Chapter 1
Arlen James crept close to the wall of the abandoned warehouse glad that his partner was on the opposite side of the corridor. The smell coming off the masses of garbage and human excrement was enough to make his eyes water even under the mask and face shield. He couldn‘t believe any human being could live in this place and not vomit from the eye burning-stomach turning miasma that wafted through, no, blasted down these narrow hallways in what used to be a chipped wood furniture factory.
He remembered the place when it had been a thriving, busy 24/7 business, run by local managers and with a work staff of illegal aliens busted by Immigration and shut down years ago because of labor strikes and cheap competition from overseas.
Now, crack addicts and meth dealers used it to produce product or crash until they found other accommodations. He was there at least twice a month, rousting trespassers, finding dead bodies and vagrants, watching deals go down or confiscating paraphernalia from growers.
Murphy glanced over at him, gave him a thumbs up and together they slid out of the hallway into the huge warehouse open on all sides but broken up into smaller spaces by the huge machines left bolted in place too large to move, too old to salvage. The company had left them to time and scavengers.
Murphy nodded, knowing he meant the section where massive spr ings were all that remained of a paper rolling press that had made laminated chipboards. It held overhead catwalks and was a favorite place for junkies to watch for intruders.
They separated, two serious men dressed in SWAT gear moving like ghosts in the d im building. Twenty minutes later, the entire team reassembled after checking all the local hangouts and found no evidence of any drugs.
The team of six pulled open their face gear and made ribald comments over the busted raid, swore to take it out on their CI for the bum lead.
"Hey," one said. "Where‘s AJ?"
They counted heads, came up one team member short so the Sergeant spoke into his collar and called.
"Arlen? AJ, where the hell are you?"
Static came back and then his voice on the radio. "Sarge, you better come back here."
"Here where, AJ?" he returned.
"Call…meat wagon…Services," his voice broke up. "…in the…pit…bodies."
The entire team hiked up their gear and returned inside to the area where furniture was sprayed, where a pit built like a service bay oil change was tucked into the corner of a lonely warehouse set off to the side and away from the rest of the facility. Partially open to the sky, it was not an area well-traveled or used by transients.
Arlen was standing at the top and staring down in the hole as if the sight mesmerized him.
"What‘s up, AJ?" They peered over and their eyes widened. On the concrete lay, a woman dressed in a gown of such beauty that it almost overshadowed her own stunning elegance. She was tall with a figure straight out o f every man‘s fantasy, with long chestnut hair and green eyes now occluded with death. Her mouth was slightly parted as if she had just taken a breath. Her chest had a hole blown clear through it and blood stained the concrete; covered a small child who sat tucked into her right arm. He sat quietly, a dazed expression on his face; his eyes were huge, two luminous green globes that glowed in the depths of the pit like a wild nocturnal animal. His hair was a riotous mix of curls and he must have rolled in the dust because it was a curious shade of rusty gray. Around both of them was a pile of brass, cartridge shells and Arlen‘s professional eye marked them as 9 mm and 40 caliber. He laid his weapon on the edge and lightly jumped down into the pit, talking softly and non-stop to the child. He did not bother to check the woman; with holes that size in her chest, she could not possibly be alive.
He touched the baby, skin cold but alive and when he/she felt a warm, ungloved hand, it turned its head and screamed. Arlen picked up the baby, noted that it was a boy and cradled him close into his vest so that the child could hear his heartbeat.
"What‘s your name, honey?" he asked as the boy looked at him briefly before sticking his thumb in his mouth. He looked to be about thirteen months but no more than that.
"Any ID on her, Arlen?" Sarge asked and joined him. He slid his hands under her body and searched efficiently without disturbing any of the crime scenes. He found no purse, no ID, not even a diaper bag. He did find a coin under her body of solid gold with a curious stone imbedded in the center that matched the exact color of their eyes. There was no writing on it, nothing stamped on either side.
The woman was not wearing shoes or any underwear, just a thin slip made of a translucent material that he had never seen before. The boy wore a sodden brief made not of disposable diaper but a cloth wrapped into a cunning package. His clothing was a soft, woolen like jumper, which covered his palms, feet and neck. It was an opalescent color, shifting from pearl to blue, pink, yellow and back.
The boy did not answer him but looked at his mother and cried slow tears that glistened as they slid down his chubby cheeks.
"AJ, get him outta here," the Sarge ordered. "No point in letting him see his mom like that."
The woman‘s eyes opened and she turned her head to the utter astonishment of the two in the pit. "Save him," she spoke with a strange accent. "Don‘t let them take him. Protect…"
"Holy Christ!" Arlen gasped. "She‘s alive! Get medical here!"
"Ma‘am," the sergeant knelt at her side and held her hand. "What‘s your name, Ma‘am?
Stay with us, help is on the way. Do you know who shot you? What‘s your boy‘s name?"
"Too late," she breathed. "Jadewyn. He‘s called Jadewyn." She looked at the SWAT man holding the boy, whispered with her dying effort, "Take him. Hide him. They‘ll kill him." Her eyes closed, her chest heaved once and she was gone.
"Holy shit," he said inelegantly. "Who could live with holes like that?" he squeezed the coin in his hand and climbed back out. "Cancel the code, make it a 10-85," he added and took the child from AJ as he climbed up. "Call Social Services to meet us at the station."
"Sarge," AJ stated.
"What?"
"Let me take him home." It was said quietly and firmly, hung out there like dirty laundry.
"AJ, he‘s a murder victim‘s child. He must have family."
"Whoever killed her will be looking for him, Sarge. You heard her. Franny can‘t have kids and they won‘t let us adopt. Let me take him home."
The Sergeant hesitated, looked at the other team members who shrugged and pointed in disbelief as the woman‘s corpse began to glow. They watched it burn, turn into a million fireflies and disappear in a cloud of sparks. Only then did the child speak. He said, "Eloahim, Madaras."