, but he knew fate would not lend a help in his plans. He was going to have to take care of Mama on his own, and he was up for the task. Shifting his gaze from his mother to the direction of her dope stash, he flashed a wicked smile. Tonight is the night, he said, skipping to the bathroom.

He directed his attention to a small closet located behind the bathroom door and opened it. On the shelves should have been normal household toiletries like shampoo, hand lotion, and soap. Instead, a veritable pharmacy of illicit drugs, needles, and prescription pill containers sat waiting for a casualty.

Mama's drugs have never saved me from a beating, but that is about to change, Eddy declared. Still wearing a wicked little grin, he found a pair of latex gloves and slipped them on. They were far from a perfect fit, but he would still be able to manage things. A pointed finger’s quick scan of the shelf located the items.

Removing an unlabeled pill bottle from the shelf, he opened the top and peered inside. Good, he murmured, recapping the top and placing it back on the shelf. He removed another pill container and began to read aloud, Hydrocet, 5/500 milligrams. Take one to two capsules every four hours as needed for pain. He raised an eyebrow. Bingo, he said, popping off the lid and shaking out two capsules. He thought for a moment. Better to be sure, he muttered, shaking out two more. He replaced the lid and returned it to the closet.

Grabbing the plastic cup from beside the sink, he filled it halfway with hot water and set it on the counter in front of him. He emptied the capsule's contents into the cup with care, throwing the shells into the toilet. He watched the white powder disappear into the water while dreaming of a new life filled with accomplishment and privilege. No more sick, pathetic old men groping at him, no more ugliness, and best of all . . . no more Mama.

He would have to be placed in foster care in the beginning, of course, as living relatives were in short supply. Even with that little hiccup, Eddy figured when the DFS workers discovered how brilliant he was, his opportunities would be boundless. He was going to make sure his new life would be filled with beautiful color and perfection, and no one was going to stop him from getting what he wanted.

The plans for his future were put on hold as he swirled the cup's contents around several times, making sure the powder was dissolved completely. Carrying the potion in his still gloved hands, he went to Mama. To his satisfaction, she hadn't moved a muscle.

He removed the tubing from around her arm and knelt beside her, studying her face with eyes void of emotion. Her ruddy complexion accentuated the pockmarks on her cheeks and the deep lines extending downward from her mouth. The dark circles around her eyes appeared a plumish purple, making them look sunken. She looked much older than her twenty-eight years and Eddy supposed she had been attractive when she was younger, but that a decade of drug addiction had, long since, taken her looks away. Now she was as colorless as the walls of their apartment and there was no improving her.

She was a ruined canvas.

Eddy slapped her face, hard. She let out a gasp of air and involuntary twitches ruled her body as though she had been struck by lightning. Her eyelids flew open exposing a wild gaze, but as the sting from the slap dulled, she fell again into unconsciousness.

Wake up, Mama, he taunted with slow sarcasm. Come on now. I need you to wake up for just a second.

Incoherent mumbles escaped as he lifted her head and put the cup to her lips. Drink this, Mama. It will make you feel better.

She jerked her face away. I don't . . . want it. I . . . feel . . . just . . . fine, she slurred with a crooked smile.

With one hand, he grabbed her chin and squeezed the corners of her mouth, forcing it open. Shoving the cup into her bowed lips, he began to pour. She coughed and sputtered at its introduction, but soon accepted the mixture, gulping it down as if it were a shot of her favorite whiskey. When the cup was dry, he let go of her with careless regard and her head fell back, landing with a solid thud onto the wooden armrest.

Returning to the bathroom, he washed the cup and put it back on the counter. Eddy glanced up, catching the image staring back at him from the dingy mirror. What a mess, he said, shaking his head. His face was streaked with dirt and sweat and his yellowish blond hair—longer than it should have been—jutted in all directions. His ice-blue eyes were a bloodshot red from having the life almost choked out of him, and dried blood remained crusted around his pale-pink lips.

Turning from his grubby reflection, he moved toward the claw-footed tub. He leaned over, reaching for the faucet and realized he was still wearing the latex gloves. He chuckled to himself while pulling them off and throwing them onto the counter.

After peeling off his T-shirt and shorts, Eddy filled the huge tub with hot water and eased himself in. Water sloshed over the sides, forming patchy puddles on the brown tiled floor. His small frame floated on top of the water as steamy trails of gray floated upward, filling the room with a warm haze. He felt as if suspended in air, floating on a billowy cloud, and for the first time in his young life, Eddy relaxed.

After resting for a time, he took a deep breath and sank to the bottom. Under the water, he heard the cadenced-thumps of music coming from downstairs, and it encouraged him to get moving. He had things to do and time was of the essence, especially now.

He washed himself in rapid pace, pulled the drain plug, and grabbed a towel off the rack. After drying himself and the puddles from the floor, he threw it into the pile of dirty clothes heaped in the corner and exited the bathroom. He sauntered to his room without throwing a second's glance at his mother. He was confident she was still out of commission and would be for several more hours; giving him time to conclude things.

Eddy was dressed and ready to go in record time. His hair was combed and his teeth brushed. He looked like a normal kid again with the exception of his bloodshot eyes which would only be remedied with a good night’s sleep. But sleep would have to come later.

He opened the door to the apartment, stopping for a moment to check the clock on the wall. Good, he said. It's only midnight. Then with the slam of the apartment door, he was gone.

Chapter 2

MAMA AND EDDY’S second-floor apartment was located in a dilapidated three-story row home, on Maryland Avenue, in the heart of the city. The old neighborhood was called Charles North and once had been a haven for the upper middle-class. Now a decaying mass of brick and asphalt, the area was mostly inhabited by the transient community and small mom-pop businesses. The hundred-year-old structure lay sandwiched among seven other row homes that looked exactly alike. What separated Eddy's building from the rest was the huge neon sign hanging on its front that read, In the Skin Tattoos.

Blasting colors in all directions, the sign illuminated the street with a carnie-like atmosphere. When the sign had been placed four years earlier, the neighbors flew into an uproar, citing it a property-value-depleting eyesore, but Eddy disagreed. He thought it was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen. He loved the sign containing every color of a neon rainbow; its brilliant glow mesmerizing all who gazed upon it.

For weeks after the tattoo parlor’s opening, Eddy would sit at his bedroom window listening to the fast-paced beat drifting through the floor and observing the customers leave the shop admiring the artwork just applied to their bodies. One night, after a typical beating and after Mama had passed out, Eddy's curiosity got the better of him, and he went down to check out his new neighbor.

He performed a stealthy tiptoe down the stairs, reaching the bottom floor undetected. He saw the etched-glass door to the shop propped open, the heavy-metal music, once muffled by sheetrock and wooden planks, now playing crystal clear. He performed a cautious maneuver to the entrance and became flush with the wall. Mustering the nerve, he peered around the corner, spying inside.

Thinking he was alone, he stepped onto the black, white, and red-checkered floor, moving to a magazine-covered end table sandwiched between a set of brushed metal chairs. He eyed the tattoo-splashed female on the magazine cover and then gazed out at the empty sidewalk through the parlor's three bay windows. Smelling a freshly lit cigarette, his attention was caught and diverted further into the space.

He stopped in the middle, viewing a long rectangular padded table sitting empty at the back left corner of the room near another doorway draped by a long black curtain. Eddy thought the odd-looking table resembled the one he had sat on at the free clinic, though this one appeared much cleaner and wasn't missing half its stuffing.

The shop was nice enough, but what caused Eddy's eyes to pop and his mouth to hang open was the endless array of artwork covering every inch of available wall space. Every kind of tattoo one could imagine was hanging in front of him. The bombardment of colors and designs pulled him in, and he found himself turning slow circles in the center of the checkered floor, his eyes matching the size of teacup saucers.

Well, hello there, little man, said a booming voice behind him.

Eddy spun around, tripping over his own feet. His balance abandoned him and his small body hit the floor with a thump. The man, stepping from behind the curtain, moved with giant strides to reach him. As Eddy took his outstretched hand, he couldn't help staring at all the colorful pictures and shapes starting at the man's wrists, traversing up his brawny arms, and disappearing into the sleeves of his black T-shirt.

The man's tall frame was encased in a muscular physique, though Eddy supposed not from working out in a gym, but from years of lifting engine blocks out of Chevys. His shoulder length black hair was parted down the middle and pulled back into a low ponytail, exposing his rugged face and the thick black mustache hiding his upper lip. He had a hard and calloused look about him, but Eddy discerned kindness in his dark eyes.

Sorry, little man—didn't mean to spook ya. Ya okay? concern laced the man's voice.

You did not scare me, I tripped that's all. My name is Eddy Gruber. I am four years old, and I live upstairs with my mama. What is your name? he asked without taking a breath.

The man was startled by Eddy's matter-of-fact manner. Well, my mom named me Harrelson, but all my friends call me Hatch. He examined Eddy with a deep brown eye while tracing a thumb and middle finger respectively across each side of his mustache. He deliberated on Eddy's character for a few more moments, flashing him a warm smile. Ya look like a good kid to me, he said, so I think we should be friends.

Then I will call you Hatch too, Eddy announced, sounding pleased enough.

Since their meeting four years ago, Eddy had become a constant fixture around the parlor, using Hatch's invitation as a sanctuary to escape the Hell raining from above. The parlor was where he could hide, feel safe, and breathe. Hatch, in a sense, became Eddy's surrogate father, though neither ever spoke of such things nor did they discuss Eddy’s tribulations. Hatch's consolation allowed Eddy to watch him work his magic with ink while listening to his distorted views on life in the world around them. Hatch even bought him sketch pads and colored markers for Eddy to work his magic too. Eddy soaked up everything Hatch poured out; good or bad, right or wrong.

Hatch was always telling Eddy that the human body was imperfect, ugly, and grotesque, and that his tattoos were the only things that could make the body beautiful and perfect. And Hatch's opinions didn't stop there. He held an even lower opinion of the female persuasion. The only good bitch is an inked bitch, Hatch would say with a snort and a hearty laugh.

Eddy was beginning to agree.

Watching the women get tattooed was one of his favorite pastimes. They would come in looking imperfect and incomplete, and in a matter of a few hours, Hatch would recreate them, making them worthy and transforming them into something superior. The more ink covering their skin, the better Eddy thought, and it was through this newfound appreciation that Eddy discovered his purpose. He knew what he was going to do with his life. He was going to be like Hatch someday, only better.

His work would be perfect.

***

Standing in the doorway of the parlor watching Hatch hover over a woman at the far corner of the room, Eddy wasn’t sure if he were working on her tattoo, or working on her. Eddy cleared his throat.

Hey there, little man, Hatch greeted without turning around.

The woman peering around Hatch’s broad shoulders took a long, hard look at Eddy. Should I cover up? she asked.

Hatch turned around, delivering to Eddy a sharp eye and a sly smile. Naw, he's cool with it. He's seen ‘em a million times. He's my apprentice. He returned to his work. Eddy, this is Regina Sedgewick. Regina—say hello to Eddy Gruber.

Hi, hon. My, my—you sure are a cutie. I could just melt in those baby-blue eyes of yours, she offered playfully.

"Jesus, Regina, quit flirtin’ with the kid and actin’ like a bitch in heat. He’s only eight years old."

I wasn’t flirting with him. I was giving him a compliment, she retorted.

Yeah? Well, stop it. You’re gonna embarrass him.

Nothing embarrasses me, Hatch, Eddy interjected. You know that. He walked to the counter nearest to Hatch and Regina, pulling out his sketch pad and markers from the drawer. Regina, would you mind if I sketch your tattoo while Hatch continues?

Regina was taken aback by how mature Eddy sounded for a child so young. Uh . . . okay. Sure, she replied, although undecidedly. Hatch, are you sure he’s only eight? she whispered as Eddy pulled over a chair.

Making sure he was not in Hatch’s way, Eddy situated himself and began to sketch the tattoo. Hatch was free-handing a unique set of angel wings, beginning at the cleavage line of her full breasts and extending to each shoulder. Above the wings, wispy, scrolled lines complimented each wing’s shape.

As Eddy watched Hatch work, he felt a measure of sadness at the thought of never seeing him or his parlor again. He wondered if Hatch would miss him when he was gone. He would miss Hatch. He liked him and wished they could stay friends, but knew it was going to be impossible after tonight’s pending event. Most of all, Eddy wanted to thank Hatch for showing him his purpose in life and teaching him to be a man. He owed Hatch more than he could ever repay, but he vowed he would find a way to pay him back—someday.

After an hour had passed, Hatch finished the tattoo sketch. Glancing over at Eddy, still working diligently on his own drawing, Hatch leaned over and whispered into Regina’s ear. She pulled away, glaring at him. Then her eyes slid to Eddy and began filling with fear.

Are you crazy? she gasped, already deciding that he was. Hatch jerked her back, whispering into her ear a second time. Do you really think he can do it?

Hell, yeah, Hatch said with a firm nod. I know he can do it.

Eddy looked up from his sketch pad, puzzled by the terrified look on Regina’s face and the eager guise on Hatch’s.

God, Hatch. He’s just a kid, she whispered. What if he fucks it up?

"He won’t. As a matter of fact, I’ll guarantee it. I’ll give ya a cut on the price now, and if he fucks it up, I’ll fix it up . . . for free."

Regina leaned back in the chair, chewing on a polished fingernail, and pondering the proposition. How could she refuse an offer of that magnitude? After all, it was a rather large tattoo and the price was going to set her back plenty. She took a deep breath. Alright, you’re on, she accepted in a shaky voice.

Regina and Hatch both studied Eddy, who rose from his chair, his small fingers still clinging to his sketch pad. What are you saying, Hatch?

Regina agreed. You’re gonna start the ink, little man!

Eddy couldn't believe what he was hearing. Hatch had let Eddy practice tattooing on orange peels plenty of times, but never in his wildest dreams would he have believed that Hatch would let him tattoo one of his customers. But he was more than ready and willing, and there couldn't have been a better night to start.

Hatch set up the stainless-steel tattoo gun, poured the ink, and handed Eddy a pair of latex gloves. He slipped them on, noticing they were even larger than the ones he had worn earlier, but his attention quickly turned from this handicap when Hatch handed him the gun.

Eddy’s young face was brimming with self-assurance, but Regina didn’t look so confident in her decision to let Eddy tattoo her. She shifted in her seat, stuffing her hands underneath her thighs while tiny beads of sweat dappled her forehead. She squeezed her eyes shut, bit down on her lower lip, and waited for the session to begin. Eddy formed a slow, crafty smile, placing his left hand on Regina’s right breast. Pulling the skin taut, he turned on the tattoo gun, dipped the needle into the ink, and moved toward her.

Eddy could barely contain his excitement as the needle touched her skin. He felt Regina's body tense then relax. He heard a slight moan escape her throat and his pulse quickened. He worked in the needle using long strokes across her skin, encouraging her blood to bead at the ink line. As he wiped it away, the blood and ink blended, the sight giving Eddy a rush he'd never experienced.

Sizzling impulses ran through every inch of him and his mind and body responded. His heart pounded inside his chest, forcing the blood to burn through his veins, arousing his desires. He was losing himself to the moment, intoxicated by pure pleasure, and before Eddy knew what was happening, the colors came.

The same spectacle of colors which had shielded him earlier flowed, wrapping around him, and carrying him away. Beautiful hues of violet, amber, and cerulean banded together in slow, methodical swirls and Eddy couldn’t pull his eyes away. Then, just as before, the colors whirled with lightning speed, bursting into a spectrum of a million flashes until there was nothing left but the brilliant, silent white.

"Eddy? Hello, Eddy—snap out of it, kiddo," Hatch said, snapping his fingers in front of Eddy's face. Eddy was now staring at Hatch with blank black pools, fixed and hollow. Hatch snapped his fingers a second time and Eddy responded, his ice-blue eyes returning their normal gaze.

I'm okay, Hatch, Eddy said, glancing over at the neon wall clock. It was four in the morning. Three hours had passed, but for Eddy it seemed three seconds.

Regina was staring at her chest in the mirror, her eyes wide with astonishment. "Hatch, leave him alone and come here! Look at what he did—look at it! It's unbelievable, she uttered, releasing an awe-filled gasp. Oh, my God, he's a—what do you call it—a savant, or something! Regina's voice elevated an octave. You're an amazing kid, Eddy! I wouldn't of believed it if I hadn't seen it for myself. Letting out a giddy laugh, she ran to him, and kissed him squarely on the lips. I love it so much, hon," she whispered. Without further fanfare, Regina ran back to the mirror to again admire her new tattoo.

Eddy had finished the outline of the wings, the shadowing, and completed the scroll lines. There wasn’t much left for Hatch to do but clean up. He placed his hand on Eddy’s shoulder and spoke to him proudly, as a father would to a son. Eddy, I don’t know what happened to ya back there, but the work ya did on her was just . . . well, I’m speechless and that doesn’t happen to me. Ya have a natural talent, kiddo. Now I want ya to get going cuz it’s late. I need to finish her up, and ya need to get some sleep.

Eddy grabbed Hatch’s hand, delivering a firm handshake; man to man. Good night, Hatch, and thank you for everything.

Good night, little man, Hatch said, watching Eddy head for the exit.

As he walked through the door of the parlor for the last time, Regina yelled her thanks and good-bye too, but Eddy never looked back.

***

Jumping the steps two at a time, Eddy made his way up the stairs, reaching the apartment. He threw open the front door, allowing it to slam against the wall for effect. He walked inside, feeling different, as though the last four hours had turned him into a man. He spoke in a much deeper voice to taunt her. It is time, Mama, he announced, closing the door behind him and locking it. He turned to her.

She was still on the couch, conscious but dazed, and trying, unsuccessfully, to move. She gazed at him, bewildered. What the hell d'you do to me, Eddy? What d'you give me? she asked, shaking helplessly. "I'm not feelin' so good . . . I—I'm sick. Get me some help, Eddy. Just—just call someone, ‘kay? Help me . . . ."

Eddy sneered at her pleas. I am going to help you, Mama—don’t you worry about that now. I am going to take care of everything. I am going to help us both.

Eddy went to the bathroom for a moment then returned wearing the same latex gloves he’d worn earlier. Bewildered, her look turned angry as Eddy stood over her, rubbing his gloved hand across her cheek. He bent down, putting his lips to her ear. Are you scared, Mama? he whispered. His eyes met hers and his adolescent face revealed a fiendish grin. His lips returned to her ear once more. You should be . . . .

Eddy picked up the spoon, rubber tubing, and lighter, placing them on the table next to the sofa. He grabbed the syringe and disappeared into the bathroom.

Mama’s yelling and cursing reached Eddy’s ears as he opened the closet door, but he ignored her. He retrieved a cotton ball, and again, removed the Hydrocet and the unlabeled pill container from the shelf. Popping open the top, he poured its contents onto the counter. Three small packets of Mama’s liquid lover lie in front of him. He took two of the packets of heroin and left the last, along with its container, on the counter. He took out two more capsules of Hydrocet from the bottle, and filled the syringe with water.

Returning to Mama with his supplies, he sat beside her on the floor. She was trying to get up—trying to get away, but the concoction he’d slipped her earlier was working effectively, and the muscles in her body refused to comply with her wishes. She was swearing and pleading for Eddy to leave her alone, and tears were running down her face, but Eddy held his hand over her mouth to silence her.

I never cried when you beat me, Mama, and I never cried when you let those men do bad things to me. Now, I am making this easier for you. What will happen is really no different from what you do every day. The one little difference is that you won't wake up. It will be quick, and there won't be any pain, but I will make it hard for you if you make me. Don't make it hard, Mama. Do you understand?

Horrified, she nodded her head as if she understood, but she really didn't. She was in a state of utter dismay; unable to comprehend that her child—this ungrateful eight-year-old, snot-nosed punk—was capable of this rebellion. She had spent her life feeding and sheltering him, and now he was going to kill her. She did possess a clear understanding of one fact, though. She wasn’t going to be able to stop him.

Eddy took the syringe, waving it back and forth before her eyes, forcing her to look at it. Mama, I have watched you shoot this junk over and over. I bet I can even do this with my eyes closed, he said, boasting a broad grin.

He began the demonstration by squirting water from the syringe into the spoon. He placed the heroin and the powder from the Hydrocet capsules, into the spoon with the water and heated the mixture using the lighter. After the cut heroin turned to liquid, Eddy placed a small piece of the cotton into it. He stuck the needle into the cotton and pulled back the plunger to extract the liquid from the spoon. Then he forced enough liquid back out to remove any air bubbles from the syringe.

See, Mama? I have learned well, haven’t I? he asked, a venomous look shadowing his face.

"Eddy . . . please. Don’t—don’t do this, she begged. I—I promise I won’t ever hurt . . ."

Eddy cut her off, It is too late—it is just too late for promises now, he uttered, tying off her upper arm with the rubber tubing. He used his other hand to thump the bend of the same arm, encouraging the vein to rise to the occasion.

It’s time for you to go now, Mama, Eddy said with no emotional value. As Eddy pressed the needle almost flat against her arm on top of the exposed vein, Mama began to scream. He ignored her, closing his eyes and sliding the needle into her flesh until he thought he hit vein. He pulled the needle’s plunger back and bright-red blood flowed into the syringe.

He reopened his eyes. See? I told you I could do it, he said, brimming with satisfaction. Slowly, he injected the poison and Mama’s frantic screams changed to a low groan and her terrified stare turned to a gaze of rapture. He emptied the syringe into her arm, pulled out the needle and untied the tubing. Placing the syringe in her hand, he made sure her fingerprints were left behind then let her arm drop to the floor. He made sure the other items were also covered with her prints and performed a thorough check of the room. Satisfied that he had covered his tracks, he removed the gloves from his small hands, tucking them into his shorts pocket to dispose of later.

Eddy stood, stretched and yawned. He watched and waited while Mama’s life began to slowly drain away. Her eyes glazed and became transfixed on him as a small crimson drop trickled from her nose. Foamy-white saliva began spilling from her mouth as her shallow, intermittent struggles for breath came to a permanent and final end. Satisfied that Mama was finally dead, Eddy turned away smiling at the thought of this evening’s accomplishments.

This has been the best night ever, he said, entering his bedroom. Crawling into bed, Eddy fell fast asleep, dreaming about his future and the new life awaiting him.

Chapter 3

Baltimore, Maryland 2005

ALEX RYDER SAT staring out the driver’s side window, impatiently tapping his fingers on the leather-wrapped steering wheel of his black Crown Victoria. His gaze was fixed on the ramshackle house down the street from where he was parked. He’d been sitting on the place for more than six hours and his good nature was starting to fade with the light of the afternoon sun.

That informant of yours better be right, Jimmy, or dinner’s on you for the next week, he muttered with a sharp eye turned to his partner sitting in the passenger’s seat.

She swore, on her freedom, that’s where he lives. I can’t help it if our informants are deadbeat crack heads, Jimmy muttered back.

Detective James Hansen had been Alex’s partner for the last two years and their personalities were as opposite as ice and gasoline. Jimmy was cop to the core, straight-laced as a Sunday school teacher, and worked by the book. He was a touch too uptight for Alex’s tastes and his sense of humor was as dry as a grit of desert sand, but Alex trusted him implicitly. They worked well together and he was an excellent detective.

Jimmy, however, started as a rookie beat-cop, pounding the pavement in the toughest neighborhoods of the inner-city and was promoted to Homicide by the age of twenty-six. He acquired solid connections from his time in Hell that always proved invaluable. He could obtain any degree of information, on anyone, with a single phone call. Jimmy was always boasting that his sources were capable of leading him to any vermin running rampant in the city streets, and Alex was hoping today’s rat would be no exception.

Alex had been with Baltimore’s finest for over ten years and had seen a lot of death in his tenure, but one crime he had never got used to seeing, was an innocent child who had been slaughtered. He always took it to heart when it came to murdered kids, but it encouraged him to work twice as hard to see their killers put behind bars. He would prefer to see them with a bullet hole between their eyes, of course, or swinging from a high tree limb, but his opinions were