Dark Angel's Nemesis

Chapter 4

Taking Chances

Lazarus could not take his eyes off the beautiful redhead sitting across from him, no matter how he tried to concentrate as Lt. Thomas Decker spoke. Her confidence was overwhelmingly apparent and he found himself immediately enthralled with her. Never had he felt he could trust anyone as closely as Briana and Marcus, yet instantly he believed he could undoubtedly trust this woman sitting before him. He considered himself the idiot as she suddenly gazed at him and he avoided her entirely by focusing all his attention on Decker. Inside his head, he grimaced at his amazing lack of class, realizing he needed to concentrate on Decker or the poor man would have to repeat everything again.

Charlotte O’Brien smiled as the giant man suddenly turned his full attention to Thomas, pretending he was listening to the other man the entire time. In fact, she noticed him staring at her sporadically through out the conversation, trying to be inconspicuous but failing miserably. As a psychologist, she was one who believed one should continuously be honest with herself, so she freely admitted an instant attraction to the large man. He was extremely handsome, apparently very strong, and highly respectful to those around him, including the older man, Marcus. He was a unique individual, without any real eccentricities that would make him anymore odd than the average man. This last thought caused her to chuckle, interrupting Thomas, bringing unwanted focus away from the conversation to her lack of attentiveness.

“I saw something outside that caught my attention and I found it funny,” she lied. “Sorry Thomas. Continue please.”

The two men shrugged and continued their conversation, but not after Lazarus gave her an exaggeratedly long gaze. She smiled at their lack of observing the obvious, though they were both detectives, in a sense. This brought her back to thinking about the giant man’s potential oddities, focusing on one in particular that set him apart from all others. She was probably the only person, outside of Decker, to put together the mystery of the night’s guardian Dark Angel and the man in front of her. He reminder her of the famous comic superhero she used to read when she was a kid, sneaking into her brothers room. This man was distinctly different, because first he wore no cape, and didn’t carry around any fancy gadgets. Just his hands, feet, and mind were all he had to fight with, and he was very good at what he did, probably the best she would ever meet.

He would be very upset if he found she knew who he was, but truth to tell, nothing could bring her to reveal his secret so there was little cause for concern. Not after what he had done a few nights past, saving her life and forever creating a bond between them. Her mind told her it was foolish to fall for the man, aware she had an emotional attachment to the man who risked his life to rescue her. Until this day, she was sure she would have never met her savior face to face, but she knew instantly whom Lazarus was just by the way his body moved. She would know him in any guise he wore after that night, and she would save him from harm the way he saved her.

She stood, slowly walked towards the siding glass door to the outdoor balcony off the kitchen, reflecting on the night of her rescue. Thinking of that night brought terror to her mind the likes of which she never experienced prior and it coursed through her, bringing shivers to her entire body. She tried to keep from shivering excessively, desperate to keep her fear from becoming too obvious to the two men behind her, lest they begin to worry. It was apparent her work was for nothing as two large hands turned her pulling her into a well-muscled chest and wrapped large arms around her. It was then she realized she was crying, fright causing a disconnection between body and mind, the result of which were tears her consciousness did not grasp she shed.

Upon impulse and instinct, Lazarus moved to Charlotte’s side when he heard her whimper, pulling her to him, instantly swearing to protect her at all costs. He recognized the emotions coursing through her, having seen them emanating from Briana after her rescue from the Brotherhood. An instantaneous revelation came, a feeling of deja vu of standing there with her before, not to many nights past. He pulled her softly away from him and looked into her eyes, realizing she was the very woman he rescued just a couple of weeks before.

She was assisting Dekker with his private investigation on the dirty cops, which meant gathering every bit of evidence he could find to indict the “bad guys”. She apparently found something important enough to bring her to their attention, forcing their hand by trying to take her out of the equation. Hired thugs working with the officers attacked her, creating a scenario for an attempted rape and possible murder. Dark Angel witnessed the exchange between the two parties, deciding to follow the group that would end up attacking Charlotte. She defended herself well, dropping a couple of her assailants, but she would never have survived the attack if he had decided on another course of action. As it was, when the attack was over, her adrenaline rush gone, she fainted in his arms before he could formulate the important questions as to whom she was.

The police began to show, conveniently driving by; too late to stop the crime had Dark Angel not been present. He cradled her within his arms and understanding the method her attackers intended to kill her, he quickly made up is mind not to leave them for the police. Moving silently into the shadows, he carried her to the nearest hospital, placing her close to the Emergency Room doors. As the hospital looked busy, he was confident someone would find her soon, leaving a mystery of her rescuer and saving her life at the same time. At an opportune time, he left her and returned to his nightly activities, realizing he had not gotten a good look at the woman he had rescued.

Looking upon her now, his fascination of her increased and slowly he became aware of the wave of anger coursing through his veins. Anger at the audacity to destroy beauty for the sake of keeping some individuals ugliness a secret. He felt anger that selfishness and greed would attempt to tear down innocence and goodness, just so that it would eventually turn upon itself, leaving a barren devastation behind. Following along this path, goodness’ destruction would coincide with the darkness, neither surviving in the end.

“I know who you are,” she whispered after a few silent moments as she buried her head into his massive chest.

He remembered those when Briana spoke those words to him, bringing peace for the first time in his life, though the initial pain was intense. Then he thought he would not survive the shame those words brought the first time, his healing at the girl’s forgiveness, though still part of an ongoing journey, made life worth living. To hear this woman speak the same words brought pride to his heart at the transformation within his life, bringing a smile to his lips. For the first time I understand what you have been saying about your God, Marcus. Maybe through you and Briana, He has been making a difference in my life.

Chuckling at the thought, Lazarus moved Charlotte back to the couch, setting her down beside him as he sat, holding her to him. Dekker had stayed silent, standing by his seat, wisely letting Lazarus handle the situation. Now all were seated, silence continuing for a time, allowing each to sit with their own thoughts. Finally, Lazarus gazed down at the top of the head of the beautiful woman he held in his arms and suddenly felt overwhelmed, but confident.

“Well, Thomas,” Lazarus started. “I have a plan that will shut these guys down for good, but first we need to make them think Charlotte has been put into protective custody because of evidence she found.”

“Where do we take her?”

“We don’t take her anywhere. Not yet anyway. She stays here until it is safe to move her somewhere. This is probably the safest place she can possibly be.”

“That I don’t doubt. Marshall has come a long way very quickly under your tutelage. He should be able to stop anybody from getting in here, if anyone should try, anyway.” Lazarus nodded an acknowledgment at the compliment before turning his attention to the woman cradled against him. He suddenly felt very protective of this woman, who he knew was strong after witnessing her drop those two assailants, but now who was looking very fragile.

“Don’t worry,” he whispered into her hair. “No one will hurt you while I still breathe. That I can promise you.” He felt her breathe deeply, as if releasing her fears, burying herself into his chest and side for additional comfort and soon she slept peacefully for the first time since the attack. She slept so peacefully, she did not hear Dekker leave, and Lazarus never moved, holding her to him, himself finding comfort in her presence.

April 2008

Dark Angel's Nemesis

Chapter 3

Moonlight Silhouette 

In the city, traveling the streets at night was not what an individual of proper cognitive thinking would consider harmless. It was not that the city streets were particularly dangerous, but many knew the night belong to those whose very activities depended on darkness. It was a necessity for those who prowled the night, avoiding the light as they went about their business where few could watch the deeds of miscreants and troublemakers. If one did witness an activity, it was wise of the individual to imagine they really did not observe anything. 

It was in the darkest of places, the sinister blackness, especially on cloudy nights that sensible minds avoided at all cost, as the asking fee was the value of their life. It was in these places—the shadows—where violence rarely witnessed before in the city of San Francisco began to erupt, shattering the silence and spreading fear. The source of the violence was unknown, but some began to speculate the rumored were-beast from the newspapers and television news reports. There was enough cause for belief, as there were a large number of eyewitnesses to the mysterious phenomena. 

Another hypothesis was the possibility of the mysterious creature called “Dark Angel” being the cause of the violence. Some were willing to believe the “Dark Angel” was a modern day superhero, not unlike the comic books heroes of their favorite comics, protecting the city from crime and degeneration. Others chose to believe this “Dark Angel” was actually the instigator of the increase of crime, the boss of a new crime syndicate playing the role of “Savior of San Francisco”. This group even went so far as to call him the anti-Christ, why else the name “Dark Angel”. 

The man hiding within a back alley of downtown cared very little if the “Dark Angel” was the cause, or the prevention of the rise in crime in the city. There was a single thought on his fear-filled mind at that moment, putting as much distance between him and the one following him as he possibly could. He knew someone would eventually connect him to the death of a street snitch a couple of weeks back, but he had not expected it to happen as quickly as two weeks. Now his life was dangling by a frayed thread, hanging over a precipice so dark, he dared not breathe, afraid the movement would tear his flimsy security. 

Sweat unhurriedly coursed down his back, leaving rivulets trailing the stench of terror that clung to him, unwilling to release its hold from his skin as it soaked into his clothing. Some dropped into his eyes, blinding him temporarily, increasing his agitation at his inability to see. Clearing his eyes, his mind suddenly focused on the flickering of a light only fifteen feet from his present location, causing a distraction quickly leading to paranoia. The more his mind focused on the interruption, the more agitated he became, the flickering playing tricks with his already paper-thin wits, causing visions of things not there. 

Suddenly the distraction ceased, abruptly extinguishing, as a candle blown out of existence, creating a darkness that only increased the man’s fear. Blackness even deeper than the present stillness emerged silently, tearing through the man’s tattered reason, allowing the fear to control his body. The stench of horror-induced sweat began to intermingle with the stink of urine, as he no longer sustained control of his bladder. Weeping, he watched as his impending doom approached slowly, evidently present yet hauntingly invisible, until it stood before him. He knew what he was facing, unable to rip his tear-filled eyes away from the apparition of darkness, afraid if he did, it would be the end of him. It was then the specter of destiny knelt and leaned towards him, a great blackness growing, always coming closer, until dark forbidding eyes filled his vision. 

“You know who I am?” 

The voice of the darkness was deep and quiet, powerful yet clearly held in check. The terror was overwhelming, allowing the man only to nod his understanding of what was before him. 

“Speak my name.” 

“Dark Angel.” The man whispered the name of the vision before him, afraid to disobey, his mind automatically functioning in survival mode. 

“Why am I here, Sherman?” The inquiry was calm, filled with power, leaving no misgiving a response needed to be forthcoming, and any hesitation was unacceptable. 

“I didn’t kill Tin Can.” Sherman said his voice quivering as he wept.

 “Who did?”

 “I can’t tell you.” 

“Why?” 

“They’ll kill me if I tell you.” 

“I’ll hurt you if you don’t. Enough to make you wish they would kill you. Now tell me.” Dark Angel’s voice cracked with power and authority, causing Sherman to jump involuntarily, bringing a fresh torrent of tears. 

“They’ll kill me,” Sherman whispered. 

“I don’t think you understand me, Sherman. The pain I will cause will only bring relief in death. You don’t have enough to value in life to want to live that badly, do you.” Realizing his attempts were futile, Dark Angel tried another tactic, having felt he needed an alternate plan in order to get the information he needed. “I can protect you, Sherman, if you agree to help me find the men responsible for the death of Tin Can. I’m willing to help you in spite of the fact you contributed to setting me up for Tin Can’s murder.” 

Tear-streaked eyes stared, disbelieving, barely comprehending the very slim chance of hope dangling before him. Uncertainty flooded his mind, a debate warring in his mind, a conflict he desperately desired to fade away. Was this some torturous entertainment to get him to talk or a legitimate deal abruptly appearing, giving him a second chance to live? He suddenly realized, anyway an individual looked at the situation; the most frightening being in San Francisco knelt before him. His best chance at living a long life was right in front of him, and if there was no chance here, he was dead anyway, so he might as well grab the chance while it was there. 

He spoke softly, confirming information Lt. Thomas Decker had previously given to the giant man. The reason Dark Angel was here was to assist Decker find evidence on four police officers who decided to cross the line between law enforcement and criminal activity. Sherman gave the names of the officers and was just beginning to delve into information Dark Angel was unaware of, when the frightened snitch suddenly ceased speaking. An expression of shock etched across his face, disbelief shining in his eyes, soon replacing disbelief with pain.  

The clouds parted to reveal a full moon, contributing plenty of light for the two men to witness the cause of the man’s pain. Slowly lowering his gaze to establish his pain’s source, he gasped at disbelief and shock at the sight of two bolts imbedded deep within his chest, puncturing his heart. Dark Angel examined the bolts intently seeing that they appeared to be half an inch in diameter and easily nine inches in length, perhaps even longer. Having finished his inspection, his mind registered there was something familiar about the bolts and they were actually short-range weapons. 

Instantly spinning into a defensive crouch, he studied his surroundings, hoping to find the killer. A voice, low and distorted, began speaking from out of the nothingness, contributing to the mystery of Sherman’s death. 

“If I wanted you dead Dark Angel, I would have done it already. Your time is not yet come, though it will be soon.” 

“Was it Sherman’s turn? Who are you?” 

“Sherman’s death was only to get your attention. The fact his death causes difficulty in your life is only an added bonus for me. He was not my enemy, and though it vexes me he was about to assist you in something unknown to me, I held no animosity towards him. As to your second question, you already know who I am.” 

A large silhouette appeared suddenly upon the roof across from where Dark Angel crouched, rising ominously to its full height. With the brightness of the moon, it became apparent the being before him was the mysterious were-beast, the “Night Crawler” it called itself. Green eyes bore into Dark Angel’s very soul, bringing an all too evident reality of the large man’s mortality. For the first time in his existence, he felt fear unlike anything he ever knew, feeling he had met the one thing in the entire world that could end his life. 

With a distorted and eerie laugh, sounding more like a bark of a large beast, Night Crawler crouched and then leapt to the building behind Dark Angel. It was easily a fifteen-foot gap, clearly increasing the authenticity of the monster, though for Dark Angel there still seemed something familiar with the creature. Shifting his gaze towards Sherman’s body, He contemplated how easily, accurately and silently the creature had killed his victim. Hearing sirens in the distance, the decision to leave the scene became an easy one, as no one preferred being within the vicinity of a corpse when wanted by the police. 

Making his departure, Dark Angel contemplated how unprepared he was for that evenings confrontation with his new nemesis. You caught me unprepared this time, but as I live, it will not happen a second time, he thought. He began to work on a plan to help Lt. Decker with his investigation with the four corrupt police officers, all the while preparing for his inevitable confrontation with Night Crawler. He just hoped the city would survive the outcome of the battle to come. More importantly, he hoped he would. 

January 2008

Dark Angel's Nemesis

Chapter 2

Shadows of the Past 

“Whatcha doin’, Marcus?” Marshall asked as he placed the groceries he had bought on the kitchen table. He never knew his father, or “Fraternal Other” as he liked to call him, as the man ran out on his mother a couple of months prior to his birth. The pain of not knowing his father diminished drastically the more time he spent with the aging theologian. Presently, the old cleric was easily becoming the father Marshall never knew. 

Marshall turned, holding a box of Lazarus’ black hair dye, confusion on his face as he realized no response had come from the other room. Tension rose within him as fear froze his muscles, paralysis increasing with each passing second. Regaining his composure, he cautiously gazed around the wall separating the kitchen and dining room from the living room.

His caution was unnecessary, as the living room was empty except for Marcus, sitting in his wheelchair gazing into his lap. Marshall placed the box of dye on the dining table and slowly moved behind Marcus, curious as to what held the man’s attention. Glancing over his elder companion’s shoulder, he gazed upon a framed photograph of a beautiful woman in his lap. 

“She was my fiancée, when I was much younger, and more obstinate,” Marcus said without taking his gaze from the photo, sensing the other’s presence. “She was killed in an explosion just a few weeks before our wedding day. Her name was Eve.” He ran a finger along the cheek of the photo, an expression of intimacy that left Marshall feeling he was invading the other’s privacy. 

“I’ll leave you alone, with your memories,” Marshall said softly, laying a hand on the other’s shoulder. As he turned to depart, he suddenly felt Marcus grasp his hand firmly, unwilling to let the man leave. Sensing Marcus needed more than just his presence he patted the sitting man’s shoulder then moved toward the couch, waiting for the other to speak. He didn’t have long to wait. 

“I was born in New York right after the war ended in ‘45, though my parents were here on business from Ireland. My father had done a great service for the U.S. government during the war and was receiving a medal for his contribution. Something about saving three U.S. soldiers, one being an intelligence officer with vital information about German troop placements along the front. My mother was pregnant and gave birth, literally, during the ceremony. Her water broke while my father was giving his speech and he never faltered as she was taken to a nearby hospital.” He chuckled and shook his head before continuing. 

“Anyway, my family stayed in the US, allowing for me to be witness to the great emergence of television. I grew up watching an actor named George Reeves, finding myself enthralled with the superhero he played on TV. Truth, Justice, and the American Way is what the superhero he played stood for. For my family and me it was more about Truth, Justice, and the World’s way.” 

He had continued to gaze at the photo as he had spoken, yet suddenly he looked into the eyes of the man listening. “You see,” he said. “My family believed in the values the superhero fought for. My father fought in the war because of those values of freedom. I thought I understood them as well, that is until George died in 1959. I was 14 years old and though I knew he only played a superhero, I was still confused about the whole thing.” 

“By 1967, I had moved to Ireland and lived there for two years. I met a lovely girl the first year I was there and we fell in love. By this time, the world knew of the violence in Northern Ireland and I was soon to become a victim of it.” 

“My cousin was killed in a car bomb, leaving his young wife to raise two little daughters alone. He and I were very close, almost brothers you could say, and I felt devastated by the news. Retribution became the primary desire and soon developed into the only thing to occupy my thoughts. Immediately, I began to construct a plan to illustrate the injustice and pointlessness of my cousin’s death.” 

Marcus lowered his head, once again looking intently at the picture in his lap, tears beginning to develop in his eyes. He softly caressed the image of the woman in the picture, ignoring the tears pooling on the glass. Marshall refused to stir, sensing any movement would break Marcus thoughts, and amidst the man’s silence, a noise of someone entering came to his ears. He turned and saw Lazarus standing in the dining room, Briana asleep in his arms, listening to the story, curiosity etched on his face. Marcus continued his narration, unwilling to look up from the picture, simultaneously unaware his audience had grown. 

“I had determined nothing would stop me from retaliating against my cousin’s death. Unfortunately, I chose to do the stupidest thing in the world. I planted a bomb within a public school, though I did not intend to injure or kill any students, just intent on destroying the school. As I look back, I have no idea how this was going to show people the senselessness of my cousin’s death.” 

“As I was saying, I went through with my plan, setting a homemade timer to explode at five o’clock sharp. My alibi was simple, to have dinner with my fiancée at five at our favorite restaurant across town from where the bomb was to explode. I thought everything was going according to plan. That’s when I received the phone call at the restaurant from Eve. I’ll remember that conversation for the rest of my life.” A sob wracked his body, causing the man to look entirely too fragile to the men listening to him. 

“She was telling me she was going to be late, but she would definitely be there. When I asked her where she was, she told me she had a late tutoring session with one of her students. She was still at the school and she was about to leave. Suddenly, the line went dead, just as I was about to ask her how long she would be. You see, she was a teacher at a school just around the corner from the restaurant. Unfortunately, she was not at the school she normally worked at.” 

Slowly, he raised his eyes and upon seeing Lazarus, tears flowed unhindered down his face while sobs convulsed his body. Briana woke with a whimper, somehow feeling the intensity in the atmosphere as she slept, slowly opening her eyes to her surroundings. She witnessed the pain in Marcus’ face and instantly came fully awake, jumping from Lazarus’ arms to sit in the older man’s lap. She buried her face within his chest and began to cry with him. Soon both were no longer weeping, though still struggled through the spasms caused by the tears. 

“Thank you, Bree.” The little girl nodded, refusing to depart from his lap, she clutched tight to him as he began again to tell them the rest of his story. 

“Eve was working in a program to encourage educators to willingly work with students in other schools. She was proving it was a successful program, until that day. She was in the school I had placed the bomb. She was tutoring a student in mathematics, had finished grading his work and sent him home when she proceeded to call me. She was caught in the explosion and killed instantly.” 

“I just wanted to be a man of truth and justice, just like the hero I truly wanted to be like. Instead, I killed the woman I loved and intended to spend the rest of my life. She was my whole life, the beginning and end for me. Life was not worth living anymore, yet I found myself unable to take my own life. It was then I realized Hell wasn’t good enough for me after what I had done. I deserved worse and on the day I met my maker, I would recommend a harsher judgment.” 

“I then joined the priesthood because I would never love anyone the way I loved Eve. I also began to work towards redeeming my evil with good works. I took over this orphanage over thirty years ago to help children I would never have. I have lived with this pain for over forty years and it still eats at me from time to time.” He paused, looking down at the picture, and then continued, his voice barely a whisper. “She died forty years ago today.” 

Lazarus put his hand on Marcus’ shoulder, kneeling so the other would not have to look up to look into his eyes. He leaned into the other man, wrapping his big arms around Marcus and Briana. He turned his eyes towards Marshall and raised an eyebrow. 

“You a part of this family or what? Get over here.” 

Marshall rose and joined the others, enveloping them within a hug to let them know how he felt about them. Soon each was laughing when Marcus mumbled about not being able to breath. Marshall smiled, convinced that Marcus’ mistake took the woman he loved from him, but his compassion brought him a family. Nothing would ever take that away, and for that, Marshall would forever be grateful.

November 2007

Chapter 1

Night Crawler 

The creature squatted silently in the impenetrable darkness, green glowing eyes gazing at the broken corpse on the earth before it. Disinterest to the dead quickly overcame it as its mind turned to other thoughts, mainly of its next intended prey. Its head slowly rose, contemplating the hunt of its next quarry, excitement surging through its body. Pursuing its victims regularly brought ecstatic pleasure and the next dupe would be increasingly so. It would revel in the destruction of its chosen nemesis, as this was the very intent and reason for its existence. 

It was an intelligent creature, filled with cunning and reason, yet more dangerous than most, as it killed for the sheer pleasure of the death of its victim. Silently it stalks its prey, playing cat and mouse, intent on feeding off the fear before deciding to end the game. The end was always the same, as the death of the victim showed the monster’s superiority and commitment to its cause. Each death made the creature stronger, yet the deaths were only a part of the overall purpose, as its genuine intention was to track and bring down the ultimate prey. 

A black, clawed finger unconsciously played with the dirt as the monster took immense pleasure in the demented thoughts coursing through its brain. A quiet growl of satisfaction escaped its lips, a slight discharge of confined energy hoarded for the next chase. Closing its eyes, it instinctually knew there was a need to save all the energy it could, as the imminent hunt would require all its cunning, reason, and strength. As it sought control over its anxious nerves, something unexpectedly screamed through its search for quiet. The time to begin the hunt had come. 

It rose, massive in bulk and physique, lifting the body from the ground effortlessly, placing the corpse across its shoulders. It moved nimbly within the dense gloom, capable of seeing obstacles in the dark that average living things could not see. It considered this notion and grunted in amusement, contemplating its own rise from normalcy to its present state. Just as abruptly, rage coursed through its veins, not at the present condition, but at the source of what had wrought its creation. 

Any who looked upon the creature would swear they looked upon a human male, though somehow transformed into something else entirely. No longer what it was, its humanity suppressed until all that continued to exist was the thing it had become. Rage and vengeance fed its existence and gave purpose to its being, sustaining it as food provided sustenance to the mortal shell. This was the reason for the hunts, preparing it for the ultimate prey, the creator of its existence. The one called Dark Angel would die by his creation, killed in ironic humor, the creator destroyed by the created. 

It journeyed through the dark, moving with determination and purpose, unhindered by the corpse it carried. Soon it came to a large cave opening facing the bay, greeted by a moonless night and silently moved towards its destination. It continued the journey, silent as death, moving from shadow to shadow, intent on its purpose. Soon it reached its destination, a cliff overlooking the bay, and flung the corpse into the bay. 

A grunt of laughter could be heard if any were close enough to hear. Suddenly the grunt turned into a howl, increasing in volume, until dogs from nearly a half mile away began to howl in response. Lights turned on within houses some distance way, people trying to quiet their animals. Those closest to the bay heard a noise that chilled all to the bone, leaving many with fear that would not recede for numerous days. One man decided to investigate the source of the noise, coming to regret the decision that would haunt him for the rest of his life. What he saw was a huge animal, a were-beast he would call it, howling in maniacal laughter then suddenly turned and disappeared into the night. 

Lazarus slowly reached for the doorknob upon seeing the large silhouette of in individual on the other side of the glass. He instantly prepared his mind and body for every possibility, preferring to take no risks whether the person was friend or foe. He opened the door and mild surprise reflected in his eyes as he found he recognized the man standing before him. The man was large and well muscled with a shock of bleached blonde hair and a matching soul-patch under his lip, yet these features were unfamiliar to Lazarus. The attributes that were recognizable were his eyes, knowing he had seen the fear reflecting in them one time before. 

“Can I help you, Marshall?” He asked slowly, deliberately keeping his voice low, increasing the fear in the other. Marshall’s eyes went wide in surprise, shocked the other would recognize him so easily, then lowered his head and sighed. 

“Yeah, you can if you want to.” He lifted his head nervously, sweat beginning to bead upon his upper lip. “Before you tell me no, at least let me tell you why I am here. What you say could be the difference between me living or dying in the next few days.” 

Intrigued by Marshall’s last statement, Lazarus’ gaze never leaves the man, causing a great deal of anxiety and a childlike amount of fidgeting. The fidgeting convinces Lazarus the man’s troubles are sincere and after a few unnerving seconds, finally waves him into the house. Marshall follows his host to the dining room, where Lazarus sits at a partially consumed plate of breakfast and motions him to a chair across from him. As the man finishes his morning meal, Marshall sits and uneasily begins to speak, his fear unconcealed and ringing with every word. 

“Do you remember Martin Collins?” he begins. When Lazarus shakes his head, Marshall reminds him of the night before he beat Ci, six months prior. “Martin was the man you followed to our hiding place…right before you threw me through the door.” Lazarus nodded, having the decency to look embarrassed at his treatment of the man sitting across from him, though the man deserved some of what he received. He was part of the organization that kidnapped the little girl who had changed his life. Marshall interrupted his thoughts by continuing though Lazarus missed exactly what it was. 

“Could you repeat that last sentence? I missed what you said.” 

“I said Martin’s dead. So are Trevor and Simon. Of the guys who were left with Ci that night, I’m the only one left. Someone’s been killing off the guys who didn’t fight you that night.” He looked down at his hands as they shook and quickly clasped them together, trying to find some kind of strength. Slowly he raised his head and looked directly into Lazarus’ eyes. “I’m afraid I’m next. That’s why I’m here to ask you for help.” He gave a small pause before continuing. “You did finish Ci right? There’s no way he’s going to show up out of nowhere and kill me.” 

Before Lazarus could answer, the doorbell rang, forcing him to postpone his response for the few moments it took for him to return. Rising, he went to the door, hesitant about opening the door, particularly after hearing what Marshall had to say. Opening the door, he saw another familiar face, one that was just as intense as Marshall’s had been. 

“What can I do for you Detective Decker?” He greeted the other man with a handshake. The two men had become close, though not in friendship, but more like partners in crime. Thomas Decker came to Lazarus, or rather Dark Angel, for the more difficult cases, knowing a valuable asset when it appeared. Apparently, according to his expression, this was going to be one of those difficult cases. The other man entered and immediately began talking about important business. 

“Do you know a Martin Collins?” Marshall approached the front door just as Decker was asking the question. 

“The name seems to be coming up quite a bit lately,” Lazarus responded, looking quickly at Marshall before returning his attention to the detective. “Why?” 

“We found his body this morning in the bay. He looked like an animal attacked him.”

“How did you know to contact me? There is no particular reason for you to connect him to me, is there?” 

“I could loose my job for this, but I thought it would be important to show you this. I took it from the body. Found it in one of the pockets.” He pulled out a small glass cylinder capped with a rubber lid from his coat pocket and passed it to Lazarus. Looking at it curiously, the large man examined it, finally giving Decker a questioning look with a shrug of his shoulders. 

“Open it. You’ll see why I came to you.” 

Opening the tube, he upturned the small container allowing whatever was inside to slip out, revealing a small rolled note as its content. He unrolled it with a glance at the two with him, once again shrugging his shoulders at the mystery and then proceeded to read. His face instantly changed expressions as his eyes went cold and his jaw clenched and flexed. 

“Well that’s not good,” Decker said. 

“What does it say?” Marshall asked. Lazarus handed him the note, looking him straight in the eyes with the intensity only he could show. Marshall locked eyes with him a moment before gazing at the note, feeling his insides suddenly grow cold with fear. The note read To Dark Angel. Courtesy of Nightcrawler.

September 2007

    GHP Home