Chapter 9.

The road was empty and dark, and cold seeped through the cracks in the window. As Cat drove, she cursed her boss for sending her out here. She was sick of the El Alacrán story, murders happening everywhere and The Agency trying to cover everything up.

She reached her destination, an old Motel 6 with a few rusty cars out the front. Perfect place for a murder, Cat thought, as she put on another jumper and headed up the stairs to room 293.

Opening the door, she fumbled for the light switch. Unable to find one, Cat waited a few moments for her eyes to adjust then walked further into the room.

There was a faint smell of apple lingering in the air.
A double bed was in the middle of the room, dirty sheets messily thrown on the bed in what looked like a lazy attempt to make a bed. There was a TV, old and small, in the corner and a room at the far end which containing a grubby bathroom.
But what shocked Cat the most, was the body lying next to the bed, face down. Just to make sure, Cat checked the pulse. Dead. But no blood anywhere, no knife in the back, no bullet wounds. Nothing. Just a dead body.

Cat rang her boss. "What should I do?" she asked, worriedly. It was scary, being in a room at a dingy motel, at night, random things casting shadows everywhere.
"Well? Who is it?" her boss asked, eagerly.
"It's..." Cat replied, gulping, "It's the head guy of The Agency. Y'know, the one at the head of the El Alacrán investigation."
"What?" the boss asked, incredulously, "Killed by the same person?"
"Yeah," Cat said, uneasily, "No bullet wounds, blood or anything."
"I'll send the rest of the team down," her boss answered, "Keep guard. Make sure The Agency don't get there first. You know why."
Cat nodded solemnly. "Yes, sir."
"And Cat?" her boss asked.
"Yes?"
"We think we found a cause of death," the boss said, "Poison."

The Eighth Chapter

(AUTHOR'S NOTE: This is the first portion that I have composed as a member of this project. My chapter has taken on a bit more of a philosophical and psychological tone, as opposed to a more narrative one. This is not the best example of my writing, because I am not a narrative writer. However, I do plan to make better contributions as time progresses. All feedback is certainly welcome. )

Suffice it to say, the pie did not obtain its intended effect. The man retained his life. Mere edible items were not sufficient cause for a preconceived murderous effect. The physical realization of one's innermost aspirations and desires should not interfere with the quality of one's humanity. The end does not justify the means to realize that end.

Tim should have been capable of grasping this basic concept; however, dehumanization impeded his cognitive abilities. He was longer able to claim the term 'humanity' as a defining characteristic of his being. One persistent thought consumed him in a manner similar as to how a fire consumes a forest: murder. The human body is essentially an object of more complexity than a simple animal organism, but when one is in pursuit of a malevolent aim, this argument loses its validity.

The only object that was of sanctity to Tim was his weapon. As he contemplated its value in his vehicle, Tim realized that his sole purpose for his existence was to realize his singular aspiration: to avenge the man who murdered his parents. If he failed to accomplish this goal, then his existence would possess no justification.

Tim drove off into the desert. (EDIT: Can there exist a desert? Is it permissible to abruptly modify the landscape without any previous explanation?) Exasperated and exhausted, he decided to take his lodgings at a local motel. As he climbed the stairs to seek refuge within the confines of his alcove, the meek light disappeared from Tim's sight. An object, cold and distant in nature, was raised to Tim's head. The man who possessed the cold, malicious object spoke to Tim, distantly whispering in his ear: "Now do you like them apples now?"

Chapter 7

"Dude, what the hell?" Tim said, fiercely, backing away from the boy standing in the doorway.
The boy smiled. "Have a seat, Tim, I haven't seen you in ages."
"Erm, yeah..." Tim said, nervously, taking small steps towards the front door. He needed to get out of there, his head crowded with memories, anything was better than this... the meeting!

"I, um, I'm going to a meeting," Tim said, defiantly.
"No, stay! Let's chat. Would you like a drink?" the boy said, cordially.
"Drink?" Tim thought, his head feeling very wary and heavy from the booze he skolled in the car. "Um, cordial please."

Once Tim and the boy were seated, each with a glass of raspberry cordial in their hands, Tim spoke.
"You've been living here? Alone?"
"Yes. Just me and the stray cats who scratch at my door every night," the boy said, waving a hand as if to dismiss those thoughts.
"I'm sorry, little bro," Tim apologised, "I couldn't stay here, you know that."
"To avenge Mum and Dad's deaths?" the boy said, angrily, "You didn't have to! Just because of your freakish nature! Yeah, I've read the papers, I know it all."
Tim glanced at the pile of tattered papers in the corner of the room. He gulped. "I never meant to.."
'What?" the boy said, "Never meant to put me in danger? Police coming here, raiding the house, how do you think I feel?"
"Police? Here?" Tim said, bewildered, "Luke..."
"Well, they came once. Looking for you, I suspect," Luke replied, sighing.
"I'd better go," Tim said, standing up and picking his jacket off the floor in one swift motion.
"Whatever." Luke looked down at his feet, not saying anything.

As Tim headed back out to his car, he waved, just in case his brother was watching from the window. Jumping in the car, Tim drank the remains of the whisky and drove off.

EDIT (am I allowed to add something here? Please?): Once he got to the meeting, Tim reached into the glove department and grabbed the apple pie that he kept in case he was ever lost in the desert and had nothing to eat.
Leaving the manila folder where it lay, Tim got out of the car and briskly walked to the front door.

The door swung open just as Tim got there and a voice said, "I've been expecting you."
Tim walked in the room, holding a steaming hot apple pie in his hands.
"Supper?" the man asked, looking at the pie.
"You wish," Tim said, and aimed the pie right at the man's face. "How do you like them apples?"
Tim quickly hurried away, cautious not to look back. Out of all the ways of killing someone with his capabilities, that was the best.

Chapter 6

No answer.

Tim reached for the doorknob expecting it to be locked but the door swung open casting a shadow on a long hallway. Tim took glanced around the room, the light from the door revealed a set of stair to the left and a dark hallway in front of him.
He took one step into the room then stopped himself. “I need to leave, I have to go to this meeting” he muttered but, unable to stop himself, he took another step into the room. “HELLO!” Tim yelled, the words echoed down the long hallway.

No answer.

Walking into the house, he fumbled for the light switch, somehow knowing where it was, and a dim light flickered on lighting the shadows. Noticing a door just to his right he opened it and walked in,

Getting an eerie feel from the room, Tim turned around to leave when something caught his eye. It was a photo. Tim knew this photo. He picked it up and took a closer look. There were three boys in the photograph, all standing next to each other in what looked to be medical robes. One boys face he was sure he had never seen before but another face seemed to flip a switch in Tim’s brain, causing his blood to boil and setting off a chain reaction that caused some memories Tim had hoped would stay repressed to begin to surface. As Tim finally recognized the final boy a voice came from the doorway.
“we were so cute back then….”

Chapter 5

Tim let the top down of the steel-blue convertible. It had been a long time since he had driven such a car and was determined to take pleasure from the experience. The car was classy, but not too flashy. The kind of vehicle people would later have trouble describing - the Make being explained as a “nice car” and the colour ranging from silver to turquoise - but was still enough to draw attention away from the person driving it.
As the bright lights of the city grew softer and slowly diminished behind him, Tim reached for a dial on the dashboard and the sound of ambient keyboards and light percussion grew louder, creating a seductive soundtrack to the impromptu drive. A map, a bottle of whiskey and a manila folder lay on the passenger seat. Only one belonging to Tim, but all were welcomed.
As if remembering the items beside him Tim reached for the bottle of whiskey. Gripping the neck with his fist he used his thumb to unscrew the lid, then threw back his head and poured the liquid down his throat. Vulgar stuff, he thought, but was glad for it all the same.
The Agency had been quick, this time. Less than a day. They must have had men on a flight into the country the second the bodies had been found. That was unless their men had already been in the country. The thought made Tim grimace. He didn’t consider the Agency to be trouble, more of an annoyance, really, but there were some people would be more than bothered by the instantaneous response. Regrettably, Tim was going to need to face those people shortly. He took another swig from the bottle. He was not looking forward to the approaching meeting.
Tim placed the open bottle upright in his lap, gripping it with his knees, and used his free hand to massage the bridge of his nose. He sighed, brushing the thoughts off, and took to watching the scenery flitter past. It was still a long way to the meeting place so he might as well enjoy the landscape.
A flicker of recognition in the corner of Tim’s eye caused him to turn the steering wheel sharply and he jammed his foot down heavily on the brake. The whisky spilt across his lap and the car skid to a stop on the side of the road.
Hardly noticing the alcohol running down his leg Tim stood to look out over the windows and their salt-stained glass. Without moving his eyes, Tim reached into his pocket and withdrew an aging photograph.
The house itself seemed to have yellowed with age almost as much as the photograph in his hand. The whole scene sort of looked yellowy and crinkly around the edges. Like the old, poorly-kept photograph, time had not treated the place well. The stone walls were riddled with cracks and had become more ivy than stone anyway. The slate roof was patchy and the garden deceased but, despite it all, the place still managed to look grand. An unidentifiable grey emotion flashed across Tim’s face.
Leaving the whisky where it had fallen, Tim leaped from the convertible Hollywood style, just in case someone happened to be watching from the grim-streaked windows. Somewhere in Tim’s mind he knew he should continue driving and hurry to this meeting, but that could wait. He’d found something more important, more… interesting.
The ground was muddy but Tim’s large boots were reluctant to notice the slippery surface. Tim looked down at the photograph, apparently oblivious to the deep, black mud, and ran his thumb across the three small people who stood in the foreground. They must have stood about where he was now…
He shook his head, dislodging thoughts of the past, and agilely climbed the steps to the front door. The same grey look from before passed across his face and he leaned against the doorframe. Counting five deep breaths, he lifted his hand and knocked on the door.

Chapter 4(?)

Paul Barret paced around the body, his footsteps loud and echoing in the cold, sterile room. Never before had he seen such an anomaly. No gunshot wounds, no lacerations, no signs of a struggle, not even a drop of blood on his suit. The autopsy had revealed no further clues to the man's death, no internal bleeding, no poison, nothing.

And yet, when they had found him, it was clear the man was in as much pain as the human body could process when he had died. Paul couldn't help but to shudder, the contorted body, covered in sweat and tears, the man had bitten his own tongue off before dieing, it was all still fresh in his mind.

The chief would be down soon, looking for answers, looking for evidence, looking for any sort of clue to give them direction. But he had nothing but what they already knew. And what they knew, in a way, made them know even less. As Andres had realized at the crime scene, the body belonged to El Alacrán, the biggest crime lord in South America. This was further proven when Paul had matched the dead man's DNA to that in their database. But El Alacrán had been unseen for years, and then to suddenly show up, dead, in some insignificant warehouse?

The other men left even fewer clues. They too lacked any wounds or inflictions. It seemed eight men had simply dropped dead for no reason at all. Their DNA had to be run through the entire database in search of a match, it would take days for any result.

Paul checked his watch, seconds to midday. The Chief had said he'd be down at noon, and ever punctual, Paul heard the tapping of his footsteps approaching down the hall.

Moments later the door burst open, "You'd better have something"

Paul sighed, "Well... it is El Alacrán"

"Well that answers a helluva lot!" the Chief said sarcastically, "Cause of death? Evidence of the killer?"

Paul slowly shook his head.

"Great. So all we got is eight dead dudes in a warehouse. With absolutely no sign of a killer"

"Have you spoken to forensics?" Hopefully they might have something to lighten the Chiefs mood, Paul thought hopefully.

"They haven't been through much analysis yet, but they're predicting all the fired shells are from the body guards pistols."

"I'm sure we'll find something... it's only been two nights."

"But still, in two nights you expect to find more than nothing!" while the Chief was a brilliant detective, his temper often got a hold of him.

"Chief, Carlos, I'm sure we'll find something..."

The two fell into silence, looking down at El Alacrán's body in thought.

Their thoughts were interrupted by a 'tap tap' of heels on tiles, quickly approaching. Three suited men entered the Autopsy room, their immaculate black suits, dark sunglasses and Secret Service-like ear pieces breathed trouble.

"Um... can I help you? This is a restricted area..." Paul said nervously.

"We are with the Agency. We'll be in charge of the of this investigation now."

Chapter 3

The microwave hummed away as the apple pie went round and round.
Within one second of the beep, Tim had swiftly got the pie out and onto a place.
Once Tim was sitting down, the phone rang. It rang a few times and the answering machine picked up.
"Tim, are you there? ... It's all over the news... the El Alacrán, found in an empty warehouse, no bullet wounds or anything, where were you last night?"
Tim sighed, and picked up the phone. "Look, man, my pie's going cold, what do you want?" Tim said, with a voice of steel.
"I'm watching the news. Where were you last night?" the guy repeated, his voice low and concerned, "They'll know it was you. It's always you."
"I'm fine, okay? They can think what they want. They wouldn't know their arse from their armpit," Tim replied, crudely and hung up.
Bitterly, Tim warmed up the pie again. He liked it hot.