CHAPTER III

VISIONS OF EVIL

BY BARRY REESE

Atlanta, Georgia - June 1936

Max ran the cold washcloth over his naked chest, examining the extensive network of scars that ran across his flesh. There was a story behind each and every one of them, most involving gunfire, whips and fists. Moving here to Atlanta had been Max's way of saying enough was enough and that he was now ready to put the life of pain and death behind him.

That decision lasted approximately three weeks. It was that long before he'd discovered that a man named Felix Darkholme had begun a series of vile experiments on local poor. Max had found himself falling into the old roles all too easily, donning the skintight black jumpsuit of his own devising. The material of the suit was made of a light-absorbing material that was resistant to small arms fire, without restricting his movement in the least. The fabric had been one of Max's first discoveries, created during his time in the Orient. Max had traveled the world shortly after turning eighteen, spending time with a Sensei in Kyoto and studying under many of the world's great scientists and philosophers. All of it had been part of his ongoing mission to better himself, so that the entire world might benefit from his experiences. He had become the Rook to ferret out the evils of society, to find those who slipped through the cracks like hungry snakes, seeking out the innocent to prey upon.

Darkholme. Memories of the man came rushing back to him, turning his thoughts away from those concerning his distant past. Max set aside the washcloth and dried himself off, feeling refreshed but knowing that the sweltering heat would find him drenched in sweat again soon enough. Still, the sense of being clean would last at least long enough for Max to make it to the party being thrown by his nearest neighbor, a local banker by the name of Beauregard Ellis.

Donning a clean shirt, Max picked up the unfinished letter that lay upon his nightstand. It was addressed to the Nova Alliance, a group of men and women based in Boston who shared his passions. Leopold Grace was the current president of the Alliance and one of Max's oldest and dearest friends. They had met in Paris back in '27, when the Red Lord had tried to seize power in the Parisian underworld. Heady days, those were.

Max plucked up a pen and sat down, the sheet of paper still gripped in his fingers. He ordered his thoughts before resuming the narrative he'd begun before Sam's arrival.

Leopold, you should have seen the horrors that Darkholme had foisted upon the poor fools he'd trapped in his lair. It brought to mind some of the stories you've told me about your family's own adventures in the realms of shadow and nightmare. The madman had turned his storm cellar into a torturer's delight, with chains that hung from the ceiling and beds wired with electricity. But worst of all were the noxious smelling chemicals that he fed his prisoners, forcing their bodies to alter in ways that God never intended. He'd taken the heart of the chemicals from several lakes and streams located near Tunguska, the site of that horrible explosion from '08. Apparently, the source of said explosion was a meteorite that fell to Earth and detonated in mid-air. The meteorite contained creatures, Leopold! Tiny, almost microscopic creatures! They floated in these solutions of Darkholme's, looking like brine shrimp… only with such malevolence to their appearance that it chilled the blood in my veins! Darkholme was feeding these things to the poor souls he captured… and the beasts wrought horrible effects upon them, devouring parts of their brain and making them susceptible to Darkholme's suggestions.

Luckily, Darkholme's pets proved to be no match for my revolver, though it pained me to end their lives. I kept hoping that there would be some cure to be found for them… alas, their murderous intent made it impossible for me to snare one for study. Darkholme himself nearly escaped into the countryside but I managed to catch his trail before the moon's light faded behind the clouds. I shot him dead, ridding the world of a great evil, and then set fire to the house itself, to ensure that no one else would ever duplicate his experiments. The only thing I kept from the awful place was a silver dagger inscribed with mystic runes. Eventually, I'll send the weapon on to you for study, but in the meantime I've been carrying it with me.

I left behind one of my calling cards, though I knew it would be wiser not to. There's some compulsion that compels me to take responsibility for my actions, Leopold. Perhaps it assuages my guilt somehow, for the taking of human lives. Or perhaps it is vanity….

Regardless, my actions have brought renewed scrutiny upon myself. Had things gone differently, I never would have chosen the life of secrecy in which I now hide. I would have made my deeds public, like our friend Clark did. I hear that the authorities welcome him and his friends these days. Of course, his preferred means of dealing with criminals is lancing into their brains and removing the parts of the mind that compel them to commit evil deeds. More humane than putting a bullet into their skulls, I suppose.

I will endeavor to stay out of the limelight for the time being, old friend. Give my regards to Clark, Lamont and the rest.

Max finished the missive by artfully drawing in the shape of a blackened bird. He sat back in his chair, closing his eyes for a moment as throbbing pain began to appear behind his forehead. These horrible headaches had plagued him since his youth, when he'd seen his father gunned down… they'd appeared with regularity ever since, usually carrying with them visions of dark portent. Leopold had claimed they were bursts of precognition, helping guide Max along his path. But to Max, they were as much a curse as a blessing. They had led him to Darkholme and others like him. They made it impossible for him to set aside the Rook identity and live a life of peace.

Max gritted his teeth, trying in vain to avoid crying out in pain. He saw a crystalline object, glowing with an inner fire. A man held it in one hand, a look of almost orgasmic pleasure flitting across his features. There was a name attached to the man and Max whispered it aloud as the pen slipped from his fingers, clattering to the floor. "Trench," Max said, before the image shimmered to reveal the face of a bald man with a long white beard. From the shape of his eyes, Max thought him to be Chinese… and very, very old. "K'ntu," Max said, the pounding in his skull increasing until spittle flew from his lips and he jerked out of his chair. He heard his servants' footsteps, hurrying to his bedroom door. They'd heard him cry out and were concerned. "Can't be found like this," Max whispered, forcing the images from him. As he did so, the pain became a dull ache in the background of his consciousness.

Sorry, Sam. I really did mean to stay out of trouble… but it looks like the Rook's going to be needed again.

Lucifer's Cage stories & The Rook © Barry Reese. HTML © Tim Hartin.

[  Home  |  New Cases  |  Case History  |  Cliffhanger Agency  ]

Web Design by Paratime Design