THE ARTIFACT

The darkness held no secrets for Little Willy as he walked toward the small decrepit house. Only a couple of streetlamps were lit, their cone of lights dim and yellow, casting jaundiced beams barely lighting a few square feet. The Long Island Power Authority did not have this neighborhood on its priority list, too many unpaid electric bills, too many squatters and drug dealers and too many attacks on repairmen. In this area, shadows overruled the light, physically and in spirit. He could sense the people living in the shuttered houses. No ordinary citizen would be out in this neighborhood after dark. He passed by a parked car with four men dimly seen through the open windows. Rhythmic base notes punctuated a harsh rap song about murder in the hood. Pungent smells of marijuana drifted out as one man said something and the others laughed, a nervous laughter, the kind that's used to hide fear.

Little Willy ignored them. Once, before the changes, he might have feared them. He turned toward the house and walked up the stained dusty concrete walk. He stood for a moment at the entrance like he was listening to distant instructions. He cocked his head to one side and his lips moved but no sound came. He brought his hands to either side of his head and held them around his ears. He could feel pulses of energy coursing throughout his body. All his cells seemed on fire with the power that had grown since the treatments started. He knew he was losing his ability to control that power. Alien songs pulsed through his brain, their origins unknown, and their muted suggestions frightened him as much as the physical changes that had taken place. Something grew inside him, something as alien as the mind of a praying mantis. Every hour that passed, he lost a little ground until he knew that a time would soon come when he would become a bystander in his own body, a spectator to whatever happened to him. That's why he needed the drugs in his veins. Crack was the only thing with enough strength to keep those demons away.

He opened the frame of the screen door. The mesh had been ripped out long ago and never replaced, the twisted strands coated with rust like dried blood. He twisted the knob on the wooden graffiti laden door, opened it and stepped inside.

A single bare bulb lit the hallway and washed out all color. The brightness did nothing to hide the dinginess. Thumb-size glass vials cracked under his feet as he walked toward the first room. A man sat on a chair opposite the door. When he saw him approaching he stood up, unfurled would be more like it. The man rose to well over six feet. A pot-belly stretched his black sleeveless tee shirt without diluting the murderous hardness exuding from the man. Arms the size of small tree trunks held a Mac-10 machine pistol, and small eyes stared white from craters in a face like black compressed raisins.

"Shit, you look bad even for a junkie. Best go inside. They's waitin' on you," said the man, pointing to the open door with the short muzzle of the Mac-10.

As Little Willy stepped inside, he felt his hands shaking and he realized it wasn't like the shakes he used to get all the time. This power throbbed through his body, anxious to get out like electricity in a fallen high-tension wire.

Three men waited for him in the room, one of them his brother. The first man wore a pinstriped expensive suit with leather overcoat incongruous in the warm room until it fell away revealing the pistol grip shotgun it concealed. The second man didn't bother to hide the nine-millimeter Glock automatic. The handle protruded from his waistband like a bee's stinger. Both men were in their mid twenties and carried the look of people raised in desperate environments who never expected to reach old age. Little Willy knew them, knew that both had killed before their fifteenth birthday. The third man in the room looked as out of place as a snake in a library. It was his brother. The man's hands fidgeted, and he toyed with a pen stuck in his breast pocket. He wore a tan shirt and checkered sport jacket with elbow patches. Thick glasses with old-fashioned black frames gave him the look of an academic. In fact, he was a scientist.

"Well Bro," said the man with the suit, "looks like we got us a little, how you say? Dilemma."

"For heaven's sake Chester," said the academic, "you know I'm good for the rest. Give us the cocaine now and…"

"Don't work that way Bro. This ain't school or your lab. The rules here are simple. There's only two. First you ain't got the money, you don't get the product. Second, you fuck with us and we kill yo ass. Like I said, simple. Except now, you fuckin' with us."

"No," replied the academic, eyes twitching under the thick glasses, "no, we'll pay you. I know where to get the money. Just give us time. With the drugs He'll be able to…"

This time it was the other man's partner who cut him off, tall and thin with rangy muscles like burnt steel ropes imprinted with prison tattoos, he reeked of violence.

"Look at him man," he said, "you take us for fools? Look at him. Mother fucker ain't even getting out of his own way."

A part of Little Willy's brain thought it seemed true. Not that he cared very much, but he looked the worst he had in his life. He felt the shaking in his hands increase as the power rode through him, howling in his mind and pulsing to every corner of his changing body with each heartbeat. He felt what little control he had slip away like blowing dust.

They were wrong. When he moved, it was faster and with more power then any of them could ever have imagined.

**

DAY ONE

PRESIDENTS STREET, BELLPORT, LONG ISLAND, NEW YORK

The only thing worse then getting up with a raging Jack Daniels hangover is examining mutilated bodies before your second cup of coffee. This morning, Francis Gullota was doing both.

He turned off exit 68 of the Long Island Expressway taking Horse Block Road to Bellport. It was early morning and a few exit further west, the Expressway would be jammed with commuter traffic heading toward Manhattan.

He popped another aspirin and took a swig of the bottle of water in the cup holder. His nerves jangled and he lit one of the small, plastic tipped cigars from a pack lying on the passenger seat of the county car. As detective sergeant of the homicide division of Suffolk County Police, Francis rated the car. Plain Jane Crown Vic, brown and stripped down. Every street person would recognize it in a New York second. That's why he mostly used his own car during investigations, unless he didn't mind people knowing who he is, like this morning.

Francis got the call before dawn. It was so serious the county risked overtime by getting him into the case this early. In fact, Suffolk County's first quadruple murder rated the overtime. But that's not the main reason it got so much attention. It was the manner of the killings and who was killed.

Francis turned off Horseblock Road into Roland Street then made the first left into Presidents Street. That marked an eight block stretch sixth precinct cops called "The War Zone" and newspapers called Long Island's worst slum.

The sun rose and weak light glinted off the roofs as Francis parked the car down the block. The street in front of the house had been blocked by two patrol cars and another, obvious detective unit. On the other side of the street they had parked a crime scene tech van. Yellow tape had been strung around the house and two uniformed cops stood around chewing the fat and looking bored. There wasn't much for them to do at this point. Early morning streets are deserted areas in neighborhoods like this and a couple of squad cars in front of a house don't attract all that much attention.

He clipped the badge on its chain and placed it around his neck, while ducking under the yellow tape strung around a dirt patch that used to be a lawn. He stood tall but not overly so, topping out at exactly six feet. His face was pleasant with perhaps more wrinkles then there should have been for his fifty-five years. The lines ran like canyons toward eyes bordering between gray and green. He wore a jeans and a dark sport shirt over a light windbreaker covering an old Army .45 in a rear holster. Some habits die hard, some don't die at all.

Francis took a pull from the cigar like an experienced smoker and released a dark puff without inhaling it. He moved like a man who knows exactly where he is going as he nodded to the two uniforms and walked up to the house. Detective Donny Callahan stood just outside the doorway, leaning on a frame that looked like it would collapse in a breeze. He grinned and cracked his gum with an annoying clacking noise.

"Hey boss, what took you so long?"

"Stopped at the blood bank to get my eyes drained," he replied, "You know I'm supposed to be off today. What's in there that Suffolk's finest investigative team can't figure out?"

Donny leaned to the side and spat out his gum. When he raised his head the grin had disappeared.

"Some weird shit boss. It's got me spooked."

Donny is in his late twenties with less fat on his body than an oak tree. He's an ex Marine Recon who works out everyday. Francis thought he could probably bench press a locomotive in addition to his black belt Shorin-Ryu karate. When Donny is spooked, that gets Francis' attention.

"Before we get to the strange stuff," said Donny, as he handed Francis a clear plastic evidence bag, "Check this out. This guy don't belong getting killed here with these other three mutts, shit's going to hit the fan if this preliminary ID is correct."

Francis held the bag and looked at the contents; a Federal ID card on a chain. Blood splatters blended with the colorful government seal like Nouveau Art. A Mont Blanc pen and another ID clipped to the chain with the US Department of Energy logo on its front. Francis recognized the face and name. It had made first and second pages of Newsday and channel twelve several times this year. If this proved correct, then Francis was holding the possession of the prominent Doctor Michael Overton, Deputy Director of the Combined Sciences Department at Brookhaven National Laboratory, privy to all the nation's top scientific secrets.

"Did you check with Brookhaven Lab? Somebody might have stolen this stuff from him. It might be someone else's body in there,"

"Maybe," he replied, "but we chased it down by phone. Nothing's been reported. He didn't work yesterday and didn't show up this morning. He lives alone and there's no answer at his house. He only has two relatives in the area, his mother and his brother. The mother hasn't seen him in a week and we don't know where the brother is. We'll be tracking him down."

"C'mon, I'll show you the spooky stuff," said Donny, as Francis followed him in the house.

The smells hits you first, Francis thought. One upon the other like a putrid wafer, you need a stainless-steel sink of a stomach not to be affected. The killings had occurred less then twelve hours ago so it wasn't the sweet cloying putrefaction like when you find a week old corpse. This was the smell of recently torn open bodies, dried blood and noxious fluids. The crime scene technicians had set up halogen lights that chased away any shadow and washed out the colors in stark white.

Francis quit smoking years ago and unlike most ex-smokers, didn't feel a craving when others smoke around him. The occasional cigar seemed to be enough. But in the first stage of these investigations, when you smell what you were never meant to smell, when the scenes of recent violent death invades your psyche and imagination fires up the visions of someone's last moments, at that time, that's when you want something to burn and deaden your senses.

He popped a stick of peppermint gum. He hated the spicy flavor but the sharpness of it on his tongue allowed him to breathe through the mouth without tasting the foul air of the house.

The first body is at the end of the hallway against the far wall. Not so much against the wall as INTO the wall. The corpse looks like he was fired out of a cannon and smashed halfway into the sheetrock. Even cheap plaster has to have two by four studs holding it up. The back of the skull had been driven halfway into the wooden stud. The pressure bulged out the eyes, the mouth was wide open and a cockroach strolled on the lolling purple tongue. Blood and grayish brain matter created a round explosive pattern on the graffitied wall, and a hole the size of a softball gaped at the sternum. Dark coagulated blood created a sash around the midsection as capillary action spread it out. A folding evidence tray sat waist high on telescoping legs. A Mac-10 laid on it along with wallet, keys and jewelry removed from the corpse. A white chalk circle marked where the machine pistol had been found.

"That hole in his chest," said Donny, "it goes clear trough to his spinal cord. No sign of any powder burns. It looks like somebody rammed him with a pile driver, the kind of shit you'd only see in an industrial accident I guess. You wanna look?"

"No thanks Donny. I'll read the Medical Examiner's report. Got an ID yet?"

"Yeah, you know this mutt. You busted him twice. That's Ty Logan."

"From Chester the Molester's crew?"

"The one and only."

"No shit. There's justice in the world after all."

Francis thought Chester Deagan and Ty Logan are the kind of people that makes vigilante action sound good. Chester is slicker then a greased eel and a total psychopath. He earned his nickname by supplying underage boys to a particularly scummy section of society. He rapidly graduated to the more lucrative world of wholesale crack. He once beat a woman so hard he blinded her. Ty Logan was his main enforcer, another psychopath. Both were suspects in half a dozen murders. They found each other and now something had found them.

The two detectives stepped into the living room, which is a misnomer in this case. Lillian Donovan was examining a cast iron lamppost planted in the center of the room.

"Hey Lil," said Francis, "furniture shopping?"

She was short, built like an oak casket and looking equally strong. Her black face shined like Kentucky coal. Her eyes, surprisingly soft in such a hard looking body, brimmed with intelligence. She smiled when she saw him and it was like turning on a spotlight in a closet.

"S'up pop," she replied, waving him over with a slight hand motion. As Francis approached, he saw how the lamppost she examined had been fixed. Someone drove it through the chest of a tall black man. Only now, he wasn't black anymore, just that particular sickly gray look that all corpses get after a few hours. Oh yeah, death, the great equalizer, Francis mused. He looked at the spot on the lamppost Lillian had been examining then knelt down by the body, another bloody starburst explosion from the cavity. Definitely ruined what looked like a thousand dollar suit. He had been skewered like a collector would pin a butterfly in a case. The shaft, thick as a man's forearm, and the hands had closed around it as if he tried at the last minute to pull it out. Not a likely effort. An iron shaft five inches in diameter ramming into the chest with enough force to penetrate through the breast-bone, the spinal column and all the organs in between, doesn't leave much wiggle room. The eyes were open wide, but displayed no fear or shock, just surprise. Francis didn't need any research to ID him as Chester the Molester.

Three technicians worked quietly around the room. Two dug bullets from holes that had been circled and photographed and would soon be studied for angle of entry. Another technician dusted for fingerprints around the third body crumpled by the far wall.

Francis stood up. He took a handkerchief from his pocket and grabbed the lamppost with two fingers. He pushed and he felt it give slightly but the base didn't move. Lillian looked up and their eyes met.

"That thing is all the way through him," she said, "I went down the basement and looked. This house is built like shit but it has oak floors, cheap knotty low-grade stuff, but still half inch oak. You know what kind of power it takes to drive something as thick as this through a human body and solid oak until it comes eight inches out the other side? You'd need a couple of steelworkers pounding on it with sledge-hammers for an hour. And here, look at this,"

She held her left arm low on the post and her right higher while keeping her hands a few inches from the post.

"This is how that thing was held. Crime Scene got clear finger and palm prints. Look and tell me what you see," she said and nodded toward her hands.

The part where her hands were pointing had been compressed. The cast iron had crushed, leaving clear hand marks as if the post had been made of clay and someone had grabbed the soft material squeezing and kneading it with bare hands, leaving their impression.

"A regiment of steel workers couldn't do that. This is scary shit Francis. This guy must be Superman."

"And he ain't fighting for truth, justice and the American way," said Donny as he came up beside Francis, "and if you're not having fun yet, wait till you see the next two guys,"

The last two bodies looked like they had been fought over by bears. The faces and throats were torn away in claw-like strips. The extent of the damage meant they would have to wait for the autopsies for more details. The coroner wouldn't arrive for another hour or so. Francis didn't think it would take too long to pronounce them dead. Until then, the bodies could not be moved. Later they would be taken to the Medical Examiner.

Francis stepped outside where the sun had gone behind clouds that moved and shifted with the rising wind. There was a smell of decay and fried dust that the breeze couldn't carry away. The two uniforms had put on yellow rain slicks and a few citizens started to emerge and stare at the police presence in their neighborhood.

Lillian came out and they stood for a moment as the rain hit their faces. It felt good and clean, coming from the aftermath of the evil that had taken place in the house. Francis stood quietly, feeling the scene, trying to discern what kind of rage could unleash this carnage. At that moment, he began to feel a tilt in the world as dark shadows moved in his mind. He felt like he leaned on the edge of a pit while something slithered and climbed in the blackness below.

Something ran loose in the world, something made of incredible savagery and power, and it was up to him to catch it.