Tracing Evil: the Web

Authors note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, events and incidents are the products of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Tracking Evil: The Web Pt. 01

Authors Note:

It isn't necessary to have read Tracking Evil: A Podcast or Tracking Evil: Bucharest to enjoy this new series. That said, please find below a short synopsis of the main characters' adventures to date, be aware there will be some spoilers contained within.

The story so far...

Erica Anderson, an investigative journalist in her mid twenties, connects a series of murders and 'accidental' deaths to a serial killer she dubs 'The Graffiti Killer' due to a mysterious tag he leaves near all the scenes, BILLIII. Over the course of hunting this man down, she became friends with a diverse group of people, all of whom became caught up in tracking down the man responsible for so many deaths. Among these new friends were Arlene McGuigan, a Deputy Sheriff in southern Virginia. Smart, dedicated, still in her early forties she had been widowed before meeting Erica. The redheaded Deputy Sheriff proved to be Erica's closest ally, becoming a big sister to the young reporter in many ways.

Sondra, the goddaughter of one of the killers victims. A highly sexed crack-shot, the black woman also viewed Erica as one of her dearest friends, helping Erica's continuing exploration of her sexuality.

Denisa Teodoroiu had been born and raised in Romania, emigrating to America a couple of years before to join her father in his bail reclamation business as a bounty hunter. Petite and beautiful, her looks belied her aggressive nature and taste for violence. At first condescending of Erica's lack of skills in the field of violence, she came to view the reporters investigative abilities with a measure of respect.

At the culmination of their hunt for the Grafitti Killer, changes had occurred in the four womens lives. Erica and Sondra had fallen pregnant, Arlene had quit as a Deputy Sheriff to take up a job offer as a Bounty Hunter

, see Tracking Evil: A Podcast Pt. 14

, and Denisa had sobered somewhat after losing an old friend,

see Tracking Evil: Bucharest

.

What they had all agreed on was that their new roles as vigilantes was far from over. They had, while hunting one killer, uncovered an organisation of killers who supported, trained and financed one another's efforts. Erica and her friends were determined to bring this organisation to justice, this organisation that called itself The Web.

Chapter One:

"We men are wretched things" - Homer, The Iliad

The bar was quieter now.

The noisy hubbub that went hand in hand with Friday night, 'Ladies Night', had ebbed to a low murmur as the crowd had thinned out. O'Malley's Bar and Grill had started a regular 'Half Price for the Ladies' offer on Fridays for a few months now. Covid had hit the bar industry the world over, people finding new and cheaper ways to get a buzz on and meet with friends. Running a promotion like this, it brought in a lot of women, and where women gathered to drink, so to did men looking for a friend, a hook up, even a chance at meeting a significant other.

By 11pm, the half price promo came to an end and almost at once the crowd began to leave in ones and more significantly, twos.

The bartender wiped a rag across the countertop, the grimy rag really just relocating the dirt it swept over rather than cleaning it off. He threw a sidelong glance both ways along the bar, no one however was looking to be served. At one end sat a middle-aged man, a least two beers past his capacity, only the death grip he employed on the countertop keeping him from toppling to the floor. The bartender made a motion with his hand, catching the eye of the bouncer. A big Irishman, shaved head and heavily bearded, he lost no time striding across the floor to stand beside the bewildered looking drunk. A heavy hand, the knuckles mottled with old scars, fell onto the shorter man's shoulder in a light but firm grip. The drunk didn't seem happy to call it a night, but with some soft-spoken words, and the fact he had the drunk by six inches and thirty pounds of muscle, the bouncer persuaded him to hop off the stool and guided him to the door.

Grinning as the short former patron weaved dramatically around a dropped packet of smokes, the bartender looked towards the one person still sat at the bar.

He'd noticed her off and on during the last few hours. In this job, he'd become a good judge when it came to people, a poor man's mentalist of the human condition. The woman was attractive, early to mid-forties, though with her big blue eyes and heart shaped face, she might have been a little older than that even. The blonde hair was long and styled up into a messy high bun, her dress was expensive, loose fitting but a couple of years old. She'd only ordered two drinks since arriving at the bar, a glass of house white each time. Whenever he'd had a moment to glance her way, he'd catch her in one of three poses, checking the door as if waiting on someone, checking her phone for a message that hadn't come, fending off one of a number of men who'd tried to hit on her over the course of the night.

There was no ring on her finger but all the other evidence and the way her thumb would stray from time to time, seeking a band of gold that no longer encircled her ring finger, the bartender guessed she was divorced and out on a date for the first time in a while. Obviously the date wasn't going that well.

On the subject of rings, he turned his back on the woman, pulling his own wedding ring off, sliding it into the front pocket of his pants in a manner that was casually covert. Job done, he wandered to the end of the bar where she sat and began pulling out a glass.

He twirled the coupe glass between his fingers by the stem, not even looking at it, while he shook some sugar out onto a plate. The woman couldn't help herself, her eyes drawn to his actions as he began working on a cocktail. What did she see as she looked at him? A tall, attractive black man in his late twenties. He had a classic swimmers body, wide shoulders that tapered down to a slim waist. In his pristine white shirt over dark chino's that he wore tight, he looked good and he knew it.

He placed the coupe glass, rim down, on the sugared plate, twisting so that a thin crust of sugar adhered to the lip.

"Hey," he said in a quiet voice, the din of the bar having dropped enough so he didn't have to shout anymore that night. There was probably twenty people left, scattered throughout the bar, but just him and her at the counter for the moment. From the corner of his eye, he picked up the smallest of flinches as she reacted to him addressing her. 'Shy, divorced and lonely' the bartender thought to himself.

"Hey back," she managed after a beat, swallowing a sip of wine to cover her almost immediate embarrassment, a bloom of color in her cheeks that made five years slip off her face.

The bartender set the glass to one side, pulling out one half of a cocktail shaker. As his audience of one watched on, he poured lime juice, Cointreau, Cognac and ice into it. He fixed the top half to the shaker with a

clink

.

"He's a fool," the bartender said matter of factly, he began shaking the cocktail, his eyes on her face as the words registered.

"Excuse me?" She spoke a little louder than she'd intended, the noise of the cocktail being prepared making her raise her voice automatically. Embarrassed for the second time, she glanced around, pausing till he finished shaking the metal container before repeating, "Excuse me?"

"Whoever left you sitting there half the night waiting on them, they are a fool. Don't care what they were up too, all they did was waste half a night that could have been spent talking to you," the bartender said, pushing sincerity and conviction into his voice. He poured the mixture into the glass, adding a piece of decorative orange peel to the side. With a small flourish, he placed it in front of her and unloaded his bright smile at her.

"On the house," he said, turning slowly away.

"I'm the fool," he heard from behind him. The bartender turning to look at the woman, her eyes misting with tears she was barely holding back. Now it was his turn to say, "Excuse me?"

"I'm the fool. I'm the fool who wasted half the night," she said, taking a exploratory sip of the drink. "Hey, that's really good. What's it called?"

"It's called a Sidecar, and you're only a fool if you waste the second half of the night," the bartender replied with another smile.

<<0>>

"Huh-uh, uh, that's right, yeah, you're beautiful, come on, Uhhh, take it all baby...." He grunted above her, driving his toned black body forward, his big cock diving deep into her mature pussy that had been atypically tight around him. The cheap bed in the cheaper motel squeaked alarmingly as he launched into a rapid spurt of pounding, teeth bared as he lashed her into a frenzy with each punishing stroke.

She was exactly the type he looked for. Attractive but not in a vulgar, obvious way. Older but still possessing a youthful energy once she had set aside the weight of the world from her shoulders, loosening up and living in the moment for a change. Unsure of herself, making her all the more malleable for a player like him.

The bartender hadn't even needed to work half as hard as he normally would, many of his best 'lines' left unspoken as he charmed her into waiting till he clocked off work. This was a regular enough occurrence for him, pulling a woman while working a Friday night. At least twice a month.

While he grabbed his jacket from the back room, he had tapped out a quick message to his wife. Trotting out his usual excuse of pulling a few extra hours work filling in at a club down the street. Pregnant, the idea of him making a few extra dollars was one she never objected to. Once he'd received the smiley face emoji followed by a couple of love hearts, he'd turned his phone to silent and headed outside to meet his latest conquest.

The clerk at the motel was becoming almost a friend, that was how often the bartender encountered him. The moon faced bald man, perspiring in his little office, had leaned to one side to catch a better look at the woman but she'd kept her back turned, her head down, shamed to be indulging in a one night stand but the bitter disappointment of her date not showing and a base longing to be held, desired and above all FUCKED, had been enough to get her to the motel.

Once in the room, the blinds closed, door locked, the bartender had whispered comforting words to the attractive older woman. He built on the illusion of being adrift from the world at large, her divorce, bad dates, ungrateful kids, horrible boss, backstabbing friends... whatever she had going on that was wearing on her soul, he urged her to set it aside, to be free, to be happy.

He was a better salesman than he thought, the woman practically stripping him in a frenzy to get at his body. He'd had to fend her off, not wanting to have to explain missing shirt buttons or torn fabric to his wife. Instead he directed her to stripping off herself, eying her body as she peeled the dress and underwear off in a hurry. She might have had a maturing 'sweet girl next door' look to her face but her body was clearly more attuned to sin than sweetness. About average height at five foot seven, her hourglass figure of 38D-25-36 was stunning now it wasn't hidden beneath the slightly strait-laced loose dress she'd worn out that night.

The bartender finished undressing, giving her a moment to check him out. Once he saw the slight widening of her eyes, the pinch of flesh at the bridge of her nose as she looked on his big black cock and felt more that a twinge of nervousness, that's when he stepped in to kiss her passionately before she began to second think her one night stand. From the kiss, everything became inevitable, her moaning wetness as he pressed a finger between her legs, the fumbling fingers that grew in expertise as she stroked his cock, the soft thud of her body falling in open legged surrender as he guided her to the motel bed.

Now he'd been fucking her for over ten minutes, moving gradually from tender, considerate, slow strokes to more urgent, possessive thrusts. As she was moved through a series of small orgasms, he could feel her opening up both physically, to the pounding of his big black cock, and mentally, to the joy of a no strings attached encounter. He could see she was getting close to a big orgasm now, her lips pursed as she huffed and puffed in time to his battering ram of a cock hitting into her.

"Huh-uh, uh, that's right, yeah, you're beautiful, come on, Uhhh, take it all baby," he groaned spearing his cock full length into her tight pussy, marking his territory by letting loose with a bout of fast, shallow, grinding thrusts that set the bed to squeaking alarmingly.

"Oh my god, soooo deep, tooo deep," the blonde squealed, her high bob becoming a shade messier as she rolled her head around on the pillow.

"You're doing good, you feel amazing," he panted in encouragement.

"Uh, uh, uh, so amazing," she purred as he slowly dropped down a few gears, easing up in speed and depth. Without warning, she gave a hiccup of a squeak, her pupils dilating, back arching...

"Cumming... cumming," she declared unnecessarily as she shuddered under him, the toned body of the bartender picking up speed once more to ride her hard through her orgasm.

"Hnnnh, nehhh... let... oh my god, my legs are shaking so hard. Uhhh, let... let me go on top, I, I want to be on top," she panted, pale cheeks afire from the hot flush of climax.

Graciously, he pulled out, his dark cock slick with her pussy juice. He rolled to his back and she climbed aboard. There was a small delay as her relative inexperience or perhaps lack of practice, made for an awkward mounting of his hard cock. He did his best to swallow a smirk. The innocent, repressed types were always the hottest, always the ones with the biggest freak buried deep.

Finally, she slid down his pole, pale thighs resting on his as she bottomed out along his shaft. The nervous biting at her lower lip made her look so fucking cute, the bartender was sorely tempted to arrange a second hook up with her. There was so much he could do with this fine assed bitch!

He flexed his ass, stirring his cock inside her suggestively, the simple action acting like a starters pistol with the blonde. One moment she was tranquil and calm, sitting in his lap, the next she was leaning forward, her hands flat on his chest as she bounced her body wildly on his black cock.

"Uuuhhhrrg, uhhhrrrggg, give it to me... uhhhh, I want it, uhhh, want you to cum," she growled out, her voice raw, husky with desire.

"Oh, hells yeah, you want it, you go get it baby, this shits all for you," he moaned in response, timing his own pelvic thrusts now to coincide with hers.

"All mine, uhhh. All. Mine. All. Mine. AllMineAllMine," she chanted, riding him as hard now as he had fucked her minutes before. He could feel his toes curling, his cock throbbing as his own orgasm approached. He gripped her waist, pounding hard against her. For a brief moment he thought of his wife waiting at home, her belly swollen with his child. He thought about the fact he was pounding this woman bare, wondering if he was about to knock up another woman. That notion, flashing to the front of his consciousness tipped the scales, his cock exploding inside her, head rising from the pillow, his face sinking between her large white breasts as he roared with the consummation.

Face full of soft white tit, he could still hear her whimpering moans of pleasure as he seeded her. Her hand stole around to settle on the back of his neck, keeping his head exactly where it was.

Pain.

Sharp, blinding pain. Powerful enough to drive all feelings of pleasure from him in one fraction of a second. His roar at cumming had faded away but it was reignited now as agony suffused him, a point at the base of his skull the source. The bartender lurched away from the comfort of her breasts, his hands flying defensively to the back of his head. As he jerked clear of her, he saw a long thin needlelike object in her right hand, her left-hand fiddling in the mass of hair she wore styled up, drawing out a second needle.

"What the fuck? Did you...? Are you fucking crazy? What the fuck did you do you fucking bitch," the bartender yelled.

She didn't answer except to drive first one, then the other needle directly at his face. He managed to throw one hand up to block the first needle, the pointed steel piercing his palm before bursting straight out the other side, fresh agony welling up. He wasn't fast enough to block the second needle as it descended. Before the light was extinguished forever from his right eye, he could see a maniacal expression on her face, like she was gripped by an entirely different, darker type of pleasure.

The needles kept coming down, nicking at flesh, piercing his eyes, his throat. He lasted thirty seconds before dying. Thirty seconds of pain and confusion as over and over she screamed at him for cheating on her.

As the last chains of mortality shifted free and he slipped into darkness, the bartender heard his killer begin to sob.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm so sor..."

Chapter Two:

"...but there they lay, sprawled across the field, craved far more by the vultures than by wives." - Homer, The Iliad

The low thrum of a motorbike's engine approaching made Erica lift her head from the laptop screen. It was her first day back at work since giving birth to her baby daughter.

Falling pregnant, well... getting bred would be a more accurate if crude description of what had happened, it had saved her. Her mind, so sharp and intelligent, aligned with a strong moral code, had left her vulnerable to the trials and tortures that had been part and parcel of tracking down a serial killer whose evil had haunted her since she'd first stumbled onto his trail. Becoming a mother had quietened the demons that had haunted her, faces of those she couldn't save, memories of acts she'd perpetrated to bring The Graffiti Killer to the ultimate form of justice, his own death.

Her friend, one of two women she considered sisters in all but blood, Shondra, had become pregnant not long before Erica. The two women lived together now, Shondra more or less taking on the roll of brood mother for her son and Erica's daughter. The black woman, so lethal with a gun and filled with a passion for life and all it's excesses, had more or less retired. She had helped avenge her Godfather's death and that was enough. For now.

Erica though had no intentions of giving up, her need to find, track and stop those killers' bringing misery to the world was as strong again now as it had been when she'd started. It helped that she'd made amends with her father. That had been a difficult conversation.

Caught up in the throes of passion and more than a little out of her mind, she'd actually spoken to her father on the phone while getting knocked up by a big, much older, black man. Wanting to recover her relationship with her dad, she'd visited her parents, bringing her baby along. There had been a, mostly, frank conversation between them all. Erica had omitted vast sections of what had happened to her, her parents having no need to know of her sexual escapades. But she was up front about her work as an investigator and the dark places it had brought her.

To be fair, her father had always had her best interests at heart and his love for her was unconditional as a parents should be. Cradling his granddaughter in his hands, he showed no signs of any discomfort over how she had been brought into the world although Erica knew that memory wasn't going to fade for him anytime soon. His biggest concern, aside from the dangers now present in her life, was that she had given up on her dream to be a reporter. To keep the freshly won peace, Erica had promised him she would continue writing in her spare time and that at least once every two months she'd submit job applications to publishing outfits. It was the least she could do.