The Julian Year Page 2

  Marcus wrinkled his eyebrows. “Are you okay?”

  Shyla dove straight at him, her mouth fastening over his, and pushed him onto his back. He was so stunned by her behavior that he didn’t have time to recoil from the vomit taste. Her tongue wiggled against his, and he tried to force her off him.

  People laughed.

  Help me! Marcus thought, gagging. Pain sliced through his tongue like broken glass, and his body went spastic. He shoved Shyla off him, hot vomit splattering his face.

  “Oh no!” a man said.

  “Get the fuck outta here!” another said.

  Smiling down at him, lipstick smeared all over her mouth, Shyla chewed on something. Marcus realized it wasn’t lipstick on her face but blood and there was blood on his face rather than vomit. His beautiful girl resembled someone else, something else—something inhuman. Snarling like an animal, she spat the contents of her mouth at him: blood mixed with saliva and something solid that struck his face.

  A finger? No, it was softer, with no bone inside. A tongue. His tongue, he realized as he choked on his own blood.

  Shyla screamed, a shrill sound that filled him with fear. What the hell was wrong with her? She’d gone insane.

  Shyla drove her face toward his again, her jaws wide, her snow-white teeth slick with his blood. He turned his face away, and she sank her teeth into his cheek, tearing his flesh. It was his turn to scream as she chewed on his face, then reached between his legs and groped for his scrotum. At the same time, her long fingernails located his eyes.

  Car horns blared all along Second Avenue as Josh Gerber opened one of the front doors of the Sony Orpheum and absorbed the cold wind blowing outside. He held the door open for his girlfriend, Piper, which meant he also had to hold it open for her best friend, Sissy. Josh despised Sissy.

  “That movie was great,” Sissy said, still stuffing popcorn into her mouth. “Thanks for keeping me company on my birthday. Wasn’t this better than going to some stupid New Year’s Eve party?”

  “Oh yeah, totally,” Piper said. “Right, honey?”

  Josh slid an arm around Piper’s waist, and the three of them headed toward the subway stop. “Sure,” he said without much enthusiasm. He had wanted to go to a coworker’s party in Brooklyn, but Sissy required solace after her latest rejection by a guy. The most recent target of her ire, formerly the most recent object of her affection, had been the constant subject of discussion for about a week before Sissy went into a tailspin. Josh couldn’t even remember the guy’s name.

  “Let’s go to the diner,” Sissy said, skipping sideways. She had a lot of energy for a big girl.

  “It’s kind of late,” Josh said.

  Piper elbowed his side.

  Sissy threw her empty popcorn bag, soiled with oil, into a garbage receptacle. “Oh, please? I haven’t had anything besides junk food all night. I’ll feel so much better if I eat something healthy.”

  Josh didn’t like to eat late at night. “Whatever you say.”

  They entered the blue diner, and an Indian server with Singh on his nametag led them to a narrow booth.

  This should be interesting, Josh thought. There was no way Sissy could fit in the booth; she had to weigh three hundred and twenty-five pounds, and she was only five feet tall.

  “Can we have that booth in the corner?” Sissy gestured at a round booth in the far corner.

  “Of course,” Singh said.

  Rats, Josh thought.

  Singh seated them at the booth, and Sissy sat alone on one side. They piled their coats on the bench.

  “What would you like to drink?” Singh said.

  “Water,” Josh said. They weren’t made of money.

  “Same here,” Piper said.

  “I’ll have a hot chocolate,” Sissy said.

  Singh scribbled in his order book. “Whipped cream?”

  “Of course,” Sissy said. “You have to have whipped cream with hot chocolate.”

  Josh had heard her say similar things all night, like, “You have to have popcorn when you see a movie” and “You have to have butter on your popcorn.”

  Singh walked away, and Josh glanced around the diner, which seemed crowded for late on New Year’s Eve.

  Early on New Year’s Day, he corrected himself.

  “Oh, my God, I’m so glad we saw that movie,” Sissy said. “Aren’t you?”

  “It was fun,” Piper said.

  “Fun?” Sissy said with a touch of sadness.

  Here we go, Josh thought. Piper and Sissy had been roommates in college and for a while after until Piper had moved in with Josh. He knew her mood swings and obsessions well.

  “Six Flags is fun. Laser tag is fun. Dungeons & Dragons is fun. This was a new Quentin fucking Tarantino movie. That’s not fun; that’s an experience.”

  Josh studied the menu. “Maybe Piper experienced fun.”

  Sissy stared at him, her cheeks turning red. “What did you think?”

  Josh peered into her beady eyes, which were swallowed by soft pink flesh. He could play this one of two ways: pacify her or antagonize her. Either approach would result in her nonstop opinions. “It was okay.”

  Sissy’s mouth fell open, a small O in a sea of wobbling flesh.

  “Some of the dialogue was good, and I liked the script’s structure, but it just felt so self-indulgent. It could easily have been thirty minutes shorter.”

  Sissy’s expression turned from incredulity to disgust. “I don’t believe you guys.”

  Piper broadcast her sympathetic tone. “Aw, I liked it. I really did. And Josh is tired from work. He’ll probably like the movie more if he streams it down the road.”

  Sissy threw her hands up. “You have to watch a Quentin Tarantino movie on a big screen to appreciate it. He speaks the language of cinema.”

  Josh held her gaze. “That was a big screen, and I didn’t like the movie. If I did stream it, which I’m not going to do, I’d probably fall asleep. Can we drop it? Other people are entitled to their opinions, you know.”

  He sensed Piper stiffening beside him right before she kicked his ankle.

  Sissy seemed ready to escalate her tirade when Singh set her hot chocolate with whipped cream before her and two glasses of water on the table. The dramatic indignation faded from her face.

  “Are you ready to order?” the server said.

  “I’ll have a BLT, no fries,” Josh said.

  “I’ll have his fries,” Piper said. “That’s all I want.”

  “That’s why I ordered first.”

  “I’ll have the hamburger deluxe with Swiss cheese and extra fries,” Sissy said.

  Of course you will, Josh thought. So much for that healthy meal.

  “Very good,” Singh said without smiling. He collected the menus and walked to the kitchen.

  Gazing at the mound of whipped cream floating on her hot chocolate, Sissy wiggled her fingers in the air like W.C. Fields. “Come here, my little chickadee.” She pursed her fish lips and spooned the whipped cream into her waiting mouth. The look of pleasure that spread over her features disgusted Josh. The whipped cream might just as well have been a bale of hay. Sissy set her spoon down and pushed the cup away.

  Piper leaned forward. “What’s wrong, honey?”

  Sissy’s whole face slackened. “I don’t feel so well.”

  Josh had never seen Sissy refuse to finish a meal, let alone refuse to start one. Looking at her pale face, he thought she might hurl all over the table, which would bring the night to a fitting conclusion.

  “Do you need me to help you to the bathroom?” Piper said.

  Sissy raised both hands palm out in a placating gesture, then made a deep swallowing sound. A moment later, she lowered her hands to the table. “I’m all right.”

  “Are you sure?” Piper set one hand over Sissy’s.

  Sissy stared at Piper’s hand without saying anything, so Piper withdrew it. Sissy picked up her table knife, glanced at Josh, then drove it through the back of Piper’s ha
nd.

  Piper unleashed a bloodcurdling scream.

  Josh leapt to his feet. “Jesus Christ!”

  Still screaming, Piper raised her hand before her face, the stainless steel knife protruding from it, her blood dark against her skin.

  “What the fuck is wrong with you?” Josh said.

  Sissy seized a fork and lunged at him, but he fell back and the utensil missed his eyes by inches.

  “Help me!” he said.

  Piper continued to scream beside him, and Sissy circled the table faster than Josh thought possible. He had always known she was crazy, but what the hell had set her off like this? Sissy lifted the fork and brought it down. Josh raised his left forearm in a defensive gesture, and the tines of the fork penetrated the fabric of his shirt and the flesh of his arm, scraping his bone. He echoed Piper’s screams.

  Singh ran over and wrapped his long arms around Sissy from behind. She jerked the fork out of Josh’s arm, which made him cry out, and plunged the fork backward into Singh’s hip. The server made a protracted mewling, released his hold on Sissy, and toppled weeping to the carpeted floor.

  Sissy launched herself at Josh and seized his throat in her chubby hands. Gazing into her piglike eyes as he struggled to pry her hands free, Josh saw intense hatred. Just when he thought he might pull her hands away, her head pitched forward and she clamped her teeth over his nose. Josh screamed louder, the pain unbearable as the sound of snapping cartilage filled his head.

  Sissy twisted away and spat something out of her mouth. Josh heard a wet slapping sound and someone screamed, then he tasted his blood flowing over his upper lip. Sissy turned back to him, and he could have sworn she was someone else. Throwing her considerable weight at him, she forced him down over the seat, cutting off the oxygen in his windpipe. Josh’s throat ached, and he kicked out in a frenzied motion until he felt himself blacking out.

  Thank God Piper jerked the knife out of her hand and drove it into the side of Sissy’s neck, puncturing the thick layers of flesh.

  Sissy’s eyes bulged, and she pulled the knife out, which produced an arching rainbow of crimson that spattered the column near their table. She staggered backward with a surprised look on her face, tripped over Singh, and slammed her head on the corner of a table with such force that her neck snapped. She crashed to the floor and lay still, blood flowing out of her wound.

  Jeffrey Solo awoke with a start and didn’t know why. He and his wife, Jennifer, had fallen asleep before 11:00 p.m. Working full-time while caring for an infant didn’t leave much time for partying, even on New Year’s Eve. Jeffrey worked as an auditor for the IRS, and Jennifer was the CPA for a nonprofit that assisted battered women. Their son, James, had been born almost four months earlier.

  Jeffrey looked at Jennifer, who slept on her back, a little bit of drool on her chin and a slight snore escaping her lips. He didn’t hold her exhaustion against her, even though he suspected it had been her snoring that had awakened him. The clock showed 12:30 a.m.

  Happy frigging New Year.

  At least tomorrow—today—was Saturday. He knew Jennifer had a full list of chores for him to do, but he didn’t have to go into the office. God, he hated running around the city getting diapers and other essentials, especially in the snow. Maybe it was time they discussed moving to the suburbs.

  Discomfort rippled his stomach and he grimaced. Maybe it wasn’t his wife’s fault that he had awakened after all. Throwing back the covers, he got out of bed and padded into the bathroom in his striped flannel pajamas. Stopping at the sink, he gazed at his reflection in the mirror. A pale face with dark circles around its eyes stared back at him.

  Christ, I don’t even look like myself anymore.

  He sure didn’t look twenty-six.

  That’s because I’m twenty-seven. The next thing you know, I’ll start getting white hair.

  His stomach turned upside down, and he placed one hand over it. What had they eaten to upset him?

  Pork chops.

  Why wasn’t Jennifer up too? She had the sensitive stomach, not him. His level of unease increased, so he kneeled at the porcelain altar and heaved the contents of his stomach into the toilet bowl. Tremors gripped his body, and his stomach, throat, and nostrils burned.

  When he felt confident that nothing remained for him to expel, he rose and glanced in the mirror once more. He looked like death. Why did he always get sick on the weekend?

  A cry came from the baby’s room, like a siren screaming in the night.

  Oh, God, not now.

  “Jeffrey?”

  Great, now they were both up.

  He gazed at the iron resting on the shelf above the toilet tank. The only question in his mind was whose skull to crush first.

  Three

  When the clock struck twelve and car horns blared across the city, police officer Steve Morelli triggered the patrol car’s siren, contributing to the cacophony.

  “You’re not supposed to do that,” Rachel Konigsberg said beside him.

  Morelli flashed a boyish grin at her. “So arrest me.”

  Staring ahead, Rachel avoided his playful expression. “I would, but then I’d have to serve out this shift alone, and New Year’s is always crazy.”

  Rachel had been an NYPD blue for three years, and she and Morelli had been partners for half that time. She liked him but not as much as he seemed to like her. Rachel had a firm rule against dating other cops.

  “I don’t suppose it would be appropriate to ask for a kiss under the circumstances?”

  Here we go, Rachel thought. “Did you ever ask your last partner for a kiss?”

  “No, but he had bad breath.”

  Out of the corner of her eye, Rachel saw Morelli’s grin widen. “Keep your eyes on the road.”

  “The street. These are streets, not roads. We live in the greatest city in the world, not in FarmVille.”

  All along Second Avenue people walked holding open containers. Morelli didn’t say anything about it, and Rachel pretended not to see them.

  The voice of a male dispatcher squawked over Rachel’s hand radio. “Unit sixteen, we have a 10-34 at 210 East Seventy-sixth Street.” A 10-34 call meant an unspecified assault had occurred.

  Rachel raised the radio to her mouth. “This is unit sixteen. Ten-four.”

  “Maybe we caught the first homicide of the year,” Morelli said.

  The dispatcher’s voice continued: “Unit twelve, we have a 10-34 at 430 East Sixty-ninth Street.”

  “Maybe not,” Rachel said.

  Another PO’s voice came over the radio. “This is unit twelve, Dispatch. Ten-four.”

  The dispatcher continued, “Unit seven, we have a 10-34 at 324 East Seventieth Street.”

  “This is unit seven. Ten-four.”

  “When it rains it pours,” Morelli said.

  “Unit ten, we have a 10-34 at 104 East Seventy-sixth Street.”

  “Jesus,” Rachel said.

  “This is unit ten, Dispatch. Ten-four.”

  “Unit eight, we have a 10-34 at 501 East Sixty-sixth Street.”

  “What the hell is going on?” Morelli said.

  “This is unit eight. Ten-four.”

  “Hit the siren,” Rachel said.

  “Unit nine, we have a 10-34 at 216 East Seventy-second Street.”

  “This is unit nine. Ten-four.”

  Morelli activated the siren and stepped on the gas.

  “Unit eleven, we have a 10-34 at 312 East Sixty-eighth Street . . .”

  Racing toward their destination, Morelli saw the sky light up above the East River in the distance. “At least we’ll get to see some fireworks tonight.”

  Beside him, Rachel said nothing. He supposed she was in one of her moods.

  “Unit four, we have a 10-34 at 39 East Sixty-third Street.”

  Jesus, he thought. The reports of assaults continued to pour in nonstop. What the hell was going on? No wonder Rachel was tense.

  He turned on East Seventy-sixth Street and sped
past First Avenue. The sky flared as if under siege by enemy aircraft. As he approached their destination, a small crowd gathered on the stoop of a sand-colored apartment building.

  “There’s our welcome wagon.” Slowing to a stop, Morelli saw panic-stricken expressions. “The party’s over.” He switched off the siren but left the strobes flashing, then got out of the car and waited for Rachel to join him.

  The sound of sirens filling the night came from all directions. The crowd on the stoop swarmed in their direction, their urgent voices overlapping each other. Silhouettes filled the lit windows up and down the dark street, which reached a dead end at the walkway connecting Carl Schurz Park to the Fifty-ninth Street Bridge, overlooking the East River. The ages of the men and women ranged from midthirties to early fifties, and they wore formal attire.

  Morelli raised both hands. “Hold it. One at a time. Who called 911?”

  “I did,” a woman with a tight face said.

  “Do you live here, ma’am?”

  “No, the man who does—did—is dead.”

  “Tell us what happened,” Rachel said.

  The woman took a deep breath. “Carl Mache lived in that apartment. It was his New Year’s Eve party. One of the guests just went crazy—”

  “Eric Morano!” A heavyset man pointed at the officers.

  “He smashed a wine bottle over Carl’s head, then used the jagged edge to . . . It was terrible.”

  “Which apartment?” Morelli said.

  “3C,” the woman said.

  “Where’s the perpetrator?”

  “Eric Morano,” the heavyset man said again.

  “He ran out of the apartment,” the woman said.

  “All right, everyone, stay here while we go upstairs,” Morelli said. “We’ll be back down to get your statements.”

  “It’s cold outside,” a thin man with thick glasses said.

  “Wait in the lobby or in your car if it’s parked on the street. Just don’t go anywhere until we say you can.”

  Heading inside, Morelli drew his Glock and Rachel did the same. Someone had left a doorstop beneath the inside door, so Morelli pushed the door open.