SENATOR CATHERINE MARTIN
The Akula Building, Floor 13
November 6th - 4:17 PM
"My daughter is missing."
The words came out wrong. Too raw. Nothing like the carefully measured statements Catherine had delivered in countless Senate hearings.
The man behind the desk didn't move. Just watched her with dark, calm eyes that assessed everything while revealing nothing.
Catherine straightened, forcing herself back into the role she'd perfected over thirty years.
"Mr. Akula, I apologize for arriving unannounced. I understand you don't take standard cases, but I've exhausted conventional channels." She set her briefcase down with deliberate care. "Emma Martin. Nineteen years old. Georgetown University freshman. Disappeared from campus four days ago—Thursday, November 2nd, approximately 8:47 PM."
She pulled a tablet from her briefcase, set it on his desk.
"Her vehicle was found unlocked, engine running, phone on the ground. No signs of struggle. Campus security footage shows her entering the parking lot at 8:43 PM." Catherine's voice remained steady. Professional. "Every camera in that section experienced simultaneous electronic failure at 8:45. They remained offline for thirty minutes. When they came back online, Emma was gone."
Zale glanced at the tablet but didn't touch it.
"The FBI is handling it?"
"Yes. Special Agent Rodriguez is leading the investigation. They're treating it as standard abduction—checking ex-boyfriends, classmates, campus staff."
"Then why are you here?" Not dismissive. Just direct. "The FBI has resources I don't. Manpower. Jurisdiction. If this is a kidnapping, they're your best option."
Catherine had prepared for this.
"Because Emma isn't the first."
That got his attention. Not overtly—he didn't lean forward or change expression. But something in the quality of his stillness shifted.
She pulled a folder from her briefcase. Set it beside the tablet.
"Seven victims over three years. All young women. College-aged. All daughters of specific individuals." She opened the folder, revealing crime scene photos. "Bodies recovered seven to ten days after abduction. All showed prolonged starvation. All found with their skin removed—carefully, methodically, like someone was harvesting it."
She laid out another photo.
"And all of them had this placed in their mouths post-mortem."
A death's-head hawkmoth. Preserved. Positioned deliberately between lifeless lips.
Zale picked up the photo. Studied it with the same calm attention he'd given her.
"Buffalo Bill," he said quietly.
"Yes." Catherine's voice remained controlled. "Jame Gumb. 1991. He abducted six women, killed five. Starved them in a pit. Skinned them to make a suit. Officer Clarice Starling killed him during the rescue of his final intended victim."
She paused.
"Me."
Zale set the photo down. Looked at her properly now—not just assessing a client, but seeing a survivor.
"The FBI thinks it's a copycat," Catherine continued. "Someone obsessed with Gumb's methods. Agent Rodriguez has assembled a profile, issued alerts. They're investigating anyone with connections to the original case."
"But you don't think it's a copycat."
"No." Catherine leaned forward slightly. Still controlled. "Mr. Akula, I've spent thirty years reading situations, understanding patterns, knowing when something is wrong. And this is wrong."
She pulled out another document.
"All seven victims share a connection. Their mothers were women Gumb targeted—six were his actual victims, one he stalked but never took." She met his eyes. "Emma is the eighth. And I'm his most famous survivor. The one whose rescue ended his killing spree."
Her composure cracked slightly.
"Someone is killing the relatives of his victims. Using his exact methods. His ritual. His signature. Everything."
"The FBI knows this?"
"Yes. But they're looking for a living suspect. Someone recreating his work." She straightened in her chair. "I don't think they're looking for the right thing."
Zale leaned back, expression still neutral, almost bored.
"Senator, I appreciate you coming here. I understand you're concerned. But this sounds like FBI jurisdiction. A serial killer with unusual patterns, yes, but still fundamentally law enforcement." His tone was polite but dismissive. "My presence would only complicate their investigation. You should let them handle it."
Catherine felt the refusal coming. Adjusted her approach.
"Mr. Akula, let me be direct. I'm not here for reassurance or conventional investigation. I'm here because seven young women are dead, my daughter is missing, and the pattern suggests whoever—or whatever—is doing this won't stop." She pulled out another document. "The FBI is competent. But they're investigating human suspects using human methods."
She set a forensic report on his desk.
"Every body recovered showed trace amounts of an unidentified substance. Chemical analysis came back inconclusive. Not biological. Not synthetic. Just present—on their skin, in their hair, around the wounds." She paused. "The substance degraded rapidly when exposed to air. Within hours of body recovery, it was gone. Forensics couldn't preserve samples."
Zale picked up the report. Read it.
His expression didn't change, but something in his posture shifted.
"Every victim also registered abnormally low body temperature when found," Catherine continued. "Not from environmental exposure—they were found indoors, climate-controlled spaces. But core temperature was consistently fifteen to twenty degrees below normal."
She pulled out her phone. Played a recording.
Static. Heavy breathing. Then a voice—distorted, wrong.
"It rubs the lotion on its skin or else it gets the hose again."
Gumb's voice. His exact cadence. His specific phrasing.
"This was recovered from Emma's voicemail. It came from her own phone three days after she disappeared." Catherine's voice remained steady. "After her phone was already in FBI evidence lockup. Powered off. In a secure facility."
The recording continued.
"It does this whenever it is told."
Silence. Static. Nothing.
Catherine stopped the playback and set her phone down carefully, watching his face for any reaction.
Nothing.
She stood, reading his body language with the precision of someone who'd spent decades navigating political minefields. He was listening, processing, but not convinced. Not yet.
Time to walk.
"I understand if you're not interested, Mr. Akula. This may not be the type of case you take." She collected her tablet, started returning documents to her briefcase with practiced efficiency. "I'll leave these files with you regardless. Perhaps you know someone else who specializes in... unusual circumstances."
She closed her briefcase. Turned toward the door.
"For what it's worth, I'm not asking you to believe Buffalo Bill came back from the dead. I'm asking you to consider that seven young women died using methods identical to a killer who's been dead for thirty years, and my daughter is next in line."
She paused at the door, hand on the handle.
"The FBI is good at finding living suspects. But if this is something else—something they're not equipped to understand—then Emma dies while they're looking in the wrong direction."
She opened the door.
"Thank you for your time."
"Senator."
Catherine turned.
Zale was standing now, holding the forensic report. His fingers drummed once against the desk—a barely perceptible movement, but she'd spent decades reading body language.
"The electronic interference at the campus. Thirty minutes, you said?"
"Yes. 8:45 to 9:15 PM."
"And the residue on the bodies. Degraded in hours?"
"Correct."
"The phone message. Sent from federal custody. Powered off."
"Yes."
Zale set the report down carefully. And for the first time since she'd entered, something flickered behind his eyes. Not concern. Not alarm.
Anticipation.
"Electronic interference suggests electromagnetic disruption. Rapid material degradation suggests ectoplasmic residue. Abnormally low body temperature suggests prolonged contact with non-corporeal entity." He picked up the recording transcript. "And a phone sending messages while powered off and physically secured... that's not technology. That's something using technology as a vector."
He looked at her properly now, and she saw something in his expression that wasn't boredom.
Recognition. Understanding. Interest.
"You're not dealing with a copycat, Senator. You're dealing with something that was Buffalo Bill. Or something using him as a template." His voice remained calm, almost lazy, but there was an edge now. "The question is whether Gumb himself is somehow active, or if something else is wearing his methods."
Catherine's breath caught. "You believe me."
"I believe the evidence." He pulled out his phone. "The FBI is investigating a living suspect because that's what they're trained to find. But they're looking in the wrong direction. Whatever took your daughter isn't alive. Not conventionally."
He looked up.
"My fee is three million dollars. Half up front. Half on recovery if she's alive. If she's not..." That dark edge returned to his voice. "Then I still kill whatever took her. No additional charge. Professional satisfaction."
Catherine nearly collapsed with relief. "Thank you. I'll wire the money immediately—"
"I'll need access to Emma's residence. The abduction site. Any location she frequented." Zale was already moving, pulling files. "I'll also need contact information for Officer Starling. She killed Gumb. She might have insights the FBI doesn't."
"Starling retired years ago. Lives in rural Virginia. I can get you her address."
"Good." He glanced at his watch. "You flew here. Private jet?"
"Yes."
"Then I'm coming back with you. I'll need an hour to prepare equipment." He pulled out his phone, started typing rapidly. "Georgetown first—I need to see where she was taken. Read the site myself. Then we'll know where to go next."
"Of course. Whatever you need."
Zale hit send on his phone, then looked at her.
"Senator, I need you to understand something. If this is what I think it is—if Gumb's essence survived his death—then your daughter is probably still alive. He'll follow the ritual exactly. That means starvation period before the kill."
"Probably?"
"We have time. Not much. But time." He met her eyes. "I've killed things that survived forty years of bullets and fire. Finding your daughter and killing whatever took her?"
That slight curve of his lips deepened.
"I'm already looking forward to it."
***
Catherine left to coordinate with her security detail. The elevator doors closed.
Zale stood alone in his office, spreading out the files she'd left.
Seven victims. Seven daughters. Seven moth-marked corpses.
He pulled up his laptop. Started searching.
Jame Gumb. Buffalo Bill. Death: 1991. Cause: Multiple gunshot wounds. Officer Clarice Starling.
Confirmed kill. Body recovered. Autopsy performed. Buried in Potter's Field.
Dead. Officially.
Except—
Behind him, the book manifested. Fell open on the desk.
"Hungry."
"Patience," Zale murmured, studying the forensic reports.
"Interesting."
"Very." He picked up the photo of the degrading residue. The cold bodies. The impossible phone message.
He pulled out his phone. Dialed a contact labeled simply "Archive."
Two rings. A voice answered—gender indeterminate, accent unplaceable.
"Akula. What do you need? "
"Everything on Jame Gumb. Property records, autopsy reports, burial site documentation. And check if anyone's reported unusual activity near Potter's Field in the last three years."
"Timeline?"
"Within the hour. I'm traveling."
"Done."
The line went dead. No questions. No confirmation needed. The Archive always delivered.
Zale looked at the book. It pulsed once, eager.
"Wraith?"
"Maybe," Zale said quietly. "If his death was violent enough. If his obsession was strong enough. If he died with rage and hunger still consuming him..."
The book's pages fluttered.
"Hunt."
"Yes." Zale's lips curved slightly. That lazy, darkly amused expression. "Hunt."
He walked to his weapons cabinet. Started pulling gear.
Salt. Iron. Silver. Consecrated rounds for the Glock. The Benelli loaded with specialized shells designed to disrupt ectoplasm.
He held his hand over the book.
"The axe."
The book pulsed once—acknowledgment—and a spectral glow emanated from its pages. The Firefighter's Axe materialized in his grip, humming with barely contained energy. The weapon recognized the hunt coming, eager after weeks of dormancy.
Zale tested its weight, felt the familiar warmth of the handle. The blade shimmered with inner fire, runes crawling across its surface like living things.
If this was a wraith, bullets wouldn't kill it. But the axe could harm both flesh and spirit. And the Codex could archive anything—even the dead who refused to stay dead.
He dismissed the axe back into the book with a thought. It vanished, returning to whatever space existed within those pages, waiting to be called again.
He checked his watch. Fifty-three minutes until Catherine's jet was wheels-up.
Plenty of time.
Behind him, Michael Myers' mask watched from its glass case.
One legend down.
Time for number two.
Zale smiled.
And the hunt began.
***
[END CHAPTER 4]