Beast of Prey

Prologue

No handles.

That was the first thing twenty year old Howard "Howie" Gersten noticed as he bent his head in savage attempt to fit his ever growing roaster of limbs into the backseat of a Seattle police cruiser. The backseat, he noticed, besides reeking of dried sweat and drugs, was barren on any handles. That's hilarious, Howie thought. Given his history, this simple thing shouldn't have been much of a surprise - not a felon by choice but by association, Howie Gersten was a reluctant criminal if there ever was. There are no handles in the back of this car, Howie thought with amusement. He grinned like an idiot, and let out a deep giggle from the back of his throat. Some guy didn't build this car right. Damn, that's funny.

As best friends to the legendary son of not one but two of America's most notorious serial killers, Howie had had more than his fair share of police interactions in his life. Thanks to Jasper Dent, Howie had disturbed crime evidence, broken into a morgue and lied to police. Jasper Dent, besides being a kick ass vigilant detective, was also a genius at talking his way into and out of things - and, as a result, Howie almost never got legitimately charged with anything, at least nothing serious. However, Howie had a feeling now that he was alone and his GET OUT OF JAIL card that was his best friend wasn't around, he was really going to get it. And the cop who'd cuffed him was excited to give it. Rough beyond reason, the cop had jammed Howie's wrists into the hand cuffs and tightened them so much that welts were already beginning to take shape on Howie's wrists - reminding him that, oh yeah, he was a type A hemophiliac.

You really need to start wearing a medical bracelet, a version of Jasper nagged in Howie's mind. You forget the damn thing so much that it's going to one day cost you your life. How hard is it to remember it? Put it around your ankle or something, Howie.

Even though he was a chronic medical bracelet forgetter, Howie prided himself in always being able to pipe up at the right time and let people know that he bled a lot. He had told countless of cops many, many times about his condition whilst being cuffed and almost always got off easy. And he should have been able to do it now, should have been able to explain that tight cuffs could be dangerous to his health, but for some reason, all Howie could do was keep breathing and keep his shaking in check. It's the middle of summer, Howie thought. It's so freaking warm outside but I'm shaking like I've been thrown into the Abyss. What the hell?

"Kid.." the cop behind Howie said. The cop, Howie realized, had a low voice, and when he spoke, Howie cold smell nicotine on him. It reeked and Howie tried to pull away. "Kid, look. I get that you've been through hell and that you're shaken, but you have to cooperate with us if you want to get to the station."

"Why the cuffs then?" Howie asked, having miraculously found his voice. He jiggled his wrists for effect. By now, his wrists were beginning to turn purple and ache in a way that Howie was all too familiar with. He wanted them off. And if it weren't for what just happened, Howie would have brought the cuffs to his mouth and tried to tear them away. "Am I under arrest? Pretty sure I have rights, dumbass."

He wasn't sure if insulting the cop would help his case at all, but he remembered that Jazz - a true veteran to getting cuffed - often insulted the cops who cuffed him and, usually, usually got away with it. For a second, though, the cops' eyes went dark and he frowned. But instead of retorting, the cop merely sighed.

"I already read you your rights." He said. "And yes, you are under arrest."

Howie wanted to voice his protests and say that, like an angel, he was innocent. But instead of that, words left him and all he was able to do was utter a grunt of defeat, strangled by guilt, and he hung his head. Besides that, Howie knew that he shouldn't argue and should just get in the backseat as quickly as possible, so that he could be transported to the station where at least he would be somewhat safe. Safe. What a concept.

After struggling some more to fit into the backseat of the cruiser, and cursing his height internally, Howie gave up and literally fell, face-first, into the backseat. His long frame pressed against the leather, and his face got up close and personal with the seatbelt holder. Groaning, Howie tried to readjust himself, tried to sit like a normal person, but he couldn't will himself to move. He felt a terrible numbness set in, and he gulped hard. His throat burned.

"You need to sit up," the cop said as he reached over and tugged at Howie's shoulder, trying to stimulate him into sitting position. Howie's limbs complained and begged against the movement, but they moved. He was half sitting, half lying on the seat, like a deflated watch, or a work of surrealism. The cop, clearly exasperated, simply left Howie like that and moved towards the front of the car - after he slammed the door of the cruiser locking Howie inside.

As soon as the door met its closing, Howie jumped. He gasped for air. The slam of the door, the vibration, trigged something deep inside him. It was as if something had dug inside him and pulled out everything that Howie'd been trying to suppress, everything that had been pressing his insides ever since the cops showed. Oh my god, Howie thought. Oh my god.

Howie moved to put his head between his legs, but all that came out of it was a realization that his hands were still shaking. Howie was trembling - legitimately quivering in the backseat like a scared animal, like a cornered puppy dog. His breaths came fast, and the tears that had been edging against Howie's eyes ever since the whole thing began started to leak, unbound. Feeling like he was going to pull a vessel, Howie felt the stiffness of the air around him condense more and more until he was trapped in a cement ballon.

I can't breathe. I am going to be sick.

Howie began to sweat. And just before everything went south, the car began to move forward and Howie was able to somewhat relax. It was a forced relaxation, but it was welcome all the same. He breathed deeply, and pressed his head against the window of the backseat, the cold glass easing the pounding of his head. Finally. He was leaving. He would be safe. Finally.

And yet.

Jazz, he found himself thinking as the cruiser began to move onto the bridge, away from everything. Jazz. We were wrong. Everything we thought. Everything you thought. It's wrong. It's all wrong. It's all wrong.