Part 3: Gone With The Mark

The light of the cigarette faded out as it flew through the air. Detective McMarkus grunted as he rolled up the car window.

His radio crackled to life, "Bravo-Two-Six, status..."

He thought for a moment about just ignoring the call, pretending the radio had broke and just heading back to the station. He'd be sitting in a parking lot across from a bar called Mo-Town for the better part of the night. The police had received information from a fairly reliable source that suggested two men responsible for the killing of an undercover office two weeks previous would be meeting there that night. The two also had strong ties to the drug trade in the city which made them more than a little dangerous and also meant there were most likely not alone. Most officers wouldn't go near a situation like this without a SWAT team around the corner, but McMarkus was what some on the force liked to call somewhat reckless. The rest of them thought he was the second coming of Columbo only with a much worse addiction to coffee and enough cigarettes in the run of a day that a few were sure his lungs had adapted to it and no longer could survive on oxygen alone for long periods of time.

Like Columbo he was good at what he did and had a strong close rate on his cases. There was the occasional accusation of excessive force that came against him, but it always came from the unlucky criminals. The kind of criminal that seemed to have the most unfortunate luck. A few were reportedly seen falling into heavy traffic, several overdosed on heroin. The pitfalls of criminal life is what most people attributed it to. He had a few cases that were left unsolved over the years, but those he couldn't be blamed for. In each case the prime suspect in the investigations realized the police were getting close and they disappeared without a trace, never to be heard from by even friends or family again. This caused some rumors of a leak in the department but nothing ever came of the subsequent investigation.

"Two-Six, you alive?" the radio said to him.

A dark limo pulled up to the ropes at the entrance across the street and he watched as the guards got on their radios, hopefully calling for their boss to come meet his guest.

"Wait one, possible subject arriving." You ignorant witch he didn't include.

Sure enough moments later, local entrepreneur and reputed drug czar Miles Dijon came out of the doors flanked by his two omnipresent personal guards. He walked down the steps smiling broadly with his arms open to greet the man exiting the limo. Fleks Barrovich, a towering gorilla of a man rumored to be from Siberia and raised in a prison camp, happily returned the embrace. The two exchanged smiling words for a moment before moving up the stairs to the club. Fleks turned and shouted something to his driver before turning, putting his headdress on, and entering the bright booming door.
"Two-Six to Central, subjects on sight. I'm on my way into the building. Out" McMarkus said as he tossed the radio onto the seat of the car. Next came his badge and gun which he hid under the seat. He rose out of the car ignoring the shouts coming from his radio. If he was ever going to get his ass in there it had to be right now.

Tonight was Carnivale night at Mo-Town. It was a well known fact seeing as it was one of the loudest events to hit the city. Admission was only allowed if you were dressed for the occasion as well. McMarkus tossed his jacket into the car as he shut the door. His clothing could only be compared to the Chiquita Banana girl-esque. He had a grass skirt, a green leaf and coconut bikini and similar to Fleks Barrovich a large headdress with grapes, bananas and other assorted plastic fruit. It had taken him nearly six hours to assemble it after he'd been informed of where his two suspects would be that night. Part of him was proud of it, the rest of him wanted to shoot everyone who laid eyes on him. Getting into the club didn't take long at all, it usually doesn't when you slip the doorman a $50 bill and give him a knowing wink. Once inside the flashing lights and thumping bass were nearly enough to overwhelm Detective McMarkus. He managed to squeeze his way through the crowded floor to one of the bars. It took him three tries until he found one that wasn't only serving cocktail drinks and he slammed back three shots of whiskey to numb his mind a little to block out some of the surroundings. Then he grabbed one of the brightly coloured slushy drinks that had a tiny umbrella and a straw in order to blend in with the crowd before making his way around the room trying to get a glimpse of his prey. It didn't take long. The trick was not to look for them, but to look for the two ox-guards that went everywhere Dijon went. With those two always watching for threats it wasn't going to be easy to get near them. As it happens, fate was on his side in this matter. As he approached the lounge in the back of the club where they were gathered, a girl came out of nowhere from the crowd and walked directly into him without saying a word. He was surprised, not only because he hadn't seen her coming, but she had barley brushed past him yet it was as if she were a truck moving past him. He watched as the she continued on her way without ever looking back. An outstretched hand appeared in his face offering him help to his feet. When he rose he saw it was none other that Barrovich who assisted him. "You are good?" He spoke in heavily accented, ye confident sounding English.

McMarkus composed himself a moment before replying, "Yes, I'm fine. Thanks for the hand."
"Come." Barrovich spoke again, signaling toward the back lounge, "My friend own club. We get you drink to apologize for rude customer."
The Detective was about to decline the invitation but as the monster wrapped his arm around his shoulders and started walking he realized he had little choice in the matter. They entered the middle of the room as Dijon was coming out from around the private bar. He glanced him over quickly before inquiring in French accented English even though he was able to speak both languages flawlessly.
"Who is this now? A new friend" Dijon gave the detective a disarming smile but it did not make him feel any more at ease"
"Small tattoo girl knock him down. Spill drink. I take back to show apology. Get new drink." he laughed, chuckling loudly as he patted the detective roughly on the back. "It's really no trouble, I can just go back out." McMarkus said as he started to turn back to the main floor.
"Nonsense, have a seat at the table, I don't want any of my patrons feeling disrespected in any way when they come here Mister…?"

"Carson." answered the detective.
Dijon indicated a small table in the corner surrounded by plush chairs. "Very well, Mr. Carson, have a seat and we shall join you for a drink."

His mind raced as he walked over. What was he thinking? What could he possibly accomplish by being here? How can he get away from this mess? The questions continued to barrage his mind. He looked up as Fleks reached over the bar to grab some bottles in order to replenish their glasses. Dijon was speaking with a waiter for a moment and sent him on his way with a pat on the behind. They both were beginning to make their way over to join him when someone came through the two massive guards. It was hard to tell from there in the dark with all the flashing lights but it seemed to be the doorman from outside. They spoke quickly and appeared concerned about something. The doorman headed back outside as Fleks and Dijon were talking lowly looking out amongst the dance floor.
The Detective rose from his seat, "Is there a problem?"

Dijon looked at him before saying, "Non monsieur, just an issue outside that's becoming bothersome."

McMarkus just nodded and then Barrovich added, "Is police."

"What?"

"Police are outside. They are great annoyance. If brave to come in here I crush them all." the grim look on his face and the way he slammed his fist into his open palm assured McMarkus that he was not exaggerating in the least.

Dijon walked over with a hand towards Fleks, "It's ok, calm down." before turning to the Detective, "It's really nothing, just with a club like this and having a more international crowd we tend to attract unnecessary attention for the local law enforcement. It seems that my security found a car outside that contained a badge and a weapon. Maybe it's just a patron who happens to be an officer, some of my employees just get worked up over little things. Like Fleks here, back in Siberia he didn't exactly have a good relationship with their police." He smiled and then looked back at the Detective. "Is something wrong? You seem a little on edge all of the sudden."

McMarkus thought or a moment before saying, "Well it's just, they make me nervous too, I kinda of have an outstanding warrant. Over nothing really I promise. Just a misunderstanding between myself and an ex, you know how these things work." he said trying to be as sheepish as possible.

"Ahh I see," Dijon said knowingly, "I'll have the boys show you the back door so you can avoid any possible trouble."

With that he signalled the two giants to show the detective the exit to the alley. Even though McMarkus was sure if they knew the truth about who he was they would gladly tear him apart, he felt oddly at ease walking between them to the door. That Dijon really knew what he was doing having them around was the last thought through his mind after he exited the door. The there was a great flash of light. A deafening roar. Gunshots? They were so close to his head it felt like it might explode. He fell forward. There was no pain other than the feeling that his skull had been crushed. He rolled over and saw the outline of a dark figure lean over and look at the two now dead bodyguards. His ears were ringing still but he thought he heard the figure curse. A hand reached out, picked him up and stood him to his feet. Eyes looked into his, they were dark, with long slits of orange down the middle like a cat would have. A voice spoke, like no voice he'd heard before. It was as if they were speaking inside his head.

"What just happened does not concern you. Go on your way and do not look back. Report nothing of this occurrence."

McMarkus nodded without thinking it and started walking down the alley. His head was still echoing nearly two blocks away when he heard a phone ring. It was coming from him somewhere, but he didn't recall ever having his phone with him and the ring wasn't his. Sure enough when he looked there was a small phone attached to the waistband of the skirt he still wore. He flipped the phone open and put it to his ear.

"Hello Detective McMarkus." The voice was female, vaguely familiar in some way but he couldn't think of where he'd heard it.

"Who is this?" he asked after a moment.

"I want you to do me a favour. I need you to meet me somewhere." It replied seductively.

"I said who is this?" his voice gave away his nervousness, something he never did. What was it about this voice that troubled him?

"I'm a friend." She replied.

Every bit of his gut was telling him she was lying. With everything that happened already that night he just figured he might as well go along with it for now. He looked at the street signs above him to get his location after she told him where to meet her. It wasn't far.

"Fine, I'll be there soon, friend."

The line was already dead. He reached the crossroads where he was told to be after a short walk. Not though, before trading the phone for a cigarette with a homeless man he met along the way. He stood there staring at the middle of the street at a glowing object of some sort. He wasn't sure how long he stood there before two other figures appeared. First a female that was dressed like a janitor but didn’t carry herself like one and even through her coveralls he could tell she did not have the body of a janitor. Moments after her a man dressed as a school girl, long curly wig and all arrived. They startled each other and stared for a moment not saying anything before he coughed to get there attention. Something about the way the girl was startled by the presence of others told him she wasn't the one who had called him. This is going to be interesting he thought to himself before tossing the cigarette aside and watching it fade as it flew through the air.

Part 2: A Streetcar Named Craig

There were four large red lights; one in each corner of the room. They shone dimly across the sparsely populated lounge giving the feeling of being in one of those dank darkrooms you see in terrible movies when the bad guy has a strange photography obsession that eventually will provide the damning evidence against him. Except in those movies the dark rooms would be empty save for the occasional mannequin, dead body or soon-to-be-dead body instead of a couple dozen party goers in costumes. Over the windows hung large, heavy looking drapes sealing the room off from the outside quite effectively even though it was night and there were no substantial sources of light near any of them this late. The mirrors in the room were also all covered with dark satin looking cloths, most stamped with Remington Art College and the school crest. The gathering was an end of summer party that allowed returning students to meet and mingle with some of the new ones. RAC was a well respected art school in the region, drawing students from all over because of its reputation for producing talented artists in most of the major fields and also because it offered a significant amount of traditional programs, providing a mixing of the cultures to some extent which some people enjoyed. There were conversely some of the more traditionalist artists who did not appreciate having to share their campus with what they saw as the next generation of "The Man".

At either end of the room stood two banquet tables, each with large punch bowls in their middles surrounded on all sides by the standard party snacks: crackers, cheeses, assorted vegetables, various meats. Not much effort was made to have the food match themes with the rest of the party. Not that the party itself was much capable of maintaining a singular theme. The initial intent being a spooky witch/warlock theme thus the red lights and cauldron type punch bowls, though the covered mirrors suggested someone was under the impression that warlocks were in some way associated with or similar to vampires. None of this took into account the fact that halfway through the planning process some of the people involved decided to alter the theme to more of a Harry Potter type witch/warlock party.

Craig had been one of those involved with the Harry Potter aspect of the plan. Involved is a less direct way of saying it was his wish from the start. His main argument was that there were more than a few fans of the series around, making costumes more readily available and easier to assemble. As well, he appreciated the irony of having a bunch of hipster, anti-establishment art students attend a semi-gothic themed party dressed as characters from one of the most profitable and highest profile pop culture phenomenons of all time. At least, that's what he said to a friend who later pointed it out to him.

A popular topic of conversation among some party goers whispering in small groups in dark corners of the room later that evening was Craig's choice of costume. The instructions were to dress as your favourite character from any of the novels, so he did as instructed and dressed as his favourite character, Hermione Granger. He had managed to locate a realistic looking wig, as well as skirt and boots that looked not only authentic but fit oddly well for the amount of time he'd had to locate them.

He was already seen as a sort of oddity around the campus. For the most part his artistic talent wasn't called into question by anyone other than those who saw themselves as being directly threatened by him. Some of those people went so far as to accuse him of sleeping with nearly half of the faculty within his first semester there. An accusation Craig always laughed off though curiously he'd also never denied it. Added to that is that he was a nationally competitive tennis player. Not one of his closest friends were aware he could play until 6 months previous when one of them accidentally stumbled upon him practicing while they were working a job at a local tennis club. Some people had seen him on highlights, in newspapers or magazines but since he used the name Saul Goode when competing they would just assume that two people happened to look similar and think nothing more of it. None of them were prepared to admit to themselves that their friend they've known so well and for so long could possibly be a tennis player. When this friend confronted him about it and asked him why he hadn't told anyone about his tennis playing Craig's only response was, "You like tennis?" After which he swore them to secrecy. Craig explained that he'd come out and tell everyone the truth about his tennis playing as soon as he felt comfortable with it.

In addition to being a closeted tennis player, Craig was also highly touted rugby player. He'd practiced with several high profile teams and was constantly being recruited by the most powerful rugby nations. Craig had declared to all of them the previous year he would only play for one country: Lebanon. In response England and France had a resolution passed through the United Nations effectively banning anyone in Lebanon from ever assembling or playing the sport at a competitive level. An even that was a first in the sports world and one that concerned many citizens of the nations involved as they wondered if that was really something their government should be spending time worrying about. RAC did have a small competitive sports program, though it was effectively destroy after he attended tryouts for the rugby team his freshman year and the entire athletics department folded a week later amid concerns of further sanctions from France and England. The entire situation contributed to Craig's nickname becoming The Lebanon Phenomenon. Strangely enough, not a single member of Craig's family can find any link to Lebanon in their genealogy going back nearly 10 generations, and it's not known if he's ever met a single person who's even been to Lebanon. That commonly held view of Craig as an oddball isn't exactly without reason.

The party went as most parties do at the campus. Nothing exciting occurred other than one Dumbledore who vomited out of a window, nearly directly onto a couple who were smoking outside. There was also a rumor of someone finding Professors Snape and McGonagall in a precarious position in one of the washrooms. For the most part though those who wanted to drink alcohol did so in copious amounts and gallivanted around the party as such, those who enjoyed the ganja found some enclosed spaces and then proceed sit and talk in low voices responding to questions they couldn't actually hear. Also there were those who did both, most of them ended up like Dumbledore worshiping at various porcelain altars by the end of the night.

After spending somewhere in the vicinity of an hour listening to a couple Harry's strum away on the guitar while an oddly blonde Ron Weasley sang old Tom Petty tunes Craig decided to find himself a change of scenery. The clock read nearly 2:00 am and he had thought about calling a stop to his evening but there was still a fair sized crowd so he couldn't bring himself to actually leave. He grabbed a few of the crackers that remained on one of the tables as he entered the lounge. As he scanned around looking for familiar faces he felt a hand brush his and knock the crackers out onto the floor. He spun to see who it was but only caught a glimpse of gold that disappeared into the darkness of the crowd. Annoyed he bent over to pick up the crackers. That's when he noticed the piece of paper mixed into the pile of crackers. Even more curious was that the paper had Craig written on the top, and an address below it. He knew the address, it was relatively close, but as far as he knew there was nothing special there, certainly not anyone or anything he remembered. Being a curious and adventurous person by nature he took this as enough of a reason to excuse himself from the festivities and began his trek to the mysterious destination written on what he would henceforth refer to as, "The Cracker Note." For an artist he was at times highly lacking in creativity.

The walk was only around a half hour from the campus. Craig spent most of the time trying to think of possibilities of who and why he could be summoned to such a random spot and this time of night. The night itself was fairly decent, with a little chill in the air from the approaching autumn. The streets were mostly empty but the occasional car appeared, with a couple beeping near him and one where the passenger leaned halfway out the window yelling something unintelligible. Craig thought it sounded like some sort of proposition but brushed it off turned downhill at the following intersection. He was only a few blocks away now and getting off the main road should allow him to avoid any more attention. At this point he noticed there was a buzzing in the air that he could not so much hear as feel. When he turned the corner his eyes became transfixed on a glowing object in the middle of the next intersection. He approached it slowly; unsure as to what reason someone would have for bringing him here. He heard a gasp come from his right and it was then that he noticed someone else was standing at the same intersection. It appeared to be a very oddly dressed stripper, looking at him with a mixture of fear and confusion. It was then that Craig realized the confusion and fear in her eyes more than likely was a result of him forgetting, in his haste to leave the party that he was still in full costume; wig, heels and all. He opened his mouth to try and say something to explain himself when a coughing drew them both to look to his left. Slumping against the wall was a third person who's apparent choice of dress made Craig feel just a little bit better about his own situation.

Part 1: Enter the Jill

It was a dark and stormy night. The rain crashed down hard on the pavement. Water was flowing up out of the gutters from the day long storm that had been punishing the city. A stray cat hid under some boxes discarded in an alley that provided it at least some shelter. It watched from across the street with typically cat-like indifference as a young lady hurried through the torrent under her small and seemingly ineffective umbrella. A man in a long dark coat rounded the corner swiftly and purposefully behind her. He was careful not to make contact witht the precariously piled garbage on the corner while also making an effort to keep his steps quiet. He was nearly ten paces behind the young woman. Any noise at this point would most certainly spook her. She stopped at a door under a small awning that, like her umbrella, provided almost no relief from the rain. Only a handful of the street lights worked on a good day in this part of town but with the power out because of the storm and the moon shrouded it was hard to see much of anything. Keys dangled from her hand as she attempted to find the one that would open the door. The man slowed his pace as she finally unlocked the door. He knew his timing had to be perfect. As she pushed it open and started to move inside he lunged towards her and then a flash.

Nothingness.

The TV screen was dark now. The only thought that was in Jill's mind as she tossed the remote onto the desk was how much she despised watching Law & Order on a regular day, let alone having to watch it while she was working. Jill worked nights at a downtown office building as a maintenance engineer. This meant on any given night she could be found toiling away in any of the hundreds of offices sweeping up the trash and dirt on the floors, mopping when needed, emptying garbage bins and recyclables. It also included sheepishly walking out of a room when she barged in on anyone who had decided to have a late night "meeting" with thier secretary, and on one occaision secretaries. It happens more than one would expect, some people love their cliches.

The reason Law & Order was on in this particular office, is the same reason it's on in every office in the building. The person that works alongside Jill, let's call him "Steve" (His real name is Stephen) is a big fan of Law & Order. Jill and Steve work as a team. Steve's job is to dust and polish all of the offices, which he normally does before Jill gets to them, and every room he walks into with a television he will turn it to a channel showing an episode of Law & Order which, as everyone knows, is on at least one channel at all hours of the day in some way, shape or form. He even goes so far as to refer to the episodes as "his stories", something that aggravates Jillian well beyond all rational reason. She swore to herself the last time he said it that the next time he uttered those words around her she would make him hurt.

She didn't really mind her job though, Steve normally kept ahead of her in cleaning the rooms so that made it a pretty quiet most of the time so that she could go about her business pondering things and wondering what she would do with her life, after she turned each television off of course. It wasn't that Jill hated the show itself, she just had an intense fear that was a borderline phobia of Sam Waterson's eyebrows. Someone had talked her into watching even The O.C. one time. Peter Gallagher had her cowering in the corner in under 5 seconds.

The peacefulness of the building at night was something she had come to look forward to, within reason of course. It was still a job and she wasn't exactly excited to go there, it was just a better environment for her than the few months she worked as a stripper a few blocks over at a classy little joint called Pete's Parlour. Pete had a more alliterative name in mind but it was rejected by the city for being what they deemed a tad indecent. Sweeping was a lot easier on the arms than swinging around on a pole every night she told herself as she set the broom aside for a moment and stretched out the tired muscles in her back. Steve walked in the room at this point, he usually did a few times every night to check up on her progress. He told her it was to check up on her progress, she knew it was really just an excuse to be creepy and stare at her chest while making awkward conversation.

"The floor's pretty dirty tonight huh?"

He managed to get the words out without having his voice crack. Steve had an oddly prepubescent voice for a 24 year old.

"It's dirty every night."

She replied, not really paying attention.

"Yea well, I guess so huh. Good thing for us huh?"

He sort of laughed as he spoke, which made him sound like a cross between a small girl and and a wounded animal of some sort, Jill hadn't been able to decide which up to this point. Posaibly a small wounded female animal.

"Otherwise we wouldn't have a job here." he said after a few seconds of silence.

Steve also had a penchant for speaking the painfully obvious when there was no need. Jill nearly cringed, but that would've made him think she was actually paying attention to him and she couldn't have him thinking that. After a minute of silence as she finished up the room and thought he might actually leave her be he managed to think of another reason to unleash his unnatural voice on the universe.

"I found some wrappers in a couple of the offices down the hall."

He apparently was looking for a response to that so he added after another few agonizingly long seconds, "I picked them up for you though, to save you the trouble."

"Thanks Steve." she replied curtly, biting the bullet and responding hoping he would take it as a cue to move along.

He didn't. After another minute she picked up her broom and started heading to the door.

"Well I'm moving on to the next one now." she told him.

"Alright" he squeaked out.

It was at this point that he noticed the television in the room was off.

"Hey," he said in what some might describe as an incredulous tone, "What happened to my stories?"

The television in this room sat in the corner near the window opposite the door Jill had been about to use to exit the room, because Steve was facing the TV he never saw the broom handle coming until it made contact with the back of his head. All those workouts and long nights swinging on the poles had one good result for Jillian, she had a swing on her Mighty Casey would be jealous of, except she wasn't about to strike out. Steve wouldn't wake up for another hour and by that time she was long gone from the building after having finished cleaning the remaining rooms in blissful silence.

The air that night was crisp and cool especially for a summer night, there were clouds in the sky obscuring most of the light from the moon but the street lights provided plenty for Jill as she walked home after work. She made a habit of it, the city was a fairly safe place to start with and most trouble makers were out of energy by the time 4am came around. She had stopped in to check on Steve before she left who was still fast asleep, curled up in a little ball around the leg of the desk. For just a single moment the thought flashed though her head that he was usually pretty well covered in various polishes and sprays while he worked and she couldn't help but wonder the effect the lighter in her pocket would have.

She coughed as she tried not to laugh while she walked down the street at the thought of him waking up and realizing his clothes were ablaze, not exactly the least psychotic thing ever but fairly average for her. The shoes she wore echoed loudly off the large buildings on either side of her with each step she took, since there were few if any cars on the road she would walk in the middle of the road so long as it wasn't a main street. A few blocks from home she noticed a faint glow coming from the middle of an intersection. Curiously she moved towards it, as she got near the lines of the crosswalk she stopped. The echoing footsteps did not stop with her. She turned quickly to her right and saw a figure coming out of the darkness, eyes transfixed on the same glowing object in the middle of the crossroads. Jill raised her hands to her face in order to stifle a scream, the sight of the person before her was beyond all imagination.