The Billy Club Bastard Case Files: The Case of the Holy City Head Hunter, Part 6 of 7

Mickey Malloy just survived getting his face re-arranged, which told him one thing: he was on the right track. Now, with his moonlighting gear in tow, he’s going a-knocking at the door of the person he thinks is behind these awful murders.

This story is featured in the anthology Bourbon, Bullets, Broads, and Bourbon, which is now available as a Kindle ebook, in paperback, or as a DRM-free ePub.

This is Part 6 of The Case of the Holy City Head Hunter. If you hadn’t had a chance to read Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, or Part 5 yet, stop now and check them out first.

Content Warnings: Violence, Gore, Mild Swearing, Tobacco Use, Alcohol Use, Creeps, Nazis

TUESDAY NIGHT, MAY 5, 1942
OFFICES OF L.H. CALHOUN, M.D.
EASTSIDE, CHARLESTON, SOUTH CAROLINA

For a place containing information worth murdering three people over, Doctor Calhoun's front door had a lousy lock. The Bastard twisted its antique handle while jamming a screwdriver into its keyhole. A mechanism snapped inside and door swung open like he had an appointment. He looked around, made sure the street was empty, then went inside.

The waiting room with the nurse's desk seemed even smaller in the dark, and the Bastard felt as big as a rhino. Between his thick helmet and padded vest, the weighted gloves and steel-toed boots, it was all he could do to not destroy the entire room simply by existing in it. He slunk through like a tip-toeing Sherman tank and entered Calhoun's private office.

The Bastard went lit his tiny electric torch and began rifling through the doctor's unlocked desk. The nearest thing to incriminating he could find was a bronze letter opener and a nearly finished pint of scotch in the bottom drawer. He polished it off. It tasted like Calhoun had kept an expensive bottle but refilled it with bottom shelf hooch, and there wasn't much more than half a shot left. The Bastard dropped the newly emptied bottle in Calhoun's wastebasket.

He sank into Calhoun's leather chair and looked around. He'd be god-damned if he was going to pull every one of those books staring at him trying to find some hidden compartment.

“Simple first,” the Bastard grunted. He lunched to his feet and trudged into the exam room. Everything was spotless ivory tile and stainless steel. The table had fresh white paper over it and a blank sheet dangled in a clipboard. It was immaculate and ready for the next patient.

“There we go.”

The Bastard squared up with the wall of filing cabinets in the corner. He started left to right. A stab from his screwdriver popped them each right open.

“Exley, Exley, Exley,” the Bastard muttered as he pawed through the files.

Nothing. And nothing for Marion or Garnette, either. Calhoun should have at least had legitimate files on the kids for looky-lous. The sicko must be hiding them somewhere, and people only hide things when they don't want them found. The Bastard paused at that thought; it was about as deep as a parking lot puddle. But he'd always been more focused on cracking heads than shrinking 'em. No one was going to accuse him of being Socrates under his bandana.

“I'm going to have to pull every one of these damn books, aren't I?” he muttered to himself.

“No!” a muffled voice shouted. The Bastard perked up. The cries came again: “Keep going, keep going.”

It was Starling. The nurse's voice was coming through the wall. Mick drifted passed the ruined filing cabinets, to the tiled wall that the exam room shared with the warehouse on the next street over.

“Keep it coming,” Starling beckoned. The Bastard laid his hands on the wall, feeling for some something, but he wasn't sure what.

“Closer, closer,” Starling said. Her voice was clearer now, he was listening through a cracked door. He pressed his head flat against the tile and listened.

“There, perfect,” she said. The Bastard leaned harder again the wall to hear better when it budged. Not much, but it for sure moved. He extinguished his torch when he found the split in the wall. A gentle, slow push with even force eventually coaxed it ajar. The hidden door opened reluctantly but its hinges were well-oiled and it did not give away his position.

“This will be perfect for our demonstration, thank you,” Starling said. Her voice carried, echoing in from every direction.

“Damn,” the Bastard muttered. He was on an unlit concrete landing, two full stories above a cleared warehouse floor. A circle of harsh light illuminated a strutting Starling, looking positively succubal decked out in a blood red cocktail dress that left only the best stuff to the imagination. Her heels clicked against concrete as she circled a steamer trunk like a hungry vulture.

“You are all for one thing,” she projected out into the dark warehouse. “The greatest means of extracting the truth ever devised.”

There was a murmur in the shadows. The Bastard caught movement and shrunk back from the edge of the landing. He counted four groups arrayed in little knots beyond Starling's circle of light. An army.

One was a gaggle of three severe white women in civilian traveling clothes, nondescript and baggy enough to conceal some firepower. Their postures and the buns they'd pulled back tight enough to showed off their skulls screamed Nazi to him.

Next to them, three men stood whispering in slick pinstriped suits with sculpted hair and gleaming alligator shoes. They were white as well, but darker in features than the Nazis. These men kept their weapons concealed as well, but the Bastard knew the telltale fidget of a guy with a heater jammed down his shorts. They smoked and grumbled, not used to be kept waiting. Made men.

A trio of armed thugs waited in the wings, decked out in military gear, including bulky trench armor that the Bastard hadn't seen in twenty years. Two of them were white, a bearded man and a pig-tailed woman, with a Black woman filling out their ranks. These people were opportunists, capitalists, not here for politics but for cash. They wore their weapons openly, with German, Italian, American, British, and French firearms, boots, coats, and blades all mixed together. Their only identifying marks were silver diamonds, either painted on their armor or worn as a patch. The Bastard couldn't put his finger on what that might mean, but he'd find out.

Far in the back, a pair of Asian men waited in silence, their gray coveralls letting them blend into the drab building. The cherry blossom pins on their collars reflected pink in the low light. The Bastard gently extracted his club from beneath his cloak. He'd never encountered one before, but he knew the symbol of the yajirushi. The Black Dragon Society's agents were as infamous as they were merciless.

“It is my pleasure to introduce our host and the genius behind tonight's demonstration, Doctor Laythan Calhoun,” Starling announced.

The doctor stepped into the circle of light carrying a heavy wooden case. He looked nervously at his nurse, trembling before the crowd of killers. Starling's dazzling smile calmed him in an instant. He set his case down and opened it, fumbling with whatever was inside.

Two men appeared on either side of the distracted doctor. Each was dressed in goose-stepper livery, with puffy riding pants, knee-high jackboots, and a Sam Brown belt crossing his chest. The crimson L patches sewn over their hearts and the red bands on their biceps told the whole story. Each carried a police-issued pistol and a night stick. Silver Legion, the scumbag traitors playing at being American Nazis.

One of them stepped forward while the doctor worked. His mustache and self-awarded ribbons were much more intricate than the other Legionnaires'. The Bastard recognized him from his mug shot. He was big and broad, with gray hair that made him look distinguished and trustworthy. If he hadn't gotten his picture taken while heil-ing, he might have been mayor in a few years. Instead, here he was, the top contender for biggest piece of shit in the room. Mulholland Grace beamed and sent the Bastard's two worlds colliding head on like a pair of oil tankers.

“Hello, Schmidt,” the traitor said, his voice booming.

With just two words, Bastard felt like Grace had hollowed him out.

Schmidt. The Smiling Man. Eizhürst.

The Bastard's head popped up like a groundhog. He scanned each face in the room over again, but still didn't spot anyone grinning like a demon.

“Hello, Mister Grace,” the blondest Nazi said.

“Have a smooth voyage?” he asked. She smirked, then nodded to the steamer trunk in front of him.

“We managed,” she said.

“Good, I'm glad y'all made it,” Grace told her. He cleared his throat and spoke to the whole gaggle of fascists before him: “Y'all know me, and if you don't, y'all know Frau Schmidt here, or one of her colleagues. We've all worked together before, and if our goals aren't one in the same, at least . In that spirit, when Miss Starling explained what wonders her good doctor had created, I knew each and every one of y'all would be interested.”

Frau Schmidt. She was using the same alias as the Smiling Man. The Office had heard the name 'Schmidt' from intercepts, interrogations, and informants up and down both coasts. They'd been chasing Eizhürst like he was some kind of eel who could walk through walls. But maybe he could be in two places at once. Maybe every single 'Schmidt' sighting was an Abwehr agent all its own.

“Thanks you, Grand Captain Grace,” Starling said, flashing a brilliant smile.

“'Grand Captain,'” the armored man huffed.

“You got something to say, Diamond?” Grace snapped.

“Must be nice to make up your own rank,” the bearded man said. “And 'grand captain' at that.”

“I'm a captain because my men follow my orders,” Grace snarled. “I fight some something. I don't have to pay Negros and dames to listen to me, I'm not some gun-for-hire happy to take on any master's leash.”

Diamond and his companions smirked. Their hands inched toward their guns. Grace's Legionnaires looked jumpy.

“Stop this, now,” Schmidt said.

“Yes, Frau Schmidt,” Grace said, suddenly cowed.

“So which of us here is leashed?” Diamond asked.

“Mister Diamond, I happen to know that your organization's next contract is for me,” Schmidt snapped. “It would be aggravating if you were not available to fulfill it.”

“Fair enough,” Diamond said.

“Thank you,” Starling said to Schmidt. “The doctor and I are very excited to demonstrate his work.”

“Must we sit through theatrics?” one of the yajirushi wondered wearily. He looked like he was stuck somewhere between wanting to open Starling's throat or take a cat nap.

“It is new, something never before attempted, neither by science nor any of the more arcane practices,” Starling snapped. “So yes.”

Doctor Calhoun grunted behind her as he lifted a bulky device from its case. He was struggling with its weight and Grace nearly grabbed the doctor to keep him from pitching over.

“This...” Calhoun wheezed. “This is...”

The thing was so heavy that he couldn't catch his breath. The Bastard leaned in. Calhoun's creation was a long, gun-shaped device longer than a Thompson and five times as wide. It was made up of twisting pipes and innumerable dials, like a trumpet and a jackhammer had done the deed. The whole contraption terminated in a thick glass globe as big as Buck Rogers' helmet.

“This is the psycho-accoustic oscillator,” Starling said for him. She kept her carnivorous smile wide and bright, but she kept glancing at Calhoun, watching to make sure he was staying on task. The boney doctor huffed and puffed and heaved the oscillator onto a low table.

“The oscillator...” he gasped, leaning against the table. “Is the culmination of a lifetime of work and planning. It is the ultimate device for, not breaking into the mind, but asking it to unlock itself.”

Calhoun began flipping switches all along the oscillator's chrome body. A low whine permeated the room as it woke and little lights wink to life in its nooks and crannies. The glass orb began glowing, softly at first, illuminating some object inside.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Starling said, “You are looking at a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. The active elements of the three psycho-acoustic oscillators that we have for sale today took nearly twenty years to produce. You will not get another chance to own one for some time.”

“Incredible,” the Nazi broad hissed.

“What the hell?” one of the mafiosos snapped.

“Well ain't that a kick,” Grace said.

Fully lit, it was obvious what Calhoun's creation contained: a freshly extracted human skull, still pink with blood.

A flurry of whispers erupted from the crowd.

“I won't beat around the bush, I know what has caught your eyes. This unique medium is essential to create the psycho-acoustic oscillator's output,” Starling explained. She tapped one ruby red fingernail against the glass globe. “It must be meticulously grown and shaped over many years. Only when its substance is fully seasoned and sculpted to exacting specifications is it ready for harvest and use in this amazing device.”

“Are the subjects volunteers?” Schmidt asked.

“Their parents give permission for the treatments, but they do not know what it is for,” Starling said. “Doctor Calhoun begins shaping the medium when the hosts are infants. The bones are pliable and easily manipulated. Little by little, over many years, the medium assumes the desired shape. When physiological development is complete upon maturity, the medium is ready to extracted.”

“This first set took nearly twenty years to complete,” Calhoun said. “But they are not the only seeds I planted. The next crop should be ready for extraction in September. At least another four.”

Fury rose in the Bastard. This wasn't about keeping secrets or maintaining family honor, it was about money. A person who'd been trusted with the lives of children had betrayed them in a way so complete that the Bastard couldn't think of anything worse. Calhoun'd known these kids all their lives, he'd twisted their little bodies, and then he'd butchered them like animals. And he was going to do it to more kids.

“What does this thing do?” one of the mafiosos asked. “You ain't explained a lick of that, or why I'd pay fifty thousand smackers for it.”

“Using the vibration medium, it projects a frequency that agitates an individual's cerebral osseous matter into harmonic alignment. This sound and movement this process produces leads the individual to experience an unpleasant sensation comparable to extreme physical trauma,” Calhoun explained.

“I got pliers for that,” the mafioso chuckled. New York accent. He'd be easy enough to find in the mug books. “Cost me a couple quarters and a smile.”

“The oscillator does not confer any trauma itself,” Calhoun explained. “Although the sensations can lead to stressors which may result in physiological damage.”

“It leaves so trace,” Starling said, “Unless you want it to. Need information? Or just to teach someone a lesson? It is perfect.”

“Interesting,” Schmidt said. She and her coconspirators whispered amongst themselves.

“Does it kill?” Diamond demanded. His armor scraped on itself as he shifted his stance.

“On more extreme amplitudes, there is a high risk of stress-induced aneurysms,” Calhoun answered.

“What is the price for all three?” one of the Japanese agents asked from the back.

“This is an auction, Mister Nakano. They will be sold individually. But, you may bid on each if you like,” Starling answered.

“How do we know this thing works?” the mafioso asked.

“Our friends from the Abwehr have generously provided us with an example subject,” Starling answered, holding out a gracious hand to introduce the three Nazis. “Of course we'd never expect you to buy the car without taking it for a test drive.”

“Perhaps we can demonstrate your machine's extremes,” Schmidt said. “This particular fly has been extremely troublesome.”

“Absolutely,” Starling assured her.

“And what's your part in this, Grace?” Diamond asked. The lurking traitor straightened his ugly uniform before he spoke.

“Well, that would be a finder's fee,” Mulholland Grace said. “Recruitment has gotten much more expensive since I lost access to the resources of my former station.”

“Talk to me after,” the false Scmidt told him. “We have programs that might assist you.”

“Thank you, ma'am, yes, ma'am,” Grace said. He tried to play it cool, but getting acknowledged by an actual Nazi after years of playing dress-up as one made his shitty little day.

“Miss Schmidt, would you like to extricate our subject?” Starling asked.

“Of course,” Schmidt replied. She and the other Nazis stepped into the light and positioned themselves around the steamer trunk that had been left on the floor. One of her harpies had an awful injury, an oozing red rash in the shape of on open hand that covered her nose and mouth. Schmidt gestured for Starling and Calhoun to retreat further away with their delicate device, telling them: “Stand back, he is wild.”

Grace and his Legionnaires placed themselves between the murderers and the trunk as Schmidt removed its heavy padlock. The three Nazis prepared to pounce, ready for the lid to burst open and some berserker to surge forth.

“Drei, zwei, eins,” Hexmacher counted down in a whisper, then she flipped the latch open. The Nazis almost popped in anticipation, but the lid stayed shut.

“He dead?” Grace asked.

“Nein,” the Nazi with the injured face replied. She reached in with her foot and flipped the trunk open. There was a body inside, curled up like an egg.

Schmidt kicked the trunk, jostling her prisoner awake.

“Get up,” she barked.

“Oy, what's all this then?” the man said with a British accent. He sat up and stretched, squinting into the bright light above. He was thin as a rail, with dried blood crusted into a scraggly blonde beard. His right eye was swollen shut, and bruises and cuts on his wrists showed where he'd been bound before.

Grace and two of his goons rushed him, slapping handcuffs onto him. They dragged him out of the trunk and to his feet. He wobbled for a second, his legs probably long asleep.

“You keep me in a box for two weeks and now you want to have a dance?” the man asked. His blue eye caught the light with a devilish twinkle. “At least let me get my land legs first.”

He lashed out with a bare foot, catching the first Legionnaire in the crotch and crumpling him like a playbill. The next one caught an elbow to the eye, but before the Brit could escape the Nazis jumped him and pummeled him into the ground. They stepped back when they were satisfied he wouldn't be getting up from his knees again.

“Do it, now,” Schmidt snarled. She stepped back, and Calhoun shuffled forward. He leveled the oscillator in the man's face. The light behind the skull brightened, illuminating the kneeling man's battered face. A low whine filled the warehouse. Each of the competing bidders took a step back.

“Now what in the blazes is that supposed to be?” the man asked. He smiled with a smile that the Bastard recognized. Hampton Sinclair, the missing official.

The oscillator's whine permeated the Bastard’s spine, like glass rubbing on glass or the whimper of a hurt dog. He stood to his full height, towering above the gaggle of fascists and collaborators. He clutched his club tight then launched himself into the fray.

MONDAY MORNING, OCTOBER 11, 1937
OFFICES OF L.H. CALHOUN, M.D.
EASTSIDE, CHARLESTON, SOUTH CAROLINA

“Miss Starling, what in the world do you think you're doing?” Doctor Calhoun gasped. He was aghast, frozen in his office door. He was certain he'd locked it, and his drawer.

Kathleen Starling was leaned back in his chair, her heels on his desk. She was smoking a cigarette and reading his personal journal, his theories, his work. Her, a nurse, perusing his life's work like it was some fashion rag.

“Laythan,” she chuckled, not even doing him the courtesy of using his honorific, “What do I think I'm doing?”

She laid his journal down, spread open to his studies on the use of osseous matter in harmonic reverberation.

“Are these findings real?” she asked.

“Miss Starling,” Calhoun huffed, “I must object to your intrusion.”

He still hadn't moved out of the doorway.

“You didn't answer the question,” she purred, toying with him.

“Everything is purely hypothetical,” he stammered. “It would be highly unethical to - !”

“There are measurements, Laythan. How do you measure a hypothesis?”

“There are certain growth models...” he tried.

“Let me be direct with you,” Starling said. She removed her shoes from his desk and sat up to stare at him. Her voice had gone flat and the playful inquisitiveness had left her eyes. “Have you been changing the shape of children's skulls?”

“That is a very complex and - !”

“You have,” she said. He clapped his trap shut. She continued: “To what end?”

“Progress,” he snapped. He gathered himself and marched the rest of the way into his small office, slamming his medical bag and on the desk before her. It was louder than he expected and he jumped. She didn't so much as flinch.

“Are you familiar with phrenology?” he asked her.

“Not so much,” she replied.

“The study of the physical structure of the mind,” Calhoun told her. He began pacing his office, plucking books from his shelves until he had an armful. He set them down in front of her. She stared at the stack. He said: “Once you'd had an introduction to this science, then we might speak further.”

“Laythan” she said carefully, “What does this have to do with the children?”

“The central tenet of phrenology is that the shape and size of one's neurocranium dictates their morality, intellect, humors, and ability,” he explained. “My belief is that it is not a permanent outcome.”

“So because the shape of the skull affects someone's mind, you think changing their skull can change their nature.”

“I do,” Calhoun replied. There was more to his new assistant than just a pretty face. He was pleasantly surprised.

“What does my skull tell you?” she asked him. A whisper of a smile twitched the corner of his mouth upward. Of course he had noted the general shape of her cranium when he had interviewed her, but he had not had the opportunity to examine her in a medical sense.

“My craniometer is in the bottom drawer,” he said.

“I know, I found it,” she said, but she made no move to hand it to him.

“Without closer examination, I may only generalize,” he offered. She held a hand out, inviting him to do so. “You have pronounced development in areas indicative of a nurturing attitude, a patient demeanor, and dedication to task. I had assumed you might use this to become a wife and mother, but it also seems to indicate relentless, inexorable pursuit of a goal. The ability to manipulate in order to get what you want, no matter how long it takes.”

“You think I work here to rob you?” she asked.

“Myself or my patients,” he replied. He pointed at the jimmied office door, the broken desk drawers. “The evidence speaks for itself.”

“I am here because of your patients, but not for money,” she said. Her cheeks had become red. She was becoming frustrated with him. She stood up, nose-to-nose with him, her finger jammed into the pages of his journal. “What was wrong with these kids, that you wanted to change them?”

“Nothing,” he said. “They were perfect, beautiful children.”

“So what are you doing to them?” she demanded.

“Testing a theory, nothing more,” he stammered.

“What theory?” she growled.

“Are you familiar with acoustics? The science of sound?”

She didn't nod or shake her head, she just stared, listening, watching. He had had to deliver the worst news imaginable to families before, but this nurse was looking straight through him, analyzing his every word with deeper scrutiny than he'd ever experienced.

“Sound is simply a movement of air with a certain amplitude or frequency. Certain measurements of either can be physically felt, a tangible force that can exert pressure and move objects,” he said. “This force may even be felt through walls. Or bone.”

Her eyes widened a millimeter, but she stayed silent.

“The shape of the neurocranium determines one's nature, but it does not have to be bone that exerts that force on the brain beneath to achieve those results,” Calhoun said. “It can be a subtler, transitory force.”

“You want to change people's personalities with sound,” Starling concluded for him. Calhoun beamed. She understood! How he wanted to take his craniometer to her. Females were so much harder to visually diagnose with their mounds of hair. Her ebony locks hid a secret intelligence that he'd never suspected. He felt a warmth in his chest that he had not felt in decades. He wanted to tell her everything.

“I posit that, using the right medium, I can create sounds that temporarily change not only one's personality, but, with refinement, their very perception of the world around them,” Calhoun said. She eyes were running back and forth as she contemplated the possibilities. Calhoun felt pride swell in his chest.

“Where do we get that medium?” she asked after a moment.

“I already have it,” he told her. “Or, I will, soon. I am growing it, you see. Have you seen any stage productions recently?”

She blinked her eyes, thrown by the change in subject.

“I saw one of the first plays held by the Damascus Company when it was founded, oh, fifteen years ago. I was entranced.”

“What does - ?”

“The star of that production, in just those few hours, became my muse. His neurocranium, even from the balcony seats, was exquisite. Perfectly symmetrical, prominent and carried like a crown. His cranial regions dictating leadership, persuasiveness, imagination, health, language, and sense of direction were all overdeveloped in a manner I'd never seen before. And when I heard his voice! I could feel his words in my marrow. Every note he sang rang through me. He entranced me and when the fog of his influence finally left me as the curtain fell, and I knew I learn how he had done it.”

“And it was his voice?” Starling asked skeptically.

“As I learned in my studies, you'll read these works, as well, his unique neurocranium served as a reverberation chamber that projected exotic acoustic forces which directly influenced my psyche. I knew I could replicate this effect, and I knew I could amplify it. But that is where my studies faltered.”

“How?” she asked.

“I would need a reverberation medium. Only the divine could craft something so perfect, I coud not manufacture any substitute. I would need his skull.”

“Jesus,” Starling whispered.

“Yes, and Hippocrates,” Calhoun said.

“But those children,” she said.

“An idle pursuit,” Calhoun replied. “My hands were restless, and the parents did not pay the attention to object, much less understand.”

“You compressed and shaped the heads of infants,” Starling objected.

“That is when the bone is softest,” Calhoun snapped. “Do you think I could do that to a fully developed adult? It would kill them. Besides, it wasn't so dramatic as you are claiming. I only shape them little by little, year by year.”

“You're still doing it,” she realized.

“It would be a waste to stop now,” he said. The warmth in his chest began to fade. “But what does it matter? My studies have reached their end. Those children will far outlive me. I'll never see their gifts used. They are the idle rich, they'll never have to sing for their suppers.”

Starling thought on that for a second. She closed his journal, the record of his studies, revealing a scalpel she'd hidden under its cover. She didn't acknowledge the blade.

“What effects could these amplified reverberations cause?” she asked.

“It could elicit any sensation the human mind can perceive,” Calhoun answered. “Euphoria, tranquility, agitation. It could be a godsend for those afflicted by any number of neurological conditions.”

“Yes, it could,” Starling considered. Something clicked in her. She understood the work. “Could it... no, never mind.”

“Could it what?” he asked. For some reason, all he wanted to do was unravel everything he had done and lay it out for her.

“My older brother often works with the police, did you know that?” she asked. He shook his head slowly, nervously. Perhaps he'd misread her interest. She continued: “He often tells me of violent criminals who refuse to feel remorse for their crimes, or awful people who keep secrets even when someone else's life is in danger.”

“That is terrible,” was all Calhoun could think to say.

“Could these effects induce a sense of dread, or regret, in people like that?” she asked.

“I should say so,” he replied. He saw the look in her eyes. She was intrigued by him. The warmth was back, and he began to brag: “Fear, despair, terror. Pain itself is a wholly neurological response, just as easily manipulated as any other feeling.”

“Your discovery can help people in desperate need, and find justice for those already wronged?” she asked. She was looking up at him with a look he could only interpret as reverence. He smiled.

“Yes,” he said, never more sure of anything in his life. Suddenly the glow faded in him, the warmth leeching away. All of his work, the science he'd so diligently created, the very thing that impressed this young woman so much, it was all locked away in a place he could never access. “But...”

“We could change the world,” she said. The warmth novaed in Calhoun's chest like she was a nebula spinning a new to life inside him. 'We,' she'd said. She saw what he'd done. She saw him. And then she said the only thing he'd ever wanted to say, but had been too afraid:

“What cost is too great to achieve that?”

Like what you read? Buy me a beer or @ me about it.

Copyright © 2023 Daniel Baldwin. All rights reserved.

Written and edited by Daniel Baldwin. Art by Tyrelle Smith.