Mission Log, Day 16, Saturday, September 18th, 1999
Ah, how the mind changes direction with the wind. In the last few days, I have thought very little about the Tapestry, or the Lilim, or the prophesy, or any other blessed distraction but the punishment of Jackson White. There's nothing like a clear goal to purify the soul.
As you may recall, I set out to spy on my justice-fleer at a party I overheard him talking about. The party was rather dull; if anything, human courtship rituals have become even more predictable than they were five hundred years ago (although the music is more to my liking). I prowled around for a while, peeking in windows, widening holes in window screens for later entry, and otherwise amusing myself until something interesting happened.
That something interesting was my boy leaving with the fresh young woman he met in the library for a pleasant little drive to a park on the mountainside. I followed, waited for them to get out of the car but they--or I should say she--seemed to be enjoying the company of a flask of liquor, giggling and drawling and doing the usual things one does while becoming thoroughly sotted. In time his interests shifted elsewhere, followed by his hands, but she hardly seemed to notice. Actually she didn't seem to notice much at all. She didn't move, and I suddenly feared she might be dead until I saw her head loll. There had to be something more in the flask than mere liquor.
I hardly took her lack of protest for assent; suddenly understood why the vision chose Jackson White, small-time serial rapist. I flew down to the side window and tapped feverishly on the glass. He looked up from his activities, surprised to see a big black raven on his rear-view mirror, then said, "Go away," and rolled up the window. I flew around to the other side, tried again, but he just moved to roll up the other window.
"I suggest you stop."
That got his attention. Only for a moment, though. Then I watched the thought crawl across his very human brain..."Ravens can't talk"...then he shrugged and shut me out. Talk about irritating! Why is it of late that when I want to be stealthy, everyone stares at me, and when I want to hold their attention, they ignore me? I tried swinging from the antenna. No response. I tried stomping on the roof. Nothing. I let the air out of two tires (as much as I could with beak alone). Nil. I stared at the cur while he balled away. Nada. Finally he finished his business and drove back to the party, too out of it to notice two mostly flat tires.
Now, one has a surprising amount of time to think while watching a rapist go through his routine. Thoughts like, Why did I just stand there? What's a little noise in the Symphony when he deserves a give left hook in the jaw? How could she have been so blind? Did she somehow deserve to be raped, given her choices in appearance and behavior? How could I have been so blind?
I knew this would happen, from the moment I saw that charming smile on his face. I sensed his intent to betray her as surely as I sensed the chill in the Autumn air. Yet I did nothing to head it off, and definitely didn't try very hard to stop it while it happened. Oh certainly, my head was full of all sorts of reasons for not stepping in, the coldest of which was gathering evidence, but those didn't seem to offer much solace now as he deposited her on a bed and headed downstairs to tell his friends where to find free meat. I came to one conclusion, though; I was almost as guilty for her rape as he was, and I'd be damned if I'd let it go any further.
I switched to my human vessel and walked in the open front door, smiled and nodded to the dozens of partiers as I made my way unnoticed up the stairs. I found her with ease, slapped her gently to bring her around. "Hey, wake up. What's your name?"
"...mmmM? Melanie."
"Melanie, huh? Well, party's over, time to go home." She was too far gone to help me get us out of there, but at least she wasn't much of a hindrance.
We met two of Jackson's friends coming up the stairs, their intentions interrupted by our departure. "Hey, where are you going?"
"Home," I responded cheerily, privately contemplating their untimely demises. "Melanie's not feeling well; you understand."
In the time it took them to decide how to respond, we slipped by them and down the stairs, the front door straight ahead--
"Excuse me, is everything okay?" Jackson stood before us, a look of practiced concern on his face. "What's going on?"
"Oh, nothing." I couldn't let on that I knew anything, smiled disarmingly. "I think Mel's had a little too much to drink, wouldn'tcha say?"
"Yeah, sure." Slowly he stepped aside, even took her other arm and helped her to the door, the perfect model of a gentleman. Nevertheless, I was glad to get away from there. I had no idea where I was going...
"Melanie? Melanie! Where do you live?"
"...campus dorm...Baker...need my keys..."
Always a wrinkle. I should have known our little escape was proceeding too smoothly. I carefully deposited her in the bushes and returned to the house, purposefully sought out Jackson and chewed my lip in a carefully calculated expression of helplessness. "Ummm, Melanie forgot her purse. You wouldn't know...?"
Ever helpful..."Sure, it's in the coat room. I'll get it." He returned in short order with a small handbag that matched the color of Melanie's skimpy dress.
"Thanks....My name's Ariel, by the way."
"Right. I'm Jackson. Don't I know you...?"
"We met at the library. Well, I'd better be going. Maybe I'll see you tomorrow. At the library." Not the smoothest, I'll admit, but it's been so long since I even spoke to a human, much less tried to court one. That was my intention at least. The better to kill you, my dear.
I found the girl where I left her and headed toward campus, but my destination was the library. I needed level advice on what to do next. I left her hidden below and ascended the multiple flights of stairs to knock, found Giles alone.
"Where's the Lilim?"
He sighed in that patience-of-the-ages way I'd become familiar with. "She's moved out."
"Oh." I didn't care to know more. "What should I do with a girl who's been raped?"
Giles is a funny one. He's not an Elohite, but he sure acts like one, doesn't fluster easily. This was the closest I'd seen him fluster, and he only stuttered for a few moments before suggesting the hospital. I'd already thought of that, though. Here's a girl who doesn't seem to have any knowledge of what happened to her; why rip away that blissful ignorance by subjecting her to the probes of midwives and sawbones? I told him about the bottle, and he said that Jackson must have used some sort of "rape drug" (duh!), a growing problem of the modern age. I told him of my unwillingness to stop it at the time, and how I was obliged to take care of her now. I didn't want her hurt any more. His final prescription was a thorough bath and bedrest, and that's what I did.
There are whole other stories associated with that little trip to her dorm room (perhaps I'll write a treatise someday on the living habits of the young modern female). More importantly, I bathed her thoroughly (what a treat--the tub pumps hot and cold water for you!) and put her to bed. The role wasn't as foreign as I thought it would be; that brief stint as a maidservant in the twelfth century really came in handy. Then I walked back to Jackson's house, emptying all four tires completely and otherwise spying until after dawn.
It was a crisp Friday morning. Long after the party ended I counted at least five girls leave in a haze, much the same state as Melanie. I waited anxiously for Jackson to leave, that I might pounce on him in a dark alley and chop off his head...or whatever other protrusion presented itself. But he hardly stirred until one of his buddies noticed the flat tires. Airing them up was a slow process; He wasn't going anywhere. I had time enough to go ask some questions.
Of Giles, naturally. I'm starting to really like the man; cool, efficient, mission-oriented, unentangled by human concerns like relationships. Besides, he knows things. That's his job. And I wanted to know where I might find Melanie.
He was full of more info than that. Apparently yesterday was a day of fireworks. When the others brought Bob's murderer to the Tether to face Dinhabbah's judgment, Dominique--or should I say, Dominic--showed up and headed the trial herself. I guess the poor little Lilim didn't take that well--that and the fact Rook is a die-hard demon-smiting Malakite--and that's why she decided home couldnÕt be any less safe than the Tether. Matt was "guarding" her (yeah, right), Rook and Jael were Heavenside doing research, and Arashiel's boytoy from Colorado Spring was "visiting" (yeah, right).
But such news was incidental to what I came to ask. How does one best render punishment on a rapist. And believe me, I'd already considered the obvious Eye for and Eye. If only I had a male vessel.... There is always the angelic doom message ("Jackson White, Heaven finds you guilty." [smite, smite, smite]). Eech, too noisy. Or there is the human legal system...Giles tells me it's not worth much where rape is concerned, unlike my Arabic friends who cut right to the point, literally. And I suppose castration would also make a lot of Symphonic noise, if I had to do it myself. But the prison thing...Giles says sodomy is not uncommon, but no guarantee. Besides, I'd have to provide evidence of his crimes, and that would mean putting his victims up to testify against him, or finding a way to testify myself and blow my anonymity, neither of which were very desirable. As for execution, yes, the Tether could smother the noise somewhat, but it would be a messy thing to cover up, and Giles would want to read the man's Destiny before condoning such extreme measures. I couldn't even tell Giles if he was human or demon, much less how truly cruel he was.
Giles' advice was this: Ask Dinhabbah.
Eech again. The last person I wanted to talk to. But he is a servitor of Judgment, and they might know a thing or two about punishment in proportion to crime. I'm sure my expression was rather sour, but I couldn't find flaw in his argument, and couldn't think of a way out of it without seeming cowardly or foolish. So I swallowed my personal distaste and went off to find him.
I caught him just before class. In a hallway full of mortals you can't say a whole lot, but he realized I had some questions and agreed to meet me after class. I didn't have anywhere else to go, so I sat in the hall and waited while he led his class in a discussion on the nature of "The Good Life," what ever that was. Some business about what a good life was, how they could measure it, attain it, critique it. I didn't really see what the point of the discussion was; either you do your best to make the world a better place, or you don't.
Afterward we went to his office, which was like a lamb going to discuss its next field of grass at the slaughterhouse. I resolved to stick to the gameplan, and spilled my guts. Before long, he asked, "What are your intentions; make him stop, or make him reform?"
Warily, "I want to stop him, but the results could be too messy, so I'll settle for reforming him if I can do it thoroughly. Besides, it's not just him; it's all his friends, too."
We talked a while longer about ways to expose their secret, about why rapists rape, about why he would use the drug instead of overpowering his victims. It all came down to control, and a lack of confidence, and basic cowardice. Not that it helped matters. I had to find a way to convince them to stop, or if he was their leader, convince him to stop. Or better yet, convince him to confess.
"You know, guilt is a very powerful tool. And fear; fear was a word of Heaven long before the Fall. I should know; we use it all the time."
I shuddered, remembering. But it got me thinking. Perhaps I could guilt/scare him into confessing...or killing himself. Either was fine with me. I was suddenly all aquiver with possibilities. I thanked him--sincerely, even--for his help and headed out to set things in motion.
But first I wanted to visit Melanie. As expected, she didn't remember much of anything about last night, including me, so I reintroduced myself as the girl who brought her home when she got sick and asked how she felt. Hungover, of course, but okay. But I could tell she really didn't remember me and it was bothering her, so I excused myself quickly and left her alone.
I needed stuff from Giles. A dress, some shoes, a handbag. Oh, and some facepaint to make me look dead. Once I explained my plan, he seemed a little less concerned, even made me sit down and watch a movie called "The Crow" as inspiration for my planned haunting. That man has strange tastes. Good for him.
While his helper went out to shop for me, I went upstairs to check in. Actually, I felt like I was actually doing something to further Fire, and felt reasonably reassured that I wasn't out of line asking for more songs for use in the mission. Celestial Shields, of course; if I did have to hurt a human, the least I could do was muffle the Noise. And Ethereal Entropy. That was Giles' suggestion. Personally I feel like mind attacks are cheating, all sneaky and underhanded (look at Arnu, he cheats all the time). On the other hand, I wasn't exactly planning my usual frontal assault on cruelty, and making this work would require a gentle hand. I also asked for the Song Celestial Form to change my appearance, but realized it would last only minutes, not hours. Upon hearing my plan, Soldekai came through, suggested I visit the Halls of Creation and see if they might have a useful artifact I could borrow. And he suggested I ask around, see if any other Gabrielites ever tried to pull a stunt like this before and could offer me suggestions, and insisted I fill out a full report once the operation was finished.
The suggestions part I conveniently forgot. I'd heard of another party down the street from last night's fun and suspected Jackson would be there. Besides, I had to get to him before he made good on his weekend date with Melanie. So spending a lot of time swapping stories with old timers (by old timers I mean at least a century older than myself) was not a viable option. But the artifact thing....
I found my answer in a Mercurian of Creation named Lorien. He and his pals dug up "Mirror Mirror," an old standby at costume parties, especially on Hallow's Eve, for it specialized in making people look dead. Of course, it's all up to the person looking in the mirror, but I've seen some pretty gruesome corpses in my time, and came up with a convincing blue-tinged look in a snap. Satisfied, I reverted to normal appearance and asked the Mercurian what I owed him for the loan of it.
"Nothing, my friend, except what better be a blessed good story."
And of course Mirror Mirror, intact.
Hours passed in my absence; the dress and accessories arrived before my return. I bathed first; a homeless girl was meant to be rather dirty, but Rich Boy would probably be more interested in someone smell-free. Then the Soldier helped me into those clothes she bought. The dress was rather oddly tight over its measly length from upper chest to mid-thigh. I assumed it had to be; the slightest slip up or down would reveal all. And there were hose, thin as shimmering silk and far more fragile. And let me just say the shoes were a nightmare. Then I tucked the mirror and a brush in the handbag, pulled my brushed hair back from its usual wild freedom and secured it, and surveyed the final product in the mirror. The effect was disturbing.
"A smile might help."
I shot Giles a dirty look, then swallowed my discomfort and feigned happiness. Eeeyech! Even more disturbing. Who was that woman aping me?
"Well, this could be short-lived," sniffed Giles, fleeing to the kitchen. I'm pretty sure I heard sniggering.
"Hey, this will work! I can make this work." So long as I don't have to look at myself while I do it. Oh, God, did he have a mirror over his bed? I sincerely hoped not.
Everything else was mere delay, and in short order I hobbled up to the front door of tonight's festivities. No one seemed to notice my arrival; besides the usual pockets of conversation, the main attraction was some sort of drinking game. Typical humans.
Jackson was there, not part of the game but watching at a distance. Melanie was not there, for which I was eternally grateful to Destiny. I introduced myself here and there, generally mingled, got a taste for the hot topics of the day (naturally completely different between men and women), and partook of the sacraments--er, snacks. They were tasty I guess, as food goes...I'm not really a good judge, since the last thing one of my human vessels ate was snake, and that was over a hundred years ago. I did drink, but carefully. I wasn't sure of this vessel's ability to hold liquor, and I knew I'd drink a lot more before the evening was through.
In time I made my way around the room until I stood near the couch where he sat. He looked comfortably buzzed, but certainly not unaware, and smiled at me with keen interest as I sat down.
"Hello...Ariel?"
"Yes. And you're Jackson."
We talked about nothing for a while, long enough to make me sweat. In time however, the discussion turned to that yellow water they called beer and he said, "You want some hard liquor? I've got some back in my room."
The liquor was Irish whiskey, and my vessel responded appropriately to the acrid burn that singed my throat. His room was probably pretty typical for a male his age; some pictures of family, other items of personal value like trophies and less meaningful paraphernalia, a desk and textbooks, clothes. We talked; he asked a few questions, like "What do you do?" (work at the library), "Are you a student?" (definitely not), "Where are you from?" (all over), "Where are you staying?" (here and there, wherever), and "Where do your parents live?" (I prefer not to talk about them). I played myself carefully. Come off like the whore of Babylon and he'd feel no guilt for raping me; but act too opposed to sex and he'd never follow through. I settled for a delicate compromise, fun and friendly.
The bottle of whiskey neared empty when he pulled the flask from the closet. Time for me to do this, and do it right. I took a swig to get a sense of what Melanie faced. Didn't taste anything, didn't smell anything unusual, started to wonder--a nauseating wrench of the mind, probably imperceptible to someone already three sheets to the wind. One drink was enough; I gulped air from the bottle and feigned the effects. At some point I stared off into space when I felt his hands push up my dress. I protested faintly, had to make sure he knew what he did. He knew; he didn't even slow down.
I'm still uncertain what I thought of the whole experience. For one thing, he put some sort of bag over his manhood such that we never actually touched flesh to flesh. I don't know if this is normal in this day, but it felt strange nevertheless. And as for my first time copulating as a woman...it felt oddly passive, and not a little uncomfortable, even to the point of pain. Some of that could be attributed to my role as limp lover and the fact that he didn't bother worrying about my enjoyment since I wasn't supposed to remember any of it, but still.... My initial opinion is that women got the short end of the pleasure stick.
I did find myself wishing he would hurry up, and in time he obliged. The moment I heard the door close, I put Stage 2 into motion. The mirror worked beautifully; I hid it on the outer windowsill for retrieval later. Then I tried a Song of Ice to chill my skin. It fizzled, and I didn't dare make any more noise in the Symphony in case there was a demon nearby, so I shoved my upper body out the window and let the chill air do the work. Then, repositioning myself carefully face up on the bed, I put that food to good use and retched. Cause of death: choking.
Eyes half-lidded, I eventually heard the door open again: my next intended defiler. "Uh, Jackson? You better come look at this."
I drew quite a crowd. Jackson pushed through. "What--Oh, man."
"Is she dead?"
The moment of crisis. I held my breath, willed myself to remain cold, prayed they didn't check long enough to find my pulse. Through half-lidded staring eyes I saw one of them lean down near my face, careful of the vomit. "I don't hear anything." A hand on my wrist, recoiling. "Oh, yeah."
"Man, who is she?"
"I dunno," said Jackson. "Just some girl I met. She works at the library. I think she might be homeless or something."
"No ID in the purse," someone else chimed in.
"What--what are we gonna do? If the cops find out, we're busted!"
"Nobody's gonna find out. Get her stuff and wrap her up." Not Jackson, one of the others. I sorely wished I knew which one; he sounded like he'd done this sort of thing before.
They rolled the comforter (vomit and all) around me and dragged me (painfully, I might add) down the stairs and out the back. A door opened; they lifted me into a cramped irregular space and closed the door behind me. Okay, maybe this plan had a few flaws in it, like the part about disposing the body. I mean, I knew they would have to do it. They knew a police investigation into even an accidental homicide might reveal their activities, so I figured they would try to hide the evidence--me--somehow rather than risk it. Cremation didn't bother me (good old Ofanite of Fire attunement), and burying and submersion, although deadly to my vessel, meant that I would be out of sight and could assume celestial form before risking death and Trauma. But certainly there were other more dangerous alternatives that didn't fit into my grand ultimate plan (not to mention might hurt a good deal). In fact, I found this little trip to be rather titillatingly dangerous, an impromptu bit of field research into the criminal mind.
My God, decapitation! Please, please let them forget to bring the ax.
I heard the muffled sound of a car starting, then the gentle shifting of movement. They drove for quite sometime; I'd say hours, but I'd also say I'm not the most reliable monitor of the passing of time. When the car stopped, they pulled out their comforter lump and dragged me even further across rocky uneven ground. I'd somehow lost my bearings during the trip but expected this place to be rather remote. I was all atingle with curiosity and a fair bit of trepidation, waiting to see what course of action they might take next.
Moments later, the gentle rocking of my transportation shifted to one concerted heave, and I lurched out (what the--!) and fell (my God--!) and fell (gotta get out of here!) and fell (no, lie still, damn you!) and fell (you can survive this!) and struck rock (ow!) and tumbled (son of a Grigori!) and slammed to a sudden breath-shattering stop. Dazed and numb, I dreaded the inevitable pain to follow, held still. I couldn't hear anything, even after cascading debris settled, so I forced myself to wait an inordinately long amount of time to make sure they were gone. Then, gradually and with caution, I extricated myself while checking for damage.
Lots of bumps and bruises and cuts and scrapes, of course, and I suspected a few broken ribs and fingers, but legs and arms and head remained intact. I looked around. I'd come to rest against a tree on the slope of a rocky canyon after falling a good forty feet and tumbling twenty more. I stared up at the ledge above where I must have taken flight, and my stomach wrenched. Flying as a raven is one thing. Even birds don't like falling. Helplessly.
What next? I stripped off the soiled clothes and arranged them carefully in the comforter and rewrapped it. Let them think I decomposed, evaporated, whatever. It would only add to the mystery.
Finally I finished and slumped down. Ariel hurt. Time for Raven to take wing.
In time I located myself in the mountains west of town. I retrieved the mirror and flew back to the Tether in the wee hours of morning, only offering a grim "So far, so good," to Giles as I ascended. The mirror's owners wanted to hear my story; I was tired and a little cranky, promised them I would deliver the whole story...once I knew how it ended.
By the time I returned to Earth it was Saturday the 18th. I paid a little visit to my young murderer, lurked on his windowsill until he awoke, then croaked at him until he shooed me away. That might get him thinking. Then I paid a visit to Dinhabbah to let him know I was alive and well.
Found him in his office, and it didn't take him long to recognize me.
"Everything going according to plan?"
"Close enough," I ventured. "I wanted to thank you again...for your help."
"No trouble." He smiled knowingly. "You wouldnÕt happen to know anything about those sirens last night, would you?"
I cocked my head. "Sirens? No. When? Where?"
"Oh, about eleven o'clock or so east of here. My mistake; I thought it was you."
"No, not me. No sirens. But I'll look into it."
And I did just that, located a field surrounded by cops and yellow ropes, centered around a dark red smear in the grass. A lot of blood. They'd taken the body already and combed the area, searching for clues. I flew down for a closer look, heard spooked whispers about a "serial killer." They'd found a murder victim, that much was clear. I didn't get much chance to examine the area though; the cops drove me away, one of them saying, "It's sick that the carrion birds just know somehow."
Carrion bird? I wouldn't waste my time on your disgusting flesh, my friend. I headed back to the Tether to talk to Giles.
No, he hadn't heard about it, so I filled him in, throwing Arnu's name into the mix. I mean, it seemed far too coincidental that I should run into him then hear about a very bloody and creepy murder so soon after. He hadn't heard any noise last night, but he said Balseraphs of Death could kill noiselessly, and so could anyone else with their attunement. Not reassuring.
I resumed my watch on Jackson, which proved absolutely dull until he left to pick up Melanie. I ground my beak at the thought of all my efforts coming to naught with this girl, but had to wait for the outcome. I was ultimately surprised. After dinner and a movie, they returned to his room to "talk." Without offering the flask, he made a few moves on her, but she protested and asked to go home, and miraculously he obliged.
I don't know what tomorrow holds in store, but I guarantee part of it will be Stage 3 of "The Haunting of Jackson White."
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