14.

The killings didn’t stop. How could they? Each morning, Amphion awoke and stared himself down in the mirror. Dark circles were beginning to form under his eyes, but he’d never felt more alive.  Nearly every day a new story appeared in the paper:  ‘Murdered rapist was dangerous, neighbours say’,  ‘Wanted serial killer found dead’, ‘Latest victim was prominent pimp and drug dealer’.  He pretended not to feel a sense of pride whenever he read the latest article, but he couldn’t help himself -- people loved it! So much for Cossack’s bleedings hearts; they were sucking up the killings with words like “justified”, “safety”, and “community standards”. Amphion wanted to bless each and every one of them.
    In fact, the only ones who weren’t onboard were the NSPD -- and Rachel.
    “I don’t like it,” his fiancée proclaimed one morning.
    She stood over the kitchen table, narrow body swathed in a plush bathrobe, looking every bit as exhausted as he ought to have felt.
    “Don’t like what, darling?” said Amphion, crowding about her with innocent curiosity.
    Rachel jabbed the newspaper with her finger. “Killing criminals.”
    “What’s wrong with it?” He was enjoying himself far too much, and knew he shouldn’t. “They deserve it.”
    “Maybe they do, but that’s nobody’s business judging. Besides, who’s to say this isn’t just the beginning? It might be good people next, Amphion, like you and me.”
    Oh, how he wanted to kiss her --! Amphion laughed and wrapped his arms around Rachel. “Nobody’s going to hurt you! Hear me?”
    Nobody was going to harm her -- that was the complete truth. He was doing it all for her, all for the children she might one day have, to give them a place to stand on the sidewalk where they could feel safe.
    Rachel’s lips twitched in a smile, but it was not quite enough to make her eyes brighter.
    He was still nervous, of course, throughout the whole affair. Terribly nervous. That, he figured, was natural. Man was never meant to kill, but necessity was the breeder of action. If it were not him, it would be someone else burdened with his task.
    When it came to selecting a hit (he could not spare calling them victims; they were victim of nothing but their own actions) he was always careful. They had to be a menace, a warped and unreformable individual who would deserve every ounce of blood he and Garrett would spill. Furthermore -- and this was a personal peeve of Amphion’s, but he supposed nothing could be done about it -- they could not be an individual of any repute or wealth, or else the NSPD would become too involved.
    It was murder at the station, with detectives struggling to keep up with all the cases pouring in. Cossack was pulling out his hair. Everyone suspected he was smoking his lungs dry. Amphion hadn’t been drawn into the core of trouble yet -- they kept him on a tight chain nowadays, as if they were afraid of exposing him to the world. He blamed it on those damn security cameras.
    One night, Garrett came to fetch him and, after their usual trip to the potter’s field, he was led away from the slummy back roads and towards a more recently developed district. Amphion scanned the sidewalks and boutiques they passed, bewildered. Though he slunk after Garrett like a dog, some part of him refused to accept submission. After all, he was the one carrying the loaded gun in this duo. At some point, he planned to arrest the boy -- he was a serial killer, after all -- but the moment never sprang upon him.
    “Who  is he?” Amphion hissed when they ducked into an alleyway.
    “A pimp,” whispered Garrett. “The guy’s a pedophile.”
    He asked Garrett how he knew where the target lived, and as usual they boy refused to say. Garrett was always tight-lipped when it came to the inner workings of his personal task force.
    Their heading soon came into focus: they arrived at New Seattle’s booming red light district, which had for its center two street corners: Abaddon and Cherrybrook. All about them, people chatted and swung to the rhythm distant music carried on humid, late-summer air. Many of the women were Russians, bound in cocoons of fishnet and leather.
    One young woman, no more than sixteen, spotted them and approached -- to proposition them, or so Amphion thought at first, but she quickly turned her attention to Garrett and began rapidly conversing with him in broken English. In her voice, Amphion detected a gleam of recognition. Garrett, however, shot her a cold glare and barked, “Out of my way, w***e!”
    Obediently,  the woman plodded off. When she’d cross the street she stopped and looked back at Garrett, then turned her attention to a client.
    Before Amphion could ask Garrett if he knew the prostitute, the boy snatched him by the hand and dragged him away, towards the district‘s dingier section.
     They entered through the back door of the place -- it was a brothel, Amphion suspected. The inside reeked of sweat and things far viler.
    For whatever reason, Garrett’s usual sense of confidence and direction came to pieces when they entered the brothel. His hands trembled and his already sheet-pale face began to turn a shade of green. Through the same hallway he aimlessly led Amphion several times without correcting his mistake.
    They were in a hall lined with doors. Vaguely, Amphion could hear and sense what went on behind them, but he’d developed a tunnel vision of sorts which kept his mind and energy focused on Garrett’s lead. He didn’t want to think about the rooms.
    Garrett on the other hand soon collapsed in a fit of heaving. Amphion wiped the boy’s mouth clean with  a cloth he’d found in his rucksack, then proceeded to pour bleach on the mess. From the ground Garrett, who’d curled up in a shivering ball and pulled his cloak about him, watched.
    “Are you okay?” Amphion asked. He wasn’t used to this form of role inversion. It left him feeling helpless.
    “Can’t you smell it?” hissed Garrett. A cold sweat had broken out on his brow. “Lust and lechery -- this place reeks of it. This whole rotten s**t hole is filled to the roof with -- with their mess. God!”
    Within a few minutes, Garrett had a grip enough on himself to at last locate their target. The man -- Abel Richard was him name, according to Garrett -- had a loft of his own above the brothel. They found him within a few minutes, reclined on a soggy couch with a girl young enough to be Amphion’s daughter on one arm.
    When he and Garrett burst in, Abel was caught by surprise. He flung the wide-eyed girl aside and reached for his gun, but Amphion was too quick. Taking hold of Abel’s right arm, he twisted it behind the man’s back and disarmed him as he had done many times as a police officer.
    Abel swore and attempted to shout but he cupped his hand over the pimp’s mouth. Garret pressed his dagger against Abel’s jugular and drew it across with a quick twist, and the affair was finished.
    As Amphion let the body drop and watched blood soak the carpet, Garrett had turned his attention to the girl. She was still crumpled on the floor, screaming her voice hoarse.
    Amphion took notice, and said to her, “Shh, we’re not going to -- .”
    “Stuff it!” Garrett interrupted. “I swear I’ll stick you if you don’t!”
    But the girl continued to shriek, mouth warped into an ugly ‘O’, painted fingernails twittering about her tear-streaked cheeks.
    “Shut the hell up, goddamn w***e!”
    Garrett had taken it too far. He lurched for his Colt, prepared to intervene, but it was too late. The next the he knew, he was on his knees with Garrett towering over him, arms heavy at his sides. In one hand the boy gripped his dagger, blood dripping from the blade to the carpet below. The girl lay in a heap, her belly split open.
    Amphion’s face flushed and he pounced to his feet, grabbing Garrett by the collar. “What was all that about, just now?! She hadn’t done a thing, Garrett!”
    With blank, troubled eyes Garrett gazed at him. “She was ruined,” he whispered. His words wavered, as if he too had difficulty grasping them. “There wasn’t anything left to her, Love, all ruined -- and she wouldn’t --! It -- it had to be done, don’t you see?”
    He had enough. Things had gone too far, and he’d been powerless to stop them -- until now. From his belt he drew a pair of manacles and purposefully strode towards Garrett.
    “Listen here,” he said. “I don’t want you giving me a hard time. I’m taking you back to the station. You’re going to tell them everything you’ve done -- and I don’t want my name in a single breath of it, you hear? You have nothing to do with the police; you work alone.”
    Bug-eyed, Garrett’s chuckled. Those dark eyes of his that always bothered Amphion were now mirrors of light, and seemed to have no color or shape to them. “Oh -- I’m going to tell them a thing or two! I’m going to tell them ole’ Amphion Oswald is a bloody murderer and a bloody fiend! Flesh-monger! Flesh-monger!”
    Amphion drew his pistol, but by then Garrett was no more than the rumour of footsteps hurrying downstairs. Slowly, he slid the gun back into its holster and prayed he would never see the likes of Garrett Quinn again.