Page 1 of X Marks the Stalker
Chapter 1
Xander
If there’s a worse way to start your day than scraping intestines off your shoes, I’d love to hear it.
I drag my sole across the edge of a marble step, dislodging what used to be a part of Boston’s most notorious art dealer.
The police took Klein’s body, or whatever was left of him, hours ago. But apparently, the chunk of liver now smearing my Converse didn’t make the cut for evidence collection.
A wave of nausea hits me, not from the sight, but from the sheermessof it all. This wasn't in the plan.
“For God’s sake, Calloway, you borrow my cameras for one simple murder and forget to remove them from an active crime scene? The entire principle of the hemlock society is ‘Your Hunt, Your Mess.’ And right now, your mess is all over my new shoes.”
I crouch beside the stark white chalk outline whereKlein had been transformed from a pedophile art dealer to a Jackson Pollock original.
“Thorne's going to have both our asses if this traces back to us. You know how he feels about sloppy work, and I'm not taking the fall because you got 'inspired' during an assignment.”
We exist because the system fails, not to become part of its evidence locker.
“Art requires sacrifice, Xander,” Calloway huffs. “Even Thorne appreciates my methods. That's why he assigned me to this target in the first place.”
The scene is a CSI nightmare. Blood has crusted into the fine Italian marble in arterial sprays that form a perfect golden ratio. What appears to be a fragment of ear cartilage nestles between floor tiles. Tissue samples decorate the baseboards like modern art installations. Klein’s essence is everywhere.
I step over a puddle of coagulated bodily fluids that definitely weren’t covered in my surveillance equipment warranty.
“This is why we can’t have nice things. Like freedom and no prisons.”
“Perfection takes focus, Xander,” Calloway huffs. “Do you think Rembrandt cleaned up after himself? I was crafting amasterpiece, not...sanitizing.”
“Yeah? Well, your ‘masterpiece’ left an intestine in the grout,” I snap, sidestepping a squelchy bit of something I’m pretty sure used to be Klein’s pancreas. “Next time, maybe try murderingwithouttreating a marble floor like it’s a goddamn paint palette. Or at least use a drop cloth.”
“Noted.” He sounds amused, the smug bastard.
Smug doesn’t even begin to cover it. Calloway could sip tea while the house burned around him.
“Did you find all the cameras yet?” he asks.
“Working on it,” I mutter, glancing around the room.
“Oh, and while you’re there—” Calloway’s voice turns casual in that way that signals trouble “—could you check if they found Klein’s left eye? It sort of...popped out and rolled under the cupboard. I was going to retrieve it, but then inspiration struck for the intestinal arrangement.”
My stomach lurches. I can handle dismemberment, viscera, brains... Everything goes. But eyes? Something about eyeballs makes my skin crawl. The thought of one rolling around... Gross.
“The police would have taken it,” I say, fighting the urge to vomit. “They’re thorough, unlike some artists I know.”
“Shame.” Calloway sighs. “It had the most fascinating green flecks. I was considering a companion piece.”
“I’m hanging up now,” I say, swallowing bile. “Also, I’m billing you for emotional damages.”
“Emotional damages?” Calloway scoffs. “You’re the most emotionally constipated man alive, Xander. The only thingyou’re capable of feeling is mild inconvenience.”
I crouch to retrieve a camera, my fingers brushing over its sleek surface. “For the record, I feeldeepinconvenience right now. A soul-crushing inconvenience. The kind that requires therapy, a complete biohazard suit, and a lifetime supply of pizza.”
I straighten up and take in the Nelson Rivera Gallery. The space screams overpriced minimalism. Sharp angles and negative space, with gleaming white walls that rise twenty feet to exposed industrial ductwork painted matte black.
Track lighting casts dramatic shadows that somehow make even mediocre paintings look profound, like they’re worth re-mortgaging your house just to own one.
In the far corner, a small red dot near the air vent catches my eye. Another one of my cameras, its lens now pointed at me. The damn thing is positioned to capture both the murder scene and the main entrance.
