“I brought the files.”

Luke loomed at the periphery of his cell, his lean form gradually emerging into the jaundiced light.

Herbert set his satchel down on the table and took a seat, rubbing the fatigue from his eyes. “Do you mind if I record our conversation?”

“No,” Luke replied apprehensively, his fingers caressing the tarnished bars.

Herbert removed the recorder from his pocket and placed it on the table next to him before extracting a folder from his briefcase. File in hand, Herbert faced Luke. "There are stipulations attached to you handling these case files. You may only see one at a time under my supervision. When I leave, the files go with me and you will tell no one I let you see them. No one.

"You will not deface my files in any way. I don’t want the photos creased or the pages torn. If there is so much as a smudge, you will regret it. When you return the file to me, it had better not be missing content of any kind or you will find your access to any future files revoked and I will not return.

"You are also expected to answer any and all of my questions. Failure to do so will also strip you of access to my files.

“Anything you tell me can be used in my book. Having said that, you have a right to end our conversation here and now and remove yourself from this interview should you choose.”

Luke’s sinewy arm slid through the bars palm up.

“I take it you wish to continue.”

Luke beckoned him forward. Herbert rose and advanced toward the cell. Reluctantly he surrendered the folder to Luke’s grasp.

Retreating to his bunk, Deom gingerly admired the file in his possession, solemnly mouthing the name typed on the tab, savoring the taste of it, and then grunting softly. Cautiously he turned the cover. Inside, clipped to the report’s first page, was a photo of the victim. She was slender, young, with fair skin and flaxen hair that spilled over delicate shoulders like a golden sunrise. Her full lips pouted sulkily at him, yet her eyes. Those emerald eyes "Your eyes." Luke plucked the photo free and held it aside. The light shimmered on the celluloid, her face acquiring a sheen of cold radiance which mesmerized him.

In time he returned to skimming through the report, the photo still in his free hand. Now and again he would glance at her only to revisit what became of her.

“What do you want to know?” Luke absently inquired, head bowed.

"There are varying opinions regarding your case. The multiple MOs. The escalation of your actions from serial murder to spree killing and finally terrorist acts. Some would say you are unique. Others would say you’re full of shit. The numbers too great. I’m here to find the truth."

"Every soul that I have claimed, I have taken," Luke countered defensively. "That I swear to you."

"Then let’s begin with her. One of your more…iconic moments. Joy Wernert. Police found this girl at the bottom of a ravine near Glendale. What was left of her. She was in her mid-twenties, roughly five-three. She had severe trauma to her abdomen, back, neck, and face. Thoroughly disemboweled. The initial investigation theorized she had been attacked by an animal. Possibly a coyote. That was before an autopsy revealed a broken hyoid bone and ruptured capillaries in her eyes. Death was ruled by asphyxiation. She was strangled but not before being beaten. The severity of blunt trauma cracked two of her ribs and collapsed one of her lungs. There was also blood found in her kidneys. The medical examiner believed her disembowelment took place after death.”

Luke whispered something which Herbert missed.

"You admitted to killing her," Herbert probed. Luke didn’t answer, focusing instead on the file. "What was your motive? Why did you do it?" Deom’s silence grated on Herbert. "Do you even recognize her?”

“Everyone looks the same.” Luke somberly laid the picture down on the bed next to him, the shadows washing her glow away. He flipped through the report some more only to abruptly stop. Luke stole a jagged breath, his bottom lip trembling and left eye ticking. He had found the homicide photos. His finger lewdly traced over the twisted remains in his lap. The trauma to her body was obvious. Rivulets of blood like black tears flowed from her eyes and nose. There was a great deal of swelling and discoloration to her face, evident even in the stark black and white. Her demure mouth hung slack from that final sigh, her silken hair matted and plastered to her face. She lay splayed in the dirt, her legs obscenely spread, a gaping black hole of viscera where her womb should have been. "Amor fati," Luke solemnly proclaimed.

Herbert leaned forward. "Excuse me?"

Luke’s jaw stiffened, his nostrils flaring with a deep draught of air. "Amor fati. It is Latin. It means, ’love of one’s fate.’ It is a virtue to learn to see as beautiful what is necessary in things." A pause. "Her death was necessary."

Stunned by the comment, Herbert asked, "Why?"

"Because that is the will of Fate. From dissolution comes creation. Eternal return. All things are set and it was her time to return."

"Return where?"

"To mazdhā."

Herbert fought to conceal his derisive mirth, macabre in origin, squeezing the bridge of his nose and averting his face. "Is that some sort of Heaven?" he finally managed.

Luke seriously contemplated Herbert’s disdainful question. Finally, he simply said, "It is more than that. It is the completion of the equation."

Confused but darkly intrigued, Herbert pressed. "Explain."

"That which was dissolved shall be made whole again. Through me. You ask why her. As I said, it was her time. Fate brought her to me, and I embraced her with perfect love." Luke’s words coarsened gutturally as he continued. "And in the end, she loved me for it. She exists still, at the core of my being."

"I think you need to read that report more closely. Why would she love you after what you did to her?"

"Because I rescued her," Luke snapped, his face mottled. "You do not believe me? Then let me put a question to you. What would you do if you were told this life as you now live it and have lived it, you will have to live again and innumerable times over? Would you not throw yourself down and gnash your teeth damning the demon who cursed you so? Or would you seek an end to such life?"

"I don’t know what I would say," Herbert confessed.

Luke stood and, with trepidation, came forward to submit the file to Herbert. When Herbert seized the folder to take it away, Luke held tight forcing him to look up. Deom’s eyes caught and held him. They were clear and large, his pupils dilated as to make his gaze black, unfathomable. It was impossible to read anything in those eyes. But they spoke, they wanted to speak. Herbert tried to pull away but Luke would not release him. Deom’s gaze widened and he spoke in a voice that was hoarse and raucous. “Do you dream of them, too?”

“Do I…do I dream of who?” Luke tugged gently on the folder. “No,” Herbert stated disgustedly, jerking the file loose and turning his back on Deom.

Luke clutched himself closely, rocking on his heels. “You think you understand. But not yet. Soon. I promise."

***

As night fell, the first winds of autumn swept across the sallow wastes stirring up minor storms of dust, formless devils ghostly spinning as if dancing under the graying skies.

Beneath the risen, ruddy Harvest Moon, Herbert drove into the motel’s neon saturated parking lot, his car grinding to a stop in front of his room. He took his time getting out, gathering his briefcase and notes, shivering when he finally stepped out into the cold air.

"Hey mister."

Herbert turned to see a woman reclining against a post, clad in tawdry white trash couture; scuffed red cowboy boots, a ratty peasant blouse, and a denim mini-skirt which readily displayed her boney, knock-kneed legs. What beauty she may have once possessed was long surrendered. Her weathered features were crow-like, with an aquiline nose, thin lips, and hollowed hungry cheeks framed by feathered black hair. "You must be Reeza."

"Word gets around," she said with a smirk.

"Like a social disease," Herbert muttered under his breath.

Reeza sauntered over to him, leering, rolling her hips as she strutted. Leaning against his car, she placed her elbows on the roof, pushing her sagging breasts together. Sliding a finger in and out of her mouth suggestively, she eventually stopped and asked, "Looking for some company?"

"I…uh-"

"What did I tell you about hanging around the Oasis, girl?" the motel manager demanded, standing in the doorway of his office.

"Oh what are you complainin’ for?" She brassily tossed over her shoulder. "I bring plenty of business your way."

"You bring disease. Now why don’t you go peddle your ass over at the diner and leave this man be."

Reeza returned her attention to Herbert. "Maybe I want a hot shower tonight."

The manager snorted. "You can’t wash away that taint."

"Asshole," Reeza crassly shot back, whirling round to give him the finger.

"You shut that cock holster of yours and get," the manager order, thumbing behind him.

Ignoring the manager, Reeza confided to Herbert, "If you ever get hungry, you can find me across the way." As she ambled past the manager, she paused and declared, "Don’t think I’ll be giving you no discounts anymore," before moving on across the road.

"Fucking whores," the manager uttered, re-entering his office.

***

Propped up in bed with his laptop, the fuzzy monochrome glow of the screen all that lit the murky room, Herbert scanned his notes while the garbled recording of that day’s conversation with Luke droned on in the background. His eyes burnt from having stared at the screen for so long and his fatigued mind was finding it increasingly difficult to make sense of the sentences on the screen. His consciousness was becoming fragmentary, fraying from exhaustion. What was he looking for?

Inspiration. Herbert desperately needed inspiration. Something. Anything to drive his work forward. To give substance to Luke’s tale. A reason for being in this hell. But there was nothing there to build upon and if there was he was blind to it. Rubbing his sore neck, Herbert shook his head in surrender. It was almost as if his creative gifts had abandoned him. What he wouldn’t give for a drink to loosen his grip.

Frustrated at his lack of progress over the past several days, Herbert struggled to determine how to frame Luke’s narrative. It was like trying to mold the amorphous. The man was a blasted enigma and there were so few threads to weave together into anything compelling. Despite all the background interviews and research, there was painfully little to fill this cipher even now. And the bastard wasn’t making it any easier with their vague dialogues.

Even though he knew it futile, Herbert once more attempted to read Luke’s academic papers hoping for insight but they proved a maddeningly impenetrable code which he lacked the talent to comprehend. Yet he knew the answers all waited hidden in Luke’s works; a revelation just beyond understanding. Who was this man? What had fired such fury in him? What had led to the escalation of his crimes? What was the catalyst?

“Herbert.” Herbert’s head jerked around at the sound of the disembodied voice. It took several seconds for him to realize it had come from the recorder on the nightstand next to him. He cautiously picked up the device and rewound the recording. Pressing play, he let the conversation start over listening for that voice. It soon reemerged. There was nothing organic about it. No inflection. No substance. It was dreadfully artificial. Hollow. Herbert replayed the conversation again, once more hearing the voice. Surely he should have heard it while he was conducting the interview. Could it have come from some other source that simply bled through into his recording? But…his name?

Shaken and exhausted, Herbert put both the recorder and laptop aside. It was time to get some rest.

Hours later, Herbert tossed sleeplessly in bed, haunted by unbidden thoughts that refused his mind rest. Through the thin walls he heard the crumping conversations of his neighbors, while the heater rattled away in the corner; the metal pinging with the low gush of warm air. The foundation of the place creaked and moaned, settling deeper into the desert sands. He pulled the blankets closer, chilled despite the heater. With time, his eyes grew heavy, and darkness fell upon him.

In his troubled slumber, he felt something seize his wrist.

Herbert’s eyes shot open. He found himself on a black road somewhere in the desert. The swollen moon glared maliciously down at him from a cloudless sky. Her pale gaze lit the land with an ethereal glow, a dead light that faintly illuminated the sorrowful sands.

How had he ended up here? Where exactly was he? Herbert looked up and down the barren road. No cars, no signs, nothing. This place was empty. Then he recognized the road and relaxed. It was the highway. "Great. I slept walked." Herbert searched for some landmark. “Which way to go? Well, one way is as good as another.” He turned to his left and started off, his bare feet patting on the asphalt. He continued on along that moonlit path hoping someone would pass his way. No one came.

Herbert stopped. There was something rustling in the scrub off the road. "Hello?" The rustling continued. "Hello?" A growl came from his right. "Oh shit." A coyote lurked there on the shoulder, luminescent hazel eyes hovering over a wrinkled maw of sharp white teeth. A violent warning gurgled in its throat. The rustling behind Herbert grew louder and more persistent.

Herbert started to sidestep, keeping the coyote in his sights. It licked its jaws watching him go. The beast remained planted just off the freeway, its body tensed, ready to pounce. "Just stay there," Herbert commanded, warding the creature off with an outstretched hand as he withdrew down the road.

A scream ripped his attention away from the coyote. Circling round, he discovered the stretch of road to his rear was empty. When he turned back, the beast was gone. “Fuck." His head twisted left and right searching for the coyote. It was nowhere to be found.

A miserable wail arose just behind him. Herbert jerked around. No one was there. It came again from the darkness. “Hello?”

It burst from the soil, a cursed soul clawing at the air with the stink of the pit. Rotten meat sheathed its bones. It reached for Herbert’s leg. He kicked the cadaver away in horror. It crawled out of the sand after him, the grave’s infernal abortion. When Herbert witnessed the head emerge, hair clumped with dirt and blood, empty sockets where eyes should have been, he ran. He ran for all he was worth toward the horizon. More moans arose, screams and cries polluting the wind. They were pulling themselves out of their graves along that black road. They would not sleep. They could not rest.

Who they were Herbert did not know nor care to stop and discover. He fled for his life. The cries were those of hundreds, thousands. Their voices wheezed from empty lungs. They lined his path, reaching and grasping. They were soiled, decrepit things with milky eyes and missing jaws. Hisses spilled out of their dry throats as they pointed and accused, cursing him in passing.

A flash of light briefly blinded Herbert, followed by a great crack of thunder disorienting and deafening him. Freezing rain followed, pouring mercilessly from the heavens. Sleet hammered Herbert as he slid on the slick ebony road gashing his elbows on the asphalt. He tried to pull himself up only to be struck down. He crawled bloodied and bruised through the darkness. They were coming for him. The horde was closing in upon him. He felt their dreadful touch.

Up the road he saw others, shattered figures who watched and reveled in his pain. Their cackling came on the wind like a plague of locusts.

The breakers of death surged round about him, a menacing flood of putrefaction. In distress, Herbert cried out to God. But his cries for salvation went unanswered.

And then the dead were on him. They beat and bit, kicked and scratched. Herbert screamed only for his breath to be stolen. They tore bits from his flesh and feasted on him until the road beneath fractured, then shattered and he fell into the abyss with the rest of the damned.

Herbert shuddered awake slathered in sweat. Trembling, he clutched his blankets tightly to himself. The dark around him held such horrid things. He waited for them to jump from the shadows; sure the demons of his dreams lurked in the blackness. But as the minutes passed he discovered he was alone. It was all a dream. Nothing but a dream.

Pulling himself together, Herbert turned to flip the lamp on only to recoil in shock. Joy Wernert’s corpse lay propped in the corner, blood and gore sprayed across the wall. Herbert flinched when the corpse’s head rose from its chest, eyes rolling into the back of its head. She glowered at Herbert, her mouth gaping open and spewing a hysterical cry.

Herbert screamed when he awoke. His screams gave the night life.

Next Chapter: Tabula Rasa