DISCLAIMER: Original story. Don't expect usual stuff. There will be violence and sex and foul language and nasty people and a bit of horror to boot because it is that time of year.

RED SOX: BELIEVE!

## Post Traumatic Treat

By

### phair

### Part 1

The man, draped in ceremonial black cloth, smiled as the shiny silver skeleton key clicked open the lock to his new abode. Upon his elevation to Bishop, the church gifted him with the exclusive use of a three bedroom, two and a half baths colonial on an acre of land in the affluent suburb of Milton. The Archdioceses also granted, in recognition to his years of devoted service, a 2007 town car with driver for all his official duties, and a generous retirement/health insurance package. Meager perks, at best, by corporate standards but it was all that was allowable in the modern world for a Roman Catholic Bishop; a prince of the church.

"Bishop Malcolm Ignatius Brewster," he chuckled aloud with no small amount of satisfaction as the door shuddered open before him.

"Treats then tricks."

A small girl's voice sung out from the woods to the right of the porch as the town car pulled away from the curb and sped down the empty street toward the city lights. The childish sing song voice sent a shudder down the Bishop's spine and he hustled his way into his new home without further haste. Slamming the door firmly behind him, he made his way to turn on the nearest light. Painfully hard learned lessons taught him that nothing could happen when the lights were lit.

Click.

The solemn darkness continued.

Click. Click. Click.

"SHIT!" He cried as his fingers twisted the lamp switch until it snapped off in his hand.

Still the black gapping horror of darkness, where anything was possible, shrouded his new home.

"Treats then tricks."

The sing song faded into a round of girlish giggles. It was soft but much closer than before. It was too close for the old man's comfort. Much too close. Bishop Brewster realized with a terrible clarity the small owner of the taunting voice was inside his new home with him.

He raced for the phone in the kitchen. He was running for the first time in more than decade. Nervous fingers punched the trinity of emergency numbers. He waited for an answer to the ring as he strategically positioned himself; back against the wall with the fridge to his left and a wall to his right then his knees locked together prepared for a frontal assault.

"911, what is your emergence?"

"This is Bishop Brewster, Malcolm Brewster. I'm at 66 Standish Way. There's an…an…an intruder here. I need help. The power is out. Send a squad car with flashing lights, search lights, everything they got."

"Yes, sir," the operator answered. "Where is the intruder at this moment?"

"In the house."

"Where?"

"Jesus, Lord Almighty, I don't know. How could I know? There're ten rooms and a basement. She could be anywhere. She's small."

"She's small?" The operator questioned. "You saw the intruder then? Can you give me a description of the person or persons?"

"She's three feet tall, maybe four or five years old, with wild black hair and the deadest eyes…,"

The operator interrupted to ask with a hint of disbelief, "She's a little girl?"

"Oh, for God's sake, can't you just send a car over here now. Shed some light on the house. Let them search the place, shall we? Isn't that their job? Or is that too much to ask from all of you?"

"A squad car has already been dispatched. It's on route to your location, sir."

"Sir? Did you call me Sir? YOU STUPID CUNT! I'M A BISHOP! Bishop Malcolm Brewster!" Malcolm Brewster was red faced as he blustered on, "Now, get those donut eating assholes over here ASAP or, I promise you, the Cardinal will be a no show at the next Union negotiations! I'm not just blowing off steam here. Do you understand me, bitch?"

"Bishop," the voice on the other end of the line was soft and controlled and exceedingly patient, "as I said, a squad car is on its way to your location. So, there is no reason to try to threaten me or use profanity. I'm just trying help you. I'm trying to gather information which will enable us to apprehend the suspect…,"

"Apprehend? Are you soft?! You can catch a ghost, you fucking moron! You…, oh God, no, not you again, no, no, help me…please, no," static filled the line before the connection was lost forever.

* * *

Kierce Payzant walked into the crime scene flipping her credentials to the swarm of police officers along the way. She never paused at the carnage before her which was eerily illuminated under crime scene lights powered by a noisy gas generator in the porch. She was careful to side step the copious blood stains marring the otherwise immaculate hard wood floors as she made her way to the detective in charge of the local operation. She glanced twice between him and the large pool of blood congealing next to his feet.

"Special Agent Kierce Payzant, FBI," she stated when he finally met her eyes. "You seem to have a serious crime on your hands, Detective. How may I assist you?"

"Jesus, you guys too? Haven't I've suffered enough?" The detective growled at her. "First there's this bloody mess to secure, then the Cardinal sends his boy over to hound me, and now the feds want in on it too. How am I supposed to do my job with a bunch of creeps looking over my shoulder at every turn?"

"Do it as competently as you always do and you got no worries from me, Detective," Kierce advised. "Also, you might want to call me Kierce instead of creep but that's just a friendly suggestion."

"Competently? So says you! My boss already told me it was my neck in the noose if I didn't shut this shit investigation down PDQ. Trust me, Kierce," he gave a snort of a laugh, "I'd love to shut this investigation down tonight and be done with it but the victim isn't cooperating, now, is he?"

Kierce gave a gentle grin, "News to me. How isn't the victim cooperating, Detective?"

"Jesus Cripes Almighty!" The detective nearly shouted. "That friggin' bastard won't even die for us now, will he? How can I wrap the investigation up when the vic/wit is alive enough to give sketchy details of the perp? I'll tell you, I can't stop this nonsense. Instead, I need to find a three and a half foot tall, grey eyed, raven black haired toddler Hell bent on a spoiler of a fight to the death with an elderly priest."

Kierce grinned. "You do seem to be between a rock and a hard place, Detective. Perhaps, we can help each other out?"

"How? By handing you the investigation? Thanks, a lot. Why don't I just ask for the Chief to bust me to patrol? I've got a pension to worry about, you know?" The detective's neck veins bulged over his shirt collar.

Kierce's cell phone rang ending the detective's tirade. She flipped the phone open and answered with a grunt. Several nods and grunts followed before she snapped the phone back into its holder.

"Detective…, Tesoro…? Is it?" The man nodded in muted anger. "Detective Tesoro, that was my boss' boss in DC. I'm in charge of the investigation as of this moment. They've determined the acts here to be, most probably, a hate crime. Your Chief's been notified already regarding jurisdiction. You're part of my task force effective immediately. Pick two or three officers from the ones on scene, you know, officers you work well with. They'll round out our team. Have all your info together and ready to present it at 6:30 am tomorrow at my temporary command post in the Suffolk County DA's law library."

"What am I suppose to do, salute your FBI highness?" The burly detective hissed with barely restrained fury.

Kierce shook her head and smirked, "No, just genuflect as you normally would before any sovereign overlord."

* * *

6:15 am in New England under the new daylight savings time was gloomy, at best. It was out right dark on a rainy late October morning. Kierce walked toward the only light lit along the third floor corridor of the DA's office. Somehow, she knew it was emanating from the library and was not left lit for her the night before. Entering the room, her initial feelings were confirmed.

"Father, perhaps you mistook this old building for the Cathedral. You'll find Holy Cross a few blocks away in the South End," she directed with pointing fingers.

The priest gave a grim smile in response. "Very witty, Agent Payzant. Of course, you know I'm here regarding Bishop Brewster. Please, have a seat so we can conduct our business before the others arrive."

"Just what would 'our business' be since I haven't even met you before," she questioned without taking a chair.

"I'm Father Michael. I'm a priest and a lawyer. I report directly to the Cardinal. The Archdiocese believes this file," the young man held up a thick manila folder, "has all the information you need to complete your investigation. Please be assured, we are looking for closure and not a conviction. The suspect, or should I say, the person we suspect as the perpetrator is only a danger to Bishop Brewster and not a threat to society at large. We'll see to it he's safely removed from her immediate environment. I promise you, Bishop Brewster will not press for charges to be leveled. For our purposes, we wish the matter resolved by the end of your morning meeting."

"Seeing as I don't know what's in your file," Kierce questioned, "how am I suppose to resolve the assault?"

The young priest smiled, "Self inflicted."

Kierce shook her head, "The medical report…,"

"The medical report is confidential. It will disappear with a week or two. Nobody will challenge the self mutilation scenario of a feeble, old man." The young priest saw Kierce's incredulity, "The young woman we suspect as the attacker is deeply troubled. One of our lost lambs so to speak. It would do her more harm than good to trouble her with accusations which can't be supported or disproved. It is better to let the matter rest."

Kierce sat in the chair closest to the Fr. Michael. She clutched the file to her breast and took a deep breath.

"To die or to rest?"

"Pardon?" the priest asked a bit confused.

"Is it better to let the matter die or should we let the matter rest?"

"Is there a difference?"

"If its rest you seek then the matter will rear its head again." She pressed her finger to the priest's lips when he tried to speak, "But, if the matter is to die then it needs resolution. And I, Father, am resolution here on Earth. Now, be a good enough lawyer to leave before I have you charged with interfering with a police investigation."

"You're going to regret this," the priest promised as he pulled himself away from her and out of his seat.

"So, I've heard before. Numerous times, in fact. Good Day, Padre!" Kierce chuckled as she fingered through the file he'd given her.

* * *

"…and, so, the Bishop had done this sort of thing several times before. Just not injured himself as severely," one of the officers finished his portion of the report.

"How long ago was the last incident?" Detective Tesoro asked.

The young officer sorted papers, "Four years. The higher ups at the church intervened and he went for substance abuse treatment out in Arizona, Scottsdale, I think."

"No problems since then?" The detective asked.

"None until last night."

"So, it would seem the old guy fell off the wagon at his party and cut himself up when he got home," Detective Tesoro summarized.

Silence filled the room as the three men waited for Kierce to say something. However, she kept studying the file in front of her. On occasion she turned pages but continued to return to two side by side photos. One was of a little dark haired girl and the other a mug shot of an equally dark haired teenager.

"Kierce?"

"Yes," she replied.

"It is self injury and case closed, right?"

Kierce frowned as she slammed the file shut, "I hate to say yes because this guy is a real son of a bitch."

Tesoro smiled, "True but that's not our concern. We just need to figure out if he's a victim of assault or a self mutilator. All in favor of self injury raise their hands."

Three hands went up. Kierce was about to join in but her phone rang. Seconds later Tesoro's pager beeped.

"Payzant here," Kierce answered. She listened for a few moments and then stated, "I'll have somebody there in about twenty minutes." She addressed the group after snapping her phone back in it's holder, "Brewster jumped out of his hospital window. He's dead."

"So we were right, self inflicted," the younger officer said. "He's been suicidal all along."

Kierce shook her head, "The police guard swears he saw a three foot tall shadow run past him when he entered the room just after Brewster screamed for help. The old man was in such a panic he didn't realize it was on of our guys trying to pull him away from the open window."

"Are you fucking with us? A shadow?" Tesoro questioned. "Anybody give the cop a breathalyzer?"

"Cop's clean but shaken. I want you guys to check out things at the hospital. Make sure the story about the three foot tall shadow is killed. I don't want to hear about that shit again," Kierce stood collecting her things and tucking the file under her arm.

"Where are you going?" Tesoro asked.

"I'm going to talk to the person casting the viscous three and a half foot shadow."

"Fine," Tesoro grunted as she walked away, "don't tell me."

* * *

Dakota woke with a start at the mechanical clanking sound. The elevator to the loft had been called to the first floor. She scrambled to move the tangle of limbs from the slumber bodies off of her. The wild party from the night before had degenerated into an orgy. In her drug and booze filled abandon, she forgot to lock the elevator and now some uninvited somebody was crashing her place.

Dakota pulled free of the knot of bodies strewn across the filthy mattress on the floor and staggered toward the elevator. Several people groaned at the loss of her body's warmth but nobody woke. She picked up the aluminum bat she kept as a manner of home security and waited for her unexpected company to arrive.

When the elevator gate opened, Dakota let her guard down a bit. The casually dress blond woman holding a manila folder didn't appear all that dangerous. In fact, compared to her own pierced, tattooed, and naked self holding a baseball bat the stranger seemed almost safe.

"What do you want?" Dakota barked her question.

"I'm Special Agent Kierce Payzant, FBI. I need to speak with you, Dakota."

Dakota frowned as she lowered the bat, "Don't you need a search warrant or something to come into my home?"

"Only if I really want to arrest you," Kierce smiled broadly, "and, in spite of the cocaine on your right nipple, I don't really want to arrest you."

Dakota looked down at herself and saw the powder. She quickly brushed the contraband off her chest.

"Maybe you should pull on some clothes before I find any other illegal substance on you," Kierce gave a chuckle. "The brand is going to be hard enough for me to ignore.

Seared across Dakota's throat were four capital letters. The letters were evenly spaced burned into the skin on either side of her hyoid bone. The brand read C U N T.

"Fuck you. It's art. So either arrest me or get out but you'd better stop laughing at me," Dakota loudly explained.

Kierce held up her hands in surrender and sobered her expression. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to upset you. I only came to ask you about an old friend of yours."

"Never had any friends but if you must interrogate me then fire away," Dakota leaned her thin frame against the grounded bat.

"I want to know what happened to Deidre Rois Brewster."

Dakota visibly flinched. Her eyes filled with tears. She was forced to turn away. Kierce followed the woman as she wandered across the loft. Dakota stopped at one of her enormous unfinished paintings.

Kierce stepped closer to view the painting. It was of two shadowy figures. One was obviously an adult male dressed in flowing black robes. He was nailing a small, naked girl to a flaming cross. Behind the shadowy characters was a beautiful sunrise over a calm blue ocean.

Dakota pointed a shaky finger at the image as she spoke, "Deidre Rois Brewster is dead. She's died when she was raped by her uncle, Father Malcolm Brewster."

TBC

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