Gothica

By Jack Wallen

In the second book of the "Fringe Killer" series, Detective Davenport finds herself dealing with horror brought to life from the past. A killer is terrorizing the same building that held him prisoner - decades ago.

A killer from the past manages to escape the bonds of time and redefines "horror" for Jamie Davenport. In this new entry to the "fringe-killer" series, Gothica, Detective Davenport finds herself dealing with horror brought to life from the past. This time the killer is terrorizing the same building that held him prison - decades ago. The building now serves as a club for the darker denizens of Louisville...and a breeding ground for the emotions needed to bring evil back to Gothica.

Weaving elements of both the horror and the thriller genres together, Gothica tells the tale of the past and the present as they collide in the darkest recesses of a club built upon suffering and sorrow. Jamie Davenport and Skip Abrahm are tossed into a world of gothic delights and horror as another Fringe Killer is brought to life.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jack Wallen
• Release date: Dec 31, 2010
• ISBN: 9781452420417

Jack Wallen

Jack Wallen is what happens when a Gen Xer mind-melds with present day snark. Jack is a seeker of truth and a writer of words with a quantum mechanical pencil and a disjointed beat of sound and soul. Although he resides in the unlikely city of Louisville, Kentucky, Jack likes to think of himself more as an interplanetary traveler, on the lookout for the Satellite of Love and a perpetual movie sign...or so he tells the reflection in the mirror (some times in 3rd person). Jack is the author of numerous tales of dark, twisty fiction including the I Zombie series, the Klockwerk Movement, the Fringe Killer series, Shero, The Nameless Saga, and much more.

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Gothica

Jack Wallen

Copyright © 2008 by Jack Wallen

PUBLISHED BY: AUTUMNAL PRESS

On Smashwords

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual locals, events or persons living or dead entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of author's rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

* * * * *

To Stephanie. For support. For love. For acceptance.

* * * * *

Also by Jack Wallen

A Blade Away

I Zombie I

Shero

.1.

Mall - St. Matthews

Monday Afternoon

MALL COP. That's me. After managing to pull down one of the most psychopathic killers this city has ever seen, I get busted down to Mall Cop. Why? First and foremost, I'm a woman. Second, I'm a woman with a big mouth who's not afraid to let her superiors know just how she feels. Third, the one particular superior I happened to open my mouth to is a sexist bigot who likes nothing better than wielding his potbellied power around like it's the only foot-long hotdog and beer combo at the last Yankees game of the season. It's degrading, for sure. Used to be, the malls hired their own security guards. Somewhere along the way, Chief Cardiac Arrest decided he would use those positions to punish officers for various fouls and missteps.

The only misstep I had made was not breaking every toe on both of his feet when I apparently stepped all over them.

Hello...Jamie, are you there? Craig Wayne pulled me out of my own head.

Sorry...I was thinking about...it doesn't matter. I lied. It did matter. I hated what had happened to me. The only positive thing that had come out of this demotion was being able to spend more time with Craig Wayne. During my last real case, he had offered up a spark of interest and, without hesitation, I picked it up and ran with it. I have no idea where it's going to lead, but for the time being, he was the perfect distraction.

You want mustard with that pretzel? Craig asked, waving a package of mustard in front of my face. I must have been day dreaming for quite a while because I had no idea we had even decided to get snacks.

Sure. I agreed in an attempt to rouse myself to the present.

We turned to walk away from the pretzel stand, and I slammed right into a woman pushing a stroller. Craig was there at the rescue, stopping the stroller from tipping, and the woman from falling. As soon as I realized what I had done, I went to apologize to the woman and make sure she was okay.

The woman's face turned bright red, as if she were about to rip my head off and shove her baby's bottle down my neck...until she saw the uniform.

I'm very sorry...sometimes the stroller.... The woman began a barrage of apologies. I quickly held up my hands as if in surrender.

It's okay. It was my fault. Are you all right? My lame attempt to calm the woman had made things worse by causing the baby to cry.

Craig to the rescue…again. As if he were the child's father, he knelt in front of the stroller making goo-goo faces and sounds at the now giggling baby. It was a sight I never thought would make my baby room, as Skip was so fond of calling it, do flip flops in my body. It made me feel old, but at the same time, it made me feel alive. It made me want Craig even more, and in ways I never thought I'd want another person.

Stroller lady finally went packing as Craig stared at the vanishing stroller.

I want. Craig sighed.

The woman or the baby? I inquired, hoping beyond hope his goo-goo wasn't gaga for anything but the baby.

A baby, you git! Craig smacked my arm jokingly. His gaze remained longer than usual. Our eyes met and burned holes into one another's desire.

On duty. Damn!

I had to remind myself; otherwise, I would have been tasting the roof of his mouth. I couldn't help myself around him for some reason. Maybe it was the Fannie Mae Meltaway eyes?

You have mustard all over your shirt. Craig's voice broke through the moment. I looked down, and sure enough, my bad luck had continued all the way down the front of my uniform blouse.

Just my luck. I started swiping at the stain with a handful of napkins. I totally didn't think about the possible embarrassment of being next to such a beautiful man and having an enormous yellow stain on the breast of my shirt. I decided to quickly divert his attention from my mustardy chest.

So, you want kids? I flirted with possible disaster.

Sure―doesn't everyone? He asked between sexy nibbles on his pretzel.

Now, that's an arrogant way to view things. My mouth had opened before I had a chance to even think. I was fighting a losing battle today. I felt like I would have better luck running home, diving under the covers, and reliving today in my dreams. My dream life certainly wouldn't have had such a horrid story board as this farce of an interaction. And, the romantic comedy in my mind would never include mustard in any way, shape, or form.

I'm not sure what you mean. Craig obviously wanted to pull my foot out of my mouth for me just so I could explain, and probably manage to somehow insert the other foot.

I gulped and gathered my courage. What makes you think everyone wants to have children? Is it because it's just what we're supposed to do? I felt my blood begin to boil. I had to calm myself down before I blew my stack and ruined what could easily be the catch of a lifetime. So, I shut up.

Craig obviously noticed the clam-up job and just gave me the slightest smile as we turned to walk along the Mall's Grand Hall. We walked a few steps before he spoke. You were saying?

It's not important. The first words out of my mouth seemed so cold. I decided to warm them up. Yes, I think someday I'd like to have children as well. I think I would make a damn good mother. I said with just enough confidence to pull it off.

I would tend to agree with you, Jamie, Craig responded.

We walked in an easy silence for a moment. It was one of those moments where you just knew the other person was sharing the exact same thoughts. It was a moment generally saved for lovers, which was fine with me.

How much longer do you think you'll have to pull Mall Duty? Craig broke the silence to ask.

Until the chief decides I've paid my dues. So, I figure sometime around my retirement ought to do it. We shared a laugh. I honestly have no idea how long he'll keep me here. It's driving me crazy, though. He knows I don't belong here.

Everyone knows you don't belong here, darling. Craig put his arm around my shoulders. I tingled.

Hold on to the moment. Just hold on.

Before I could enjoy it, the all too familiar sounds of a fight breaking out caught my ear. I snapped to and looked at Craig, who seemed to be one step ahead of me. We took off toward the sound, running at full tilt. Down the main corridor and to the left (across from my favorite ice cream in town) was an ATM. In front of the ATM were two young kids and one older man. The older man had one of the younger boys in a headlock. The other kid was smacking the older man with his fist and kicking him with his combat-booted foot. The older man let the first kid out of the headlock and swung a hard right hook at his attacker. He connected and instantly dropped the kid, who immediately cried out and grabbed his face as blood began to pour from between his fingers.

Obviously, the kid on his feet saw both Craig and me because he started to make a break for the nearby door.

Hold up, short round! I ordered, but the brat didn't stop. I looked over at Craig, and he took flight.

Would someone care to tell me what is going on here? I turned to the older of the two, hoping that his age would at least lend a bit of truth to his tale.

The older man pointed a weary arm at the kid on the floor. He was a bit out of breath, but had enough wind to raise his voice well above polite volume. These two punk-ass kids tried to jack me for my cash.

God, I hated the way people talked these days. What ever happened to good grammar? In English, partner.

The man looked at me as if I had just sprouted tentacles. He hesitated, then repeated himself, this time, so that I could understand him.

I withdrew some cash from the ATM, turned around, and was jumped by these two punk kids who tried to mug me. As he spoke the bloody kid turned over, still holding his nose. Before the kid could open his mouth, Craig returned with the other one in tow.

How about you give me your side of the story. I said to the new member of the court. He stood silent. I looked around at all three. The kids were both looking at the ground, and the older man was staring at me as if I was nothing more than an inconvenience.

I'll give you to the count of three to talk. If you don't talk, I'm going to assume this man's recount of what happened is the truth and take you in. I looked between the two kids―got nothing. So I counted.

One.

Nothing.

Two.

Still nothing.

Three.

Zilch.

I walked over and jerked the bloody kid up by his arm and turned to the victim. Would you please follow us so we can take a statement from you?

Look lady, I don't really care to press any charges. I'm in a hurry. I have all my money, and I'd rather just go. Is that okay? The man seemed frazzled, with good reason. I really had no recourse. If he didn't want to press charges, I had to let them all go. Of course, that didn't mean I couldn't scare a few years off the boys' lives. I motioned the older man to leave.

Once the man was out of sight, I turned to the boys and glared. You got lucky today. Had that man decided to press charges, you'd wind up being some guy named Moose's girlfriends. I would have thought the idea of becoming the next prison pin-up girl would instill the fear of God into the boys, but they only laughed. I started to feel the power draining from my fingertips. One of the things they failed to teach in academy was how to deal with indignant, punk-ass kids.

The two kids stared back at me as if they were in control of the situation...as if they were the ones with the badges and the guns.

Hey! Craig's voice cracked through the bitter silence. You kids want to show a little respect, or would you rather have my size-eleven steel toes shoved up your ass? Huh? Which is it going to be? Respect or ass? Craig's voice obviously resonated within the kids' fear because they instantly meta-morphed into petrified little statues of themselves.

I stood in front of the boys. Now, I want you to give me your names, and don't even think about lying, or my pal here will start shining up a boot for each of you.

After the boys had given me their names, I sent them packing. Craig and I strolled away from the scene. That's probably the most excitement I'll ever get here, isn't it? I was afraid of Craig's answer before I had even asked the question.

That's about it. He laughed.

I stopped and turned to him. Hey, when did you get busted down to Mall Cop?

Craig Wayne just turned and walked on. There was a bit of laughter in his swagger. I caught up to him. Why are you here? Not that I'm complaining, but you don't have to be… Before I could finish, Craig interrupted.

Can I ask you something? His voice had a secretive tone. You don't have to answer it if you don't want to.

I wasn't sure if I should be nervous about whatever it was he was about to hit me with. Go ahead. My voice had 'Duck' written all over it.

Craig stopped and turned; his look was tragically serious. You're probably the best officer we have on the force. You know you could fight this punishment, and I just can't figure out why you don't. His eyes focused deeply on mine. So my question is―why don't you fight it?

I stood looking at this wonderful man, not sure exactly how to answer him. Eventually, I spit out the only thought that came to mind. It's a matter of principle.

Craig's fierce gaze turned to mush as he tried to wrap his mind around my answer. I don't get it.

If I fought this, I'm sure it would look like just another whiny, female cop trying to stomp her heels to get her way. I don't want that on my record. And no matter if I win or lose, my chances of finally making Homicide would be out the door. I take my job very seriously, and if this is my assignment... I stopped dead in my tracks before the BS got too thick. He caught on to my trick, and we both shared a laugh.

You're already working your way back, aren't you? Craig offered a sinister how can I help smile.

A lady never reveals all of her secrets.

Can I ask you something else? Only this time, you have to answer.

I gestured for him to continue.

Would you have dinner with me tonight? I decided that I wouldn't let him see just how thrilled I was at his asking; I had to leave him something to work for, after all.

I would love to. I said as I felt the warmth pour from my smile.

.2.

The Deep

1942

THE SOUND of the stick smacking against the bars woke up most of the inmates in the D Wing. The wood-on-metal clank resonated through each skull as the stick landed inches from their hairlines. The officer knew full well he could crack open any one of these forgotten imbeciles and not suffer so much as a slap on the wrist. It gave him a power his lowly rank did not.

Up! Get yer asses up! His voice was nearly as harsh as the light that now seeped through the encrusted slits in their eyes. It was earlier than usual, which only meant trouble.

Sod off, ya sack of lard! Lem growled. The cold mist left his mouth and wafted through the air. And give us some bloody heat...freezing my stones off.

I'll get right on that, Queen of England. He smacked his stick to punctuate his sarcasm.

Bullocks!

Mornin', sunshine! The warden poked at Eek, the smallest of the lot, who sat urgently at the edge of his cot. How's everyone's pet rat today? The guard laughed at his own prodding.

Eek happy, the tiny man said with a blackened smile. His teeth had rotted away long ago due to his penchant for eating his own waste. Wanna kiss? Eek puckered his lips and sent an imaginary kiss through the air toward the guard. His howling laugh reverberated off the concrete walls bringing the entire D wing up in arms.

Quiet down! The guard's scream tore through the ears of the insane men and brought them to silence. He spit into the cell of Eek, the spittle landing on the frail man's cheek, and moved on.

The only sound was the heel of the guard's boots meeting the cement floor. Even the stick had stopped tattooing the cell bars.

The guard stopped in front of the only remaining sleeper in the D wing – Freeny. No one knew if Freeny was his first or his last name, and no one cared to ask. Freeny had been living among the 'dead' for the last five years. He was the unquestioned Overlord of The Deep, and no one threatened his rule. He was feared by everyone, armed or not, and with good reason. Freeny was evil. Of all the murderers, thieves, and rapists, Freeny was the one that stood alone, causing the guards to pause and take the safety off their pistols.

Freeny wasn't a huge man. He stood 5' 10", which was a fraction below average height in The Deep. His head was clean shaven, revealing a thicket of scars he'd won inside the walls of his current home. His hands were thick, and his arms scant above average. What really made Freeny frightening were his eyes. His right eye was brown―the kind of brown that should smell like smoldering feces. The left eye, however, was white. He claimed that he had traded the devil the color in his eye for the taste of a beautiful woman. Taller tales would conclude that the Devil took the color from his eye because his soul was too black for hell.

No one knew what crime brought Freeny to The Deep, but everyone knew why he remained. Although perfectly silent, Freeny would randomly shift between personalities. One minute, he would seem a diminutive gentleman, the next he would, without provocation, scramble to rip out someone's heart. One never knew which Freeny was going to appear. When the man entered a room, there was always a period of discovery―which madman are we dealing with today?

Up and at 'em, sweetheart. Time for confession. The guard's monotone voice sent the eager inmates scrambling back to the darkened corners of their cells. Everyone in The Deep knew 'confession' all too well. Confession was where they spilled their guts―one way or another. The 'doctors' would have their way with them until every ounce of sin, crime, truth, and lie was wrung from their souls. And 'confession' could come in any form. For the weak, confession was simply a small room, a single light, a guard, and a tape recorder. For others, confession came in the form of experimental psycho-therapeutic procedures. Those 'patients' lucky enough to be weak would return to their cells unharmed. The less fortunate would return to their cells having been lobotomized or put in casts, hideous restraints, torturous devices, or worse. Freeny, however, always seemed to return more vicious than before he went. No one could figure out why he hadn't been broken. And no one really wanted to know, because in the knowing would surely come damnation. Or worse.

There was no movement from Freeny.

Wake up, Freeny! The guard's voice growled impatiently at having to repeat the command.

The inmates shivered. No guard had called Freeny by name in months. The last to do so had wound up being flushed down the crapper, piece by bloody piece.

Slowly but surely, a slithering movement began to rustle the wool blanket on Freeny's bunk. A strange hissing sound began to leak through the air. Those close enough, and smart enough to be frightened out of their wits, awaited a serpent to rise from the cot.

None did.

As the wool blanket was slowly peeled off the head of Freeny, it was apparent he was still just the man. No devil or demon had replaced him in the night. Or maybe one should say no other devil or demon had replaced him in the night.

Freeny slowly sat up in his cot. He tilted his head to the left and then to the right, as if he were a wolf listening to the distant cry of some wounded prey. He straightened his head, content in knowing the prey would wait, and stood with frightening purpose. He didn't bother to turn around and face the guard. He just planted his feet next to his cot and placed his hands to his sides. He didn't speak. He just stood there, mocking every bit of the guard's authority.

The silence solidified into tension. Both men slowly inhaled, and then exhaled. It was a power-play common inside the walls of The Deep. The guards never let the inmates see the fear that resonated constantly within the minds of anyone venturing within the walls of the D Wing.

But Freeny was a master of fear and resilience. He could stand there forever as long as he felt the fear boiling in the guard's blood.

The guard, on the other hand, had a duty. That duty precluded playing games with his ward. Okay, Freeny―treatment time.

Freeny slowly turned his head to look at the guard. The guard tucked his fear deep, but it was in vain.

Freeny smiled at the guard without showing teeth. It was rumored Freeny made a deal with the devil and had a mouth filled with the teeth of a demon, pointed and razor-sharp. Nary an inmate was brave enough to get within biting distance to know the truth. Some thought the man simply didn't have any choppers to show. Others insisted they had seen glimpses of metal inside his mouth, and that he could bite through the bars of the cells in one snap.

Assume the position, Freeny. The guard waved his stick from side to side to remind the man what could happen should he decide to misbehave.

Freeny knelt down on the floor next to the cell door and put his head between his knees and his hands behind his back. The guard reached through the bars, cuffed Freeny's hands, and then repeated the procedure with his ankles.

Now stand, walk away from the door, and turn around slowly. Freeny complied, and the guard opened the door. Slowly step out of the cell and walk ahead of me. Again, the madman complied.

As the two-man funeral stepped its way down the concrete, D Ward erupted into a mad symphony of sounds. The guard broke out in a cold, fear-induced sweat.

Dum dum da dum! One of the crazies was singing the wedding march as Freeny and the guard passed his cell. The guard smacked the bars with his stick, and the moron shut his mouth as he slid under his cot.

When they reached the end of the hall, they were standing in front of the cell containing one of the nastiest of the inmates. Fat Jimmy had earned his nickname from cannibalizing an entire family. He had left nothing remaining after a two month period of breakfast, lunch, and dinner meals that consisted of the Brock Wayne family of Louisville. When he was caught, he confessed that God had spoken to him through the mouth of a black angel, telling him he must dine on the flesh of the wealthy in order to reach heaven.

He was nowhere near heaven.

Freeny turned his head toward Fat Jimmy's cell. Fat Jimmy was in the middle of taking his hourly shit. (He was sure there were bits and pieces of the Wayne family trapped in his bowels.)

Without thinking, Fat Jimmy stood and hobbled over to the cell bars. The devil. That's what you are, Freeny. You are the devil, and God has told me that you and your palace of sin will soon burn to the ground. You are evil!

Freeny lunged at the sweaty, obese man. Fat Jimmy stumbled backward and fell hard to the floor. He pissed on himself in the process. Freeny just laughed softly and continued his forward march.

When they reached their destination, Freeny found himself in the usual examination room. In the center of the room was a chair bolted to the floor. The chair had been wired for electroshock and other forms of torture hidden under the guise of science. Next to the chair was a gurney―not the standard fare for this room. Something was up.

Well, Mr. Freeny. Always a pleasure to see you walk through my door. Dr. Scheller was a small, almost frail, man. On the surface, he seemed to really care about the 'patients'. Underneath, however, a different man laid in wait.

Scheller was a man bound and gagged to a psychiatric system that fed on his experimentation. Since his 'patients' were the dregs of society, society never took notice when one of its own fell under the blade (or the chair) of Dr. Scheller. The State, of course, funded every last endeavor Scheller inflicted upon the human psyche. Vicious and slow in his torture, Scheller tested the walls between sanity and insanity on a daily basis and knew how to build them and break them down as easily as a child with Lincoln logs.

Freeny had become a particular favorite of Dr. Scheller. The doctor was obsessed with finding the secret behind the demonic eyes of this particular killer. The treatments had begun with the pulling of all of Freeny's teeth. Scheller had initially thought the amount of decay in the inmate's teeth was contributing to his insanity. The doctor never spoke a word of Freeny's empty mouth to the inhabitants of The Deep, letting rumor feed the fires of fear.

When the oral extraction showed no signs of improving Freeny's mental state, the doctor moved on to a round of less-than-pharmaceutical-quality drugs. Most of these drugs were concocted in Scheller's own lab in the hope of stumbling upon the latest miracle psychotropic cure. None came. All Scheller managed to do was, on a number of occasions, leave Freeny catatonic. When the patient awakened, his condition was usually far worse than his previous state. He would develop newer, more violent personalities, or his shifts toward insanity would last for longer periods.

Freeny's last round of treatment with Scheller had been with an increasing dosage of LSD. The treatment lasted a number of months. With each visit, Scheller had increased the dosage sent through Freeny's system until there was nothing more to inject. No one had ever withstood such torture under Scheller's hand. Most men expired under such horrific circumstances. Freeny, on the other hand, had beaten him at his own game. But, at what cost? No one was aware that after the last session, the madman had begun to hear odd sounds and voices. He knew they were in his head, and he was sure the voices