Arrival By Wrath.

By Thomas Matthews.

To Mom and Dad.

Prologue.

"Well, let's get started, shall we?" the plastic surgeon said calmly. "Ten blade." The nurse placed the scalpel in his sterile, gloved hand, then proceeded to check the patient's vitals.

The surgery was to be routine. On the table before them was another actress, perhaps even a model by the looks of her. The doctor a.s.sumed she was probably famous, therefore, the usual precautions had been taken. She had registered with the clinic under a name that sounded fake, but had checked out nonetheless. She entered the building incognito for all of her consults and paid in cash to avoid a paper trail. The surgeon had been tempted to check out her address, just to see if it was real, but decided against it. Such mistrust tended to conflict with one's paycheck.

Still, he reasoned, she had to be small-time. Even if he had known her real name, there was no guarantee he would recognize who she was, or more important, care.

The surgeon wasn't surprised by her actions. Most of the young starlets did things that way. It could ruin their career if anyone found such things out, especially for this one. She was to have her already large bust augmented again, a must for selling out those theaters. Additionally, during the same procedure she was to have collagen injections in her lips and Botox in her forehead. On top of this, her hair was clearly a dye job, and she showed no signs of age, an artificial perfection seldom noticed by the general public. To the medical community, however, it tended to stand out like a sore thumb.

Making the first periareolar incision around her left areola, the doctor sighed to himself. Such beauty was close enough to perfection already, even if he could sense the absence of natural tone. He'd seen the same downward spiral a thousand times before. This one was on her way out, trying hopelessly to get noticed once more before washing out completely. That would be the only reason why someone as beautiful as she would purposely undergo so much unnecessary work. Nevertheless, if such people didn't feel the need to strive for impossible perfection, he'd have been out of a job long ago.

The woman on the table before him was usually how the final result of his surgeries looked. Her face was exactly what female patients would point to and say, "Make me look like her."

"Looking good, doctor," the nurse said.

He chuckled lightly and shook his head in amus.e.m.e.nt at that tattoo he'd first noticed on her breast during the initial consults. The word "Pride" was written in flowing black letters. It was exactly the kind of script one would see on some ancient scroll, both lasting and beautiful, like pure emotion etched upon the skin. It was obvious the word must have had meaning to her, but the way it was written was an expression unto itself.

He informed her before the surgery that breast augmentation would distort the lettering, but she hadn't cared in the least.

"I can always get another one," she had said indifferently, leafing through the fashion magazine she'd been reading at the time.

"Kind of an appropriate tattoo, don't you think?" the surgeon said to his nurse.

"Maybe they should all have one like that," the nurse replied casually. "Right on their forehead for all to see."

Soon after making the initial incision, he began hollowing out the pocket in her breast for the subglandular implant.

"Did you do anything last night?" the doctor asked, still concentrating on his work.

"Just saw a movie," the nurse replied. "No biggie."

"Alone?" he asked.

"No. I went with a girlfriend of mine," she said.

"I haven't been out in a while myself," he said, still working. "Been a little busy around here. I suppose that's a good thing, huh?"

The nurse didn't feel the need to reply. He was right. Business had been good. There were many patients who used their practice as a starting point before their journey to Los Angeles. A smaller, Chicago-based clinic helped their clients stay below radar.

The pair worked for a while longer in silence before the pocket was completed.

"Pa.s.s me the first implant, please," he said casually.

The surgeon inserted the implant in the woman's hollowed out breast, deflated and rolled up in the shape of a cigar. A small tube was attached to the end, used to fill it with saline. It went in smoothly. When in place, he attached the syringe to the other end and filled the woman's implant.

"That looks good," the nurse confirmed.

"Thank you," he said as he pushed on the plunger, watching her breast grow larger.

Just as he'd predicted, the lettering of her tattoo warped as he further inflated her left breast. The word grew wider across her skin, then started to fade. Immediately, he noticed an abnormality. In all of his surgeries, he'd never seen the ink of a distorted tattoo act like that. It wasn't stretching out in the way they usually did after such stress. It appeared to be draining away, spreading out like liquid under the skin, but it moved so slowly that he barely noticed at first.

"Something wrong, doctor?" the nurse asked after a pause.

"No, no. Just a wipe would be nice," he said, knowing that even if the woman had received her tattoo in prison with a rusty needle, the ink should still be acting normally. Regardless, her vitals were all in the green.

As the nurse patted his forehead, the doctor returned to work, this time making an incision on the other breast. The identical procedure went off without a hitch. He occasionally checked on the tattoo, noticing that it hadn't changed much. It still looked as if it were flowing slowly beneath the dermis. Though it was never far from his mind, her vitals remained at acceptable levels, so it didn't appear to be a problem.

Within an hour, her b.r.e.a.s.t.s were safely completed and held behind bandages, no doubt waiting eagerly to show them to the world in her next picture or perhaps just to the first director who waved a contract in front of her face.

With a table full of scarlet-stained medical tools, the doctor took a short break and asked for another wipe before continuing. As the nurse dabbed his forehead, his eyes casually glanced at the patient's left breast, safely concealed beneath the bandages. Appearing normal, he finally convinced himself that he was worrying over nothing.

"Alright, bring out the collagen please," he said. After a thorough inspection of the patient's lips, both inside and out, the doctor was ready to proceed. The tissue in her mouth was clean and surprisingly untainted by past injections. During the initial consult even he had been surprised to learn that her lips had never been touched before.

Just as with her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, he knew it was unnecessary to be injecting collagen, but she had insisted, like they all did. "The joy of living in a free country," he muttered to himself.

The nurse placed the first syringe in his hand. Pulling back the lip again, the doctor stopped. He brought his face closer to the inside of her mouth.

"Nurse, that wasn't there a second ago, was it?" he said, confused.

"No. . ." Her voice trailed off as she leaned closer. "We just did the inspection a few seconds ago. She didn't have any tattoos in there. It looks just like the one-" The surgeon handed the collagen back to the nurse, cutting her off.

"What the h.e.l.l?" the doctor said, looking downward. The bandage on her breast, right above the tattoo, was soaked through with a black liquid that was gradually spreading across the white gauze.

"That can't be blood, can it?" the nurse asked with growing concern. "That isn't even near the incision site."

"Do you smell that?" he said in response, then, without waiting for a reply, ordered, "Scissors." He was going to have to see what was under there. The nurse was right-he hadn't even operated on that part of her breast. If there was something leaking from the incision, it would be much lower.

Quickly, he cut away the excess bandages and removed the soaked fabric right above the tattoo. Still swollen from surgery, her b.r.e.a.s.t.s remained covered in antiseptics that gave her skin a synthetic brown hue. He looked at the left breast immediately, to inspect the tattoo.

It was gone.

The underside of the bandage was soaked through with black fluid, but there was no evidence the tattoo had ever been on her skin. "This can't be happening," he said. Medically, it was impossible. Tattoos had to be removed with lasers over long periods of time. They didn't disappear just because the skin was stretched during breast augmentation surgery.

"Something is wrong here," said the surgeon to his nurse. "I'm stopping this procedure."

The patient's vitals spiked the instant he stopped speaking. The bland beeping tone of the machine going wild with emergency warnings filled the room.

"Her temperature is through the roof," shouted the nurse. "She's hypoxic!"

"s.h.i.t," the doctor said. "Increase her oxygen." After a moment, her O2 levels continued to spiral downward. "This isn't working-get the paddles!"

The nurse ran over to the other side of the room and grabbed the crash cart, wheeling it back to the operating table.

"Charging," the nurse said, trying to keep an eye on both the patient and the machine. The defibulator instantly came to life with a low whirl.

"Clear." He placed the paddles on the patient's chest and jolted her heart. Her body spasmed and came back to rest.

"Nothing," said the nurse. Her vitals were still going wild.

"Charging," the doctor repeated, then, "clear!"

After the second jolt, she still hadn't come back. He tried several more times to revive her, but after the fifth shock, her vitals remained flat-lined.

"s.h.i.t," screamed the doctor, throwing the expensive paddles to the ground. He paused for another moment, removing his gloves. "Time of death 10:18 am."

After the intensity of the moment had pa.s.sed, he switched off the machine, silencing the incessant beeping of the EKG. In the stillness, the doctor's reason returned to him, seeing the exposed breast, no longer besmirched by a warped tattoo.

"Let me see her lip again," the doctor ordered to the nurse. He was unable to touch the body himself as he was no longer wearing his gloves. Carefully, his subordinate pulled down her lip, exposing the soft inside that rested against her teeth. There, in the same handwriting, with flowing black letters was the word "Pride" just as it had appeared on her breast.

Her tattoo had moved on its own.

Chapter 1.

One week later, Detective Preston Burroughs sat lazily in his office. He reclined precariously in a worn and tattered rickety old desk chair. His feet rested casually on his desk with legs crossed, keeping the balance between himself and the chair alive. In his hands, he held a manila envelope stuffed to the brim with crime scene reports. It was practically heavy enough to act as a counterweight, preventing him from falling backward.

The glare from the evening sun in the windows of the old Chicago police precinct shined into his eyes as the reddish orb began its final descent behind the skysc.r.a.pers.

"Can somebody close the blinds for me?" Preston said through the open door. Slowly, he brought his feet back down to the ground, the chair letting out a dull moan from the aged metal and wood.

The windows facing west were located on the far side of the building, between him and the rows of desks located just outside his office. A nameless uniformed officer, or Uni as they were called, obliged. The man closed several of the blinds, blocking out the suddenly piercing light. Preston offered a wave of thanks through the gla.s.s in the wall, then returned his gaze to his desk. With a sigh, he placed the large envelope down and began sifting through old papers, trying to glean something new.

He always tried to keep his office clean and plain, focused only on the case at hand, so that upon leaving and entering he could pick up right where he left off. Although his desk was cluttered with all manner of photographs and folders, his walls were bare, save for the large bulletin board hanging behind his desk. That was what hit him every time he entered.

Both apparent and shocking, it was covered in crime scene photos and pictures of victims in his latest, unusually violent case.

He squinted as the last lingering light poked through a small opening in the blinds, then faded just as quickly. Preston wondered how many times he'd watched the sun set behind the city from his weathered chair. The late nights had been almost constant, and the sight of the glow fading away into gloom yet again didn't grace him with a pleasant mood.

In his late forties, Preston was a shining example of success in the department. He had a stellar career and brandished an excellent case record. Most important of all, his reputation was spotless. He never went outside the law like some officers. He'd never planted a bag of drugs on a perp to get a conviction or coerced a witness into saying something that wasn't true. It was all done through legal means. Every time.

Despite his record, Detective Burroughs had lost what most had in striving to have an excellent career. His family situation was in shambles, and money was usually tight. His ragged brown hair was starting to succ.u.mb to the gray of premature age due to stress. He also perpetually wore an equally ragged five o' clock shadow, but that was somehow still managing to hold off the color of time.

Lately, his eyes were bloodshot due to lack of sleep, but the previous week had been kinder to him than most. That thought alone helped him rationalize that he looked better than usual. Consequently, he'd worn a nice cerulean tie to work, which stuck out cleanly from his brown, albeit wrinkled leisure suit.

In the middle of the biggest case of his career, it had been months since Preston had any time to relax at work. It was just one of those lucky coincidences that there were no pressing leads that day. No instances of his case had spilled over into the streets all week. It was nice, but he already knew it was only the eye of the storm.

Bloodstrife. That was the name of Chicago's newest narcotic plague. It was a devastating new drug that had first appeared on the streets four months prior. For the time being, it was localized only to the city, but Preston knew it was only a matter of time before it spread across the country, then the world. That was why this case was more stressful than most. It wasn't just about catching the traffickers; it was about halting a global epidemic.

Moreover, it was the second time in his career that he was truly terrified of the possible outcome of a case. The way he saw it, the investigation may well end up being the most important event of his life.

For that reason, the press had been hounding him for an interview. Begrudgingly, he'd agreed, siding with what he perceived to be the greater good. Granted, getting the word out was always a good thing, but, in his experience, the warmth of the spotlight quickly started to burn.

But all that could wait. With the rare lack of a pressing engagement, Preston had been instinctively doodling on a blank pad of paper in front of him. What had started out as swirly lines and cartoon characters had now begun to form the emergence of a face. The eyes were deep and innocent, full of life. He stopped himself, dropping the pen and taking a deep breath.

Lately, when he had a moment to himself, he'd been drawing. In the last few weeks the pages had started to litter the floor of his home. It had been a pleasant way to escape work at first, but now he was starting to remind himself a little too much of bad memories, floating upward like black clouds.

He ripped the sheet off the pad and tore it in half before letting it fall quickly into the trash beside his desk.

Tapping his fingers, Preston found himself growing nervous. Looking downward, he picked up the fragments and tore them in half twice more, following the confetti as they left his hand, returning to the basket below.

Glancing back at the case files, Preston returned quickly to work. Unfortunately, he had to deal with something much more unpleasant in the afternoon. The local school also wanted him to talk to the students. Like all illicit drug manufacturers, the distributers were targeting the kids as well as anyone else.

It was rotten stuff. The things he had seen were- A knock on his already open door broke his train of thought.

"Preston, you got a minute?" the man asked.

"Jack, for the first time in a long time, I can honestly say I do," Preston relayed with a smile. He was thankful for the distraction.

Preston's partner, Jack Paige, entered confidently. The two men had been friends since the academy. Their skills were comparable, which meant they usually held the same rank. Preston had been a.s.signed as a detective for the narcotics division first, but only by one day. Looking back, he would have given his friend mock orders for a few hours had it been a more pleasant time in his life.

Unlike Preston, Jack had easily managed to hold his family together all these years. Judging by outward appearances, the bond was still strong. Although he looked equally ragged, Preston knew that with Jack it was all somehow temporary, as if the gray came out of his partner's hair when he took his suit off at night and kissed his wife.

"Good," Jack continued. "I've got something that's right up your alley," he said, placing another manila folder on Preston's desk.

Opening it, Preston saw photos of a dead body, a woman partially covered in bandages. More of the images revealed that she was on an operating table. Her naked breast was exposed, obviously still maimed from surgery.

Most of the body was pale, save for the parts still coated in iodine, or whatever they had used. Preston could almost smell the chemicals. The artificial color presented a thin illusion that her body still held life.

"A drug-related murder I take it?" asked Preston uncaringly. "Otherwise, I don't think it would be coming across our desk."

"Nope, we're not in homicide, remember, no matter how much it feels like it with this case we're working on. This one is a Narc case, pure and simple-right up our alley," he said casually. "Cause of death is allergy to anesthesia. Pretty cut and dry. The doctors don't even have a malpractice suit on their hands because apparently she checked in under a false name and gave bad medical information to the plastic surgeons."

"Okay. Good news for them, I guess." Preston paused. "Remind me why this is a Narc case again?"

"Trust me," said Jack with a sparkle in his eye. "I'm going somewhere with this." Preston sat up, noticing that Jack had something up his sleeve.

"I'm listening."

"Anyway," Jack continued, "she kicked off about a week ago during routine surgery. After she died, they think they managed to uncover who she really was. On previous medical records, she had indicated a genetic condition called Malignant Hyperthermia," he said, slowly sounding out the medical jargon. He raised his eyebrows and shrugged, a.s.suming he had come close enough. "Anyway, it's an allergy to the general anesthesia that ended up killing her. The patient was aware of what would happen and didn't say anything."