"Yes?" Preston asked, his voice raspy and hoa.r.s.e from the strangulation. As soon as the squad arrived, a paramedic had checked him out, saying only that he would be fine if he drank water and kept conversation to a minimum. Detective Burroughs didn't see the latter happening.

"My name is Jason McGovern. I'm one of the forensic scientists they've enlisted to help you with your a.n.a.lysis."

"Great," Preston said with a shrug, hoping the conversation would be brief. The pile of evidence surrounding him was a boon, both to his career and his personal life. It wasn't something with which he wanted to be kept waiting. "What can I do for you?"

"I was hoping I could pick your brain for a moment. You see, I'm going to need all your information on the catalyst and the ingredient that you've gathered so far. The original case files-everything. I'm working on something that I think could turn out to be big," he said, using his arm to wipe away more sweat that had collected on his forehead.

Preston shook his head. "You should know we're not at liberty to give that out. My partner and I both appreciate what you're doing for us, but the rest of the case files aren't required to conduct the a.n.a.lysis we've asked you to provide. We just need you to tell us about every substance you find here, in this factory."

"I know, but . . ." the man said, intentionally making his voice trail off. "It's just, can you at least tell me if you've ever found this stuff anywhere else? Is it always in liquid form?"

"That's right," Jack interjected, "but that part is public knowledge. Why do you ask?"

"It might be nothing at this point. I'll let you know if I find anything," McGovern said, turning to face Jack. "I'm just trying to peg down the production process. Once we've identified the catalyst-"

"How's that coming, by the way?" Preston asked, perking up. "That liquid at the start of the production line on top of the tower," he said, turning to point at the vat now bordered by ladders and police personnel. "Do you think we can identify it?"

"So far we haven't been able to find anything out. It's still showing up as the same substance we had already cla.s.sified from the chemical makeup of the Bloodstrife taken off the street. There are no labels or anything on the machines that give it away either." Jason stopped as he saw the growing look of disappointment in the eyes of both weathered detectives. "But," he said, recovering, "it's just a preliminary on-site a.n.a.lysis. Finding a substance in its pure form is always better than what we've been dealing with so far. Also, I'm sure you guys'll find something on those PC's over there."

"Thank you, son. That'll be all," Preston responded, almost whispering as he rubbed his eyes in mild frustration. He was in no mood to hear the struggling sympathies of a chemist younger than the mildew in his shower. "We'll make sure we get to the bottom of this," the detective reaffirmed with a pa.s.sing glance as he moved toward the door.

Jack smiled as the young man appeared to pout before he walked away. "Kids today," he said. "When did we get so old, huh?"

"Come on, I'm thinking we've both earned a break," Preston said with a smile.

"G.o.d, how long have we been here anyway?" Jack asked, looking at his watch. "We got here around nine-thirty, right?"

"You're right," Preston said as the two of them made their way toward the stairs. "It's been about four hours. Time to go."

Outside, the warm air smelled of rain. Preston squinted when he was bombarded with the flash of the floodlights that had been set up in the darkness surrounding the building. It was almost as bright as day. Moving forward a few steps, he was almost pushed out of the way by the next group of men in hazmat suits that made their way inside.

To his left, outside the boundary of the floodlights, several Unis were shooting the s.h.i.t, smoking cigarettes with burning red ends that stood out like glowing eyes in the dark.

Continuing on, Preston sighed as a rumble of thunder echoed in the distance. He instinctively brought the front ends of his blazer together in antic.i.p.ation of the rain.

Jack exited the factory a few moments later, having just spoken with some Unis about traffic control.

"Preston," Jack said seriously as he caught up. "They tell me everything has been sealed off. Of course, some people are more persistent than others." Jack motioned upward. The sound of the helicopter hovering high over the factory was barely audible with the commotion happening all around them.

"Christ," Preston cursed. "How do those press jackals always find out so fast?"

"This is bringing back a few memories, isn't it?" Jack said solemnly.

"C'mon, Jack, I'm not in the mood." Preston took a look around, making sure none of the pa.s.sing officers were eavesdropping on the conversation as they darted by.

"Who could ever be in the mood to talk about losing a daughter?" Jack said, whispering. He attempted to place his hand on Preston's shoulder, which was immediately rejected.

"I think the only retribution I have to worry about this time is for myself. I don't have anything else to lose, really," Preston said, looking at his partner, knowing it didn't come out as confident as he would have liked.

The sky over the city came to life as lightning danced across the darkness. Thunder followed seconds later. Preston lamented the pocket of silence between words as Jack waited to continue. They chose to keep walking.

Arriving at their car, Preston drove them out through the police barricade and onto the highway toward the city. Instinctively, the two detectives kept an eye trained on the chopper above them as they departed.

"How long has it been?" asked Jack, picking up right where they left off minutes earlier, "a year and a half? That's about how long ago we got our promotions." Jack rolled down the window slightly to get a whiff of the night air. "Do you still speak to Carroll anymore?"

"No," Preston replied bluntly, still looking forward.

"It's just that, the reason I ask is because I don't want to have anyone ever go through that again."

"You mean your family?" Preston offered sincerely, coming out of his stupor.

"Yeah," Jack said quietly.

"That won't happen. The only man who saw us this time is dead. Half the department swept that place for bugs and cameras. It's clean," he reaffirmed, tightening his grip on the wheel. "Whoever ran that place never bothered with security. They were either arrogant enough to think they could take down any intruders or they figured no one would ever know to look there in the first place."

"Come over for dinner tomorrow. It's definitely a reason to celebrate," Jack offered. "What if this was the only production facility in the city? We could have singlehandedly disrupted the supply to all of Chicago tonight," Jack said after a pause, allowing Preston to process his words. Another clap of thunder came through louder than before. Not long after, the rain started its drumbeat against the windshield, and Jack rolled up the window.

"Maybe," Preston said with another sigh. "I just can't think of anything else right now except Bloodstrife."

"All the more reason to come over," Jack said. "Get some sleep. We'll hit this early tomorrow, then figure out dinner, okay?"

"Well, before we do, I think we need to reevaluate a few things," Preston said.

"I'll say. I wouldn't mind seeing an autopsy report on our monster in there," Jack offered.

"No, I'm not talking about that." Preston said, looking to Jack. "Benton Argosi seems to be privy to a lot of information after all."

The office had once seemed so much larger. Years ago, when Argosi had first been made CEO, he'd stopped in his tracks as he was shown the suite for the first time, marveling. Despite the fact that it needed to be redecorated, it was still perfect. In time, he'd filled it with all manner of extravagant furniture and artwork that adorned the walls and, yes, even above the toilet in the adjoining bathroom. Now, in such desperate days, it felt like those same walls were closing in.

Having not been near a mirror since that morning, he a.s.sumed he looked exhausted as usual. Argosi sighed at the thought. After midnight, he was still at the office yet again. The only difference between now and the period weeks prior to the drug bust involving his company was that there was no work to be done. Despite his successes in recent weeks, he was still no more than a glorified puppet.

He had managed to get the word out that both he and Meyers-Echowan had been cleared by the police, that Bloodstrife was in no way connected to his company, but it didn't matter. In the end, he was no different than a teacher falsely accused of having a relationship with one of his students-guilty, now and forever.

With his suit coat hanging loosely on the chair, Argosi could see that he'd been sweating through the expensive b.u.t.ton-down shirt he was wearing. His arms instinctively came to his sides, trying to hide the stains from no one but himself. He let out another deep sigh that echoed faintly in the room. Suddenly, he felt even more isolated.

The board of directors was still deciding his ultimate fate. The sword was swinging over his head, and everyone knew it. The whole gamut of humiliation that had been thrown his way to date was just the beginning. He'd been stripped of several duties, and there were rumors of secret meetings taking place without him. In the past, talks of hostile takeovers were met with a fierce response and open displays of strength, but the company had never been in a position as weak as this. Still, he showed up to work every day. He didn't want to give them an excuse. Then again, he supposed, replacing the CEO could be just as detrimental to them if there was already blood in the water. Sharks tended to notice that kind of thing.

Taking a deep breath, Argosi let his face slide down into his hands, looking for a moment to escape. The dim light from his desk lamp was only on so he could pour brandy into his gla.s.s without spilling. Other than that small light, the office was dark, save the residual light of the city coming in through the window behind him. He would have liked to turn off the lamp, but on the off chance that someone stepped into his office to see the CEO of a Fortune 500 company drinking alone in the dark, it would be the end of him.

He lifted his head from his hands and took another drink before turning his chair around to look out the large window. Chicago glittered in the night, up close and personal.

Not long ago, it had started to rain. The water drizzled down his floor to ceiling windows in large winding swaths. Situated on the forty-fifth floor of the Myers-Echowan building, the office faced west, away from Lake Michigan. The skysc.r.a.pers standing outside the gla.s.s glistened with dim light and muted ambiance, both beautiful and menacing. Like eyes in the dark, almost any one of them could shelter another corporation, a beast that would try to take the life of his company.

Ordinarily, when working at night, he would welcome the embrace of the metropolis, but tonight it seemed to be laughing at him. Since the tubes of that ridiculous drug had been found, practically with his name on it, life had been h.e.l.l.

The public lost faith, the stock dropped, and the board made it seem like it was all his fault. Then there was that woman at the shareholders meeting. Christ, he thought. Who the h.e.l.l says something like that?

Argosi quickly turned around, no longer willing to be the b.u.t.t of a sad joke for the city outside his window.

He turned on the small flat screen TV on the other side of the room surrounded by a coffee table and a few chairs. The CEO hoped to find something funny to take the edge off. A momentary escape was all he needed. Still, this late at night he would probably only find an infomercial for re-growing lost hair. Then again, he took solace, being that his hair was one thing that hadn't deserted him yet, no matter how often it was drenched in stress-induced sweat.

His eyes opened wide as he saw the broadcast when the screen came to life. Helicopter views of the Phillips factory were on every channel. The news highlighted an image of a closed off industrial district flooded with cops and red or blue flashing lights. The voiceover newscast painted a better picture.

Quickly, he rushed over to the other side of the room to see more clearly.

"Breaking news tonight from the heart of the city. Police have raided what appears to be a major manufacturing facility for the drug known as Bloodstrife which, in recent months, has seen a large increase in usage among the residents of Chicago."

The camera panned to the left as it moved above the site. The entire building came into view. Floodlights illuminated the ground level, creating a well-guarded perimeter. At least twenty cops hung around, just outside the boundary of the light. It was certainly the same place he'd shown to Detective Burroughs and his less than hospitable partner.

"This drug is unique in the fact that, so far, the only reported cases have been in Chicago," the newscaster continued. "No other instances of use have been reported anywhere else on earth."

"Holy s.h.i.t!" Argosi said aloud jubilantly, his voice echoing in the large s.p.a.ce. "They found something there!"

Quickly, he ran to the other side of the room and grabbed his coat. Immediately afterward, his thoughts drifted to how he would spin this to the board, but his better judgment kicked in soon after. His feet slowed to a walk, carefully turning out the light from his lamp and making his way toward the door, guided only by the light of the city that streamed in from the window. Now, it was no longer mocking him.

It seemed like a spotlight focusing the attention of the world on his meteoric resurgence rather than the harsh glow from an overhead lamp in an interrogation room.

It could wait until the morning, he realized. It was the first bit of good news in quite some time. Tonight, he would finally get some sleep.

The door to Preston's apartment opened with a long, drawn-out creak from the rusted hinges. After he entered, it took several attempts to get the door closed all the way. Due to the unwillingness of a rusted lock, it wouldn't allow the wood on either end to line up correctly.

It wasn't a surprise. In the first few days it had happened, he'd been concerned about the amount of noise he was making, but in recent months, he'd grown confident that there was no longer anyone living next to him on either side. That, he reasoned, or they just didn't care. Every night he went through a similar exercise, the ha.s.sle of which had resulted in the occasional sleepover at the office, even if the case hadn't demanded it.

The grungy office was nicer anyway.

Preston knew he could afford a better place, but the rent was cheap. What's the point of having a good door if you've got nothing of value to steal? the Detective said.

Normally, when he got home, he would have seen a beat-up old couch facing the old TV with a coffee table in desperate need of re-staining dividing them. However, in the past few weeks, that had all changed. If he was guilty of any crime, it was taking home blank pads of paper from the station so he could draw, almost endlessly, in silence in front of a television that was almost never on, or, at the very least, muted.

Immediately, he remembered why his apartment was so different. Almost on a daily basis, he'd managed to forget what he did at night, as if the moment he walked into his apartment, the Detective always took over.

Pictures drawn on white paper littered the floor and the coffee table. Each one contained virtually the same picture, the face of a seven-year-old girl.

Some pictures were incomplete while others were finished, highlighting perfectly shaded features in various stages of detail. In every drawing, the girl's eyes were always happy, coupled with a piercing smile.

Artistry was never his strong suit, but the older pictures under the coffee table were much more crudely drawn than those on top of it. His daughter's face had become clearer with every picture he made, but they all looked the same to him.

Almost every night, he sat on the old couch, drawing with only the faint light overhead to guide him. Then, he would toss the pictures anywhere he could find a spot. Preston looked around, estimating there had to be three tablets worth in the apartment by now.

He shrugged it off.

Preston moved to the kitchen. The room offered a startling contrast. It was the one area of the apartment he always kept spotless. It didn't hurt that he was almost never home to eat, but usually once a week he'd manage to tidy the place up.

After putting a TV dinner into the microwave, he moved back to the paper-littered living room.

Preston turned on the TV by hand, having lost the remote long ago. While the picture on the old set gradually faded in, he stared intently at the hundreds of two-dimensional faces before him.

Despite almost dying and dealing with an overly exhausting day, Preston knew it would be hours before he got to sleep. Jack would understand if he came in late the next day. Nevertheless, the lieutenant would probably want to have a word with them, even if Preston was still having trouble speaking.

He cleared his throat, wincing in pain. It had grown worse since he left the factory. By tomorrow, he would barely be able to speak.

In the inane babble of the newscaster that came into view, he thought he heard something about Bloodstrife, but dismissed it quickly.

With Jack's attempt to talk with him on the way out of the factory, Preston proceeded to gather as many of the drawings as he could and piled them up in his closet, out of view.

Knowing Jack, he was probably going to make some sort of unannounced visit in the coming days.

"Last thing I need is anyone worrying about me," he said aloud to himself, the pain not as bad as he expected. "I suppose that would make me look a little weird."

Yeah, a little weird, the Detective added.

Chapter 7.

By mid-morning, the two detectives found themselves in the company of the lieutenant, accepting praise that they both hoped wasn't premature. On any other day, it would have been only a minor inconvenience, but Preston was starting to reconsider coming to work. He quickly snuffed the thought when he realized if he'd stayed home, he would have only sketched faces for hours.

Preston had overslept, and no one complained, although secretly he wished they would have. That way it would have been like the worst parts of the previous evening hadn't happened to them at all. It would be like some other detectives had stumbled onto that disgusting place and fought a monster in the bas.e.m.e.nt, almost dying in the process.

Even as their superior kept the meeting cordial, Preston couldn't help but let his eyes wander around the room, zoning out. Although focused and well-rested, Preston wanted nothing more than to get back to his office to sort a few things out. The case was calling him back. He could tell that Jack felt the same way.

His throat was still predictably sore and his voice hoa.r.s.e. Preston had tried to keep the collar on his coat ruffled up enough to hide some of the red markings on his skin from the man's hand. It didn't matter. Even with the collar up, he knew that everyone could still see the marks that each individual finger had left on his neck. He'd noticed them himself when he'd looked in the mirror before coming to work.

Preston preferred to be silent.

Jack had picked up on this when he arrived and offered to do most of the speaking. He silently thanked his partner for that again as he adjusted back into the conversation just in time to hear Jack accept another compliment on their behalf.

After the obligatory catch-up session with the lieutenant ended, the two detectives got back to work. With what seemed like most of the police force still busy at the factory, they were planning to take the day to map out new leads in relative undisturbed silence. Any major discoveries at the production facility would come across their desk first. That alone was both a luxury and a reward for the previous evening.

The kid scientist, McGovern, had phoned them again, saying that the complete chemical a.n.a.lysis on the supposed secret ingredient would also take a few days. Thankfully, it had been given priority as it did represent the cracking of one of the biggest narcotics cases in the city's history.

As soon as most of the Unis got back, there would be a meeting led by Jack that encompa.s.sed everything they had discovered. Except for the part about moving tattoos and gluttonous giants, the Detective said.

Preston knew he would need to be able to speak a little more by then. The job of the detective leading the case was to present an image of strength and a keen deductive apt.i.tude. That would be hard to portray to the force if he was huddled up in the corner silently drawing pictures of a young girl while trying not to weep.

Preston settled into the worn chair behind his desk. The number of doc.u.ments before him had more than doubled, sitting there in thick stacks and leaning as if about to fall over. Less than twenty-four hours earlier, he practically had the order of every pile memorized. Now, it was like a fresh start, an avalanche that had come down in his absence. He knew immediately that his secretary had been bringing in more photos and evidence for him, probably since the crack of dawn.

Jack settled in on the old couch in the corner. He dropped a large manila folder of fresh doc.u.ments on the desk, the sudden sound reminding Preston a little too much of the gunshots the previous evening. He flinched, but his partner didn't notice.

Jack organized his papers as he removed them from the folder. Soon, in front of him on the small table were crime photos of Pride and Gluttony, a blank pad of paper, and some of his own notes to date.

Preston regained his composure and turned over The Twist on his desk, sending the blue goo down the incline toward the base and watching the monochromatic display he'd seen hundreds of times before.

"Well, it's pretty clear we have a theme developing," Preston said, trying not to rub his throat while he eyed the trinket. "Forty years ago, a John Doe named Greed took a girl away from a street pimp named Phillips after apparently suffering a mortal knife wound to the chest," Preston continued, his voice still soft and fragile. "Then, a little over a week ago we supposedly have that same girl show up, not having aged a day. She commits suicide by telling the doctors to use an anesthesia she knows will be lethal to her. Around the same time, Argosi shows up and essentially gives us everything we've been looking for in the form of a Bloodstrife factory on a silver platter. There, we meet another John Doe we've decided to call Gluttony."