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took a flashlight
that was on the ground and used it, but it served no purpose. The light shook
over the walls as if it were having a seizure.
              Lincoln
turned to D., who had some of the photographs in the bathroom. “How did those
get in there all of a sudden?”
              The
lights blinked out again. Lincoln saw the moonlight shining on them, saving
them from complete darkness. It was still fairly dark when someone knocked
Lincoln over the head. His eyes blurred into three versions of the penthouse
before blending back into focus. For a few seconds, he made out the old
detective D. writhing in pain, his arms moving in odd directions he never
thought possible for a human being – it surpassed the limits of normal
articulation. And the screaming . . . oh God, the screaming hurt like bees
stinging with a voice box. Someone else was pulling the strings of D.’s body so
that he wasn’t in control of them, and Lincoln didn’t have time to wonder why.
’Course Lincoln heard of those stories about body possession and all that, but
the way it occurred in the old man . . . it unleashed a dark disturbance that
wanted Lincoln to close his eyes like a frightened child.
    Everything
went black again. Somewhere in the background Lincoln heard screaming, bald and
raw screaming, but it came out in stifled gibberish. It’s kind of like a boring
board meeting with the CEO, only more frightening.
     
     
     
     

Chapter 2
     
    The
McDermott penthouse burned down with pride, amazing when you saw it from the
bottom. Alas, standing there you couldn’t witness the brilliance of fire’s
brightest potential. It had to be from above, although you need a helicopter
for that. D. took the stairs to escape the building, unaware of the whereabouts
of both the giant officer and the one called Lincoln Deed. They had been on the
penthouse floor before D. got out; he didn’t carry the two men out because they
were too heavy to drag and would have fallen off the stairs. Anyway, if he did,
the cloaked men that hid their identities would’ve caught him and taken him to
who knew where. During the trip down the stairs, D. scraped his ankle. When he
reached the bottom, his socks turned into a darkened red. He supposed he’d deal
with that later, if there was time. 
              Those
photographs . . . back when the shower curtain was afire. Amazing that in the
middle of it all, one printed photo slid across the bathroom floor trying to
eat him. No one who pulled that off would think of running off without capture.
Officer Deed wondered, right before getting clamped with a lamp, what the
photographs were. If the men had taken a second or more to plan their ambush,
D. would’ve told him. But now the fire that soared at god-speed burned them
all, possibly even the officer and the bigger one. All of them, however,
weren’t destroyed, since D. kept a few in his pocket. From the pile he learned
that not all of it was pictures; some were notes and torn notebook pages, but
who wrote them?
              Police sirens
were on, riding their way onto the scene. The front desk must have called or,
if not them, then maybe one of the residents in the building. Other officers
climbed out, some looking to the detective.
              “Hey!”
They puffed over to D. “Hey! Do you know anything about this?” Two overweight
men cornered him; one of them held a gun. The barrel poked the detective’s
chest.
              “Put
that thing away!” D. cried, shoving the gun away. It might have been an
accident (or maybe it wasn’t), but the officer fired. The bullet hit the other
officer’s foot. Spasms of pain and wailing came as Officer #2 hurtled to the
wet ground.
              “The
hell you just did?” the unharmed but angry officer accused.
              “Nothing,
sir, since you were the one who made the shot!” cried the detective. He kept a
firm hand on the gun barrel in case Officer #1