Not yet published
(c) 2007 In Flight Productions & Gregory Kayne
Chapter 1
Suspended hundreds of feet in the air, the mid-sized helicopter dipped, tossed and swayed with the wintry air currents. From that vantage point, it appeared as if long white blankets had been fluffed and thrown, settling over the earth. The scene would appear as one stunning, uninterrupted masterpiece except for the seams of waterways and back roads spreading and separating its ridges and folds.
The Eastern Wisconsin landscape stood lifeless. The lofty trees that bordered the coastline were heavily encrusted with thick ice thoroughly frozen to the branches and to the remaining stubborn leaves. Sunshine through clear skies gave an unyielding glare off of the rivers, the lake, and luminescent treetops. These byproducts of snow and ice made spotting any sign of the girl even more difficult. However, a glimpse of red in this sea of white could lead to her, or at least her bright red ski jacket.
The spinning of Wolf One’s blades would make steadying the thirty thousand dollar video camera a difficult task if it wasn’t for the twenty thousand dollar Stedi-Cam counterbalance system that Chris retrofitted to the helicopter before taking off. Every second of footage had to be perfect for Wolf Media. They were his bread and butter clients after all.
To the east was Lake Michigan, the most well known of the Great Lakes in all of it’s mid-western splendor. To the west, but far out of sight, was the southern end of Green Bay. The two men in the news style chopper had confined their search for the missing girl to the coastal area between Kewaunee and Manitowoc. They had only been searching closely for about two hours when J. Stiles, Wolf Media’s managing editor and part-time pilot, gave the signal that their fuel tank was at half capacity. Chris sat directly behind the pilot with the ability to shoot footage out of either sliding door, if necessary. He squinted in the blinding sun. He loved to fly and was working on his pilot’s license but had never been allowed to fly the companies only chopper.
“How did you come up with this location in the first place, Stiles?” Chris spoke loudly into his headset, over the spinning and chattering of the helicopter blades.
“Anonymous tip!” J. Stiles answered. “That’s more than I can say for your notes!”
Having known J. Stiles for over four years, Chris had grown accustomed to his way of controlling people through his dry humor, wit and short comments. J. Stiles was at least fifteen years older than Chris and the beginning stages of balding. He attempted to keep a youthful image by maintaining his dirty blond hair in the form of a long ponytail. He wore some type of class ring on his right hand which told Chris he held on to the glory days a little too tightly. Despite how he viewed himself, he was a common looking man that wouldn’t stand out in a crowd. He had a simple, non-muscular frame that amounted to about five feet, ten inches tall. He was normally a quietly motivated person, unless under extreme deadlines. If it weren’t for his alluring occupation, he would be about as average as they come.
Stiles and Chris were “working friends” and rarely saw each other away from the Wolf Media studios. They were both fine with this unspoken arrangement. Chris was lucky to have him as any kind of friend. J. Stiles may have been calm and controlling, but he had met his match in the young, determined industry shaker.
Christopher Malone was an enigma to most, keeping pretty much to himself since college. His proclivity for technology had set him apart from all the other hopefuls that had interned at Wolf Media over four years earlier. That, and a youthful and edgy documentary that he produced in college caught the attention of the Wolf Media hierarchy early on and landed him a full-time job. He had spent the last four years working for the media conglomerate and had produced some of the most talked about exposés in the business. His allure as the newest cutting-edge professional, rocketed him quickly into the limelight within the “generation next” demographic. Chris was the “bad boy” of the new media world and had already achieved an early iconic status.
This current assignment, however, was more of a gig than an assignment, since he no longer worked for the company. For the past few months he had been making a go of it as a freelance producer. J. Stiles gave him a hard time when it came to that decision. He didn’t like that Wolf Media had to wait in line for Christopher Malone, just like everyone else.
Chris’s technical education started with building crystal-diode radios in basic electronics classes in high school. This led to experimenting on his own with audio and radio frequencies, and then he eventually assembled a full-scale recording studio and operated a pirate radio station from his cousin’s basement before starting college.
The audio engineering program at Berklee in Boston gave Chris the foundation for his eventual focus on “New Media” production, in which he nearly earned his Master’s degree, except that he was kicked out of the program for hacking into the school’s graphic arts department main server. Chris cleverly changed every professor’s name to that of a Disney/Pixar cartoon character just before the new school handbook was printed. The file went to print, but the administration wasn’t as amused as Chris.
Chris boldly coined himself a “techno-media artist,” a title that was inclusive of audio, video and web production. He was considered one of the industry’s most promising and influential investigative package producers.
Although they had not found any trace of a ski jacket or a body, Chris gathered some establishing shots of the land that he was sure would be used later in the production. Over shoot and clean up in post! His shot composition instructor used to say and Chris always did just that. J. Stiles had already turned Wolf One around and made one last low pass over their focus zone before heading south toward home. They would make another attempt at finding the girl tomorrow.
Chris thought ahead, excitedly, to the events that would transpire later that night, at the club.
Manitowoc. Sheboygan. Port Washington.
Some of the cities that passed under Chris’s feet reminded him immensely of the Boston area and the small fishing port towns up and down the east coast. It was actually hard to remember that the landscape was smack in the middle of the country – hundreds of miles from either coast. Working lighthouses and harbor patrol vessels dotted the shorelines and further served to confuse the image. Though, the waters were much less inhabited at this time of the year. His thoughts disappeared in a dirty puff as they approached the residual brewery smog of Milwaukee.
After a rather quick refueling, they were air borne again, and continued on to cross the Illinois border. Chris read over his notes and reviewed some of the initial video.
Racine. Kenosha. Waukegan.
By the time they touched down on the brightly lit hello-pad atop the Wolf Media building, the sun was completely hidden by buildings, and the downtown city lights of Chicago had begun controlling the night sky.
Christopher Malone had only a few hours before he was expected to show at the exclusive Goth Am Club on the north side. He had some acquaintances that were looking forward to seeing him. They would be there close to midnight. He was especially excited at the prospect of other guys wanting to spend time with him. Chris was never “one of the guys.” Maintaining friendships with men was something he never mastered; he figured there was something about him that worked as a friend repellant. Or, maybe he just tried too hard. He couldn’t be sure.
The high-pitched whining of the turbine slowly came to a stop.
“Hey, I think Angela was looking for you this morning before we left” J. Stiles said with a wink as he locked down the pilot’s door.
Chris just shrugged off the comment, but he was quietly intrigued. He may have had a hard time attracting male friends, but girls seemed to be more than attracted, for a little while at least.
Angela was looking for me?
Chris headed home.
Chris’s downtown loft apartment looked more like a huge airplane cockpit than a place to live. Most of the walls were covered with black equipment racks that angled slightly toward the floor. All types of high-end equipment were dually represented: audio/video signal compressors, special effects generators, digital video decks, graphic and parametric equalizers, reverberation units, room noise monitors and rack mounted oscilloscopes only tipped the binary berg. With extra high ceilings throughout and open from room to room, the space consisted of a living room with an attached kitchen and a bedroom with an attached bathroom.
His digital audio/video computer workstation acted as a centerpiece for the barely decorated living room. Three wide-screen plasma monitors stretched across the desktop chained to work either as one long screen, or three independent screens for each networked computer. Besides the perfect workstation this area made for an on-line cyber-gamers dream suite. Which was yet another of Chris’s techno interests.
To the right and in front of a six foot picture window that overlooked Navy Pier, sat a large format sound mixer with speakers flanking right and left. This separate work area was exclusively for Chris’s own high-energy, bone vibrating techno dance music production.
Besides the small track lights that lit the two separate work areas in this common area of the apartment, there were no overhead lights or task lighting, just one small lonely contemporary lamp on an end table. And, in lieu of wall décor or paintings, Chris had only added some artistically arranged black sound proofing foam. His floor of the building had been built to be privacy penthouses with double wall construction. So, in addition to the extra thick walls, the sound proofing foam created excellent conditions for a sound studio.
No other decorations existed in the apartment, unless you count a large hanging plant that tried to mark a border between the living room and the kitchenette. The plant hung over a small black leather couch that accompanied the end table with the lamp. The plant was a gift from Chris’s mother who lived alone in the far south suburbs. She said it was the type of plant that didn’t require much water or sunlight. Chris’s care for the plant proved this to be quite true.
Having already eaten some cold pizza and taken one of his often-misunderstood cold showers, Chris was now standing in front of a full-length mirror next to his unmade bed.
The white walls were in much need of repainting and created stark contrast to the lacquer-black rim that edged the mirror. As in the living room, the bedroom had no décor of its own except for very childish glow-in-the-dark stars, planets and moons stuck to the wall opposing his bed. Being open to the other rooms, his bedroom had no ceiling of its own. But needing the illusion to continue above head, Chris did not hesitate in climbing to the top of the wall and balancing on the constructed braces while sticking many more planets and stars to the apartment’s wood beam ceiling. He had done this on the first night he moved in - over four years before.
His self-produced club dance mix pounded the central speaker system. Standing in only a white towel, he felt excited and empty at the same time. He started dressing slowly.
Minutes later, Chris wore high, heavy black leather boots and loose fitting black leather pants. His much more snug nylon shirt was also black but with silver threads spun throughout the fabric. Chris’s black leather jacket hung on the back of his studio office chair. This easy rolling high backed chair could be found in different rooms at different times. Usually Chris would ride it from room to room to save time. The jacket, however, possessed silver rings and chains that looped and swung. He liked the way it would jingle when he walked.
As the howling techno synthesized sounds mixed with the heavy down beat, Chris anticipated the night to come. His adrenaline began to pulsate as he stepped closer to the mirror and applied the first level of foundation. His freshly shaven skin was fair but naturally uneven in color. With fingertips clad in black freshly polished nails, he wiped and covered, then brushed away. The second application would be the off-white base that promised to accent his perfectly oval face. He completed his entire face and neck in just minutes.
Wipe. Cover. Brush away.
Next he chose a dark blood red lipstick, and carefully traced his thin lips. He rubbed them together with a smack like he had seen women do. Before continuing, he looked into his unaltered eyes. With the rest of his face made up, his steely blue pools looked small and insignificant. For a few moments he lost himself in self-pity and drudged up old feelings as he loathed the person that he saw. The make up and the clothes weren’t enough to disguise the inadequate man hiding inside.
Some kind of annoying bug was making a loud chirping noise outside Chris’s window. He turned up the master control of the mixer, which controlled the pounding music.
One hateful thought ran into another as Chris mentally ran through the litany of reasons to be miserable. He contemplated the purpose behind the many fights that he had with his father many years before and wondered if any of it was worth what it cost.
Chris’s father had been unreasonable, controlling and completely unwilling to learn about anything that mattered to him. His father clung to his own beliefs so tightly that they eventually strangled the life out of Chris, which led him to leave home early and finish high school in Boston with his cousins. That last year of high school was the last time he ever saw his father alive.
With a shake of his head and a long drag on his cigarette, Chris decided to focus on finishing his look. He was so tired of thinking about his father lately. For some reason he would think of him mostly toward the end of winter, which was strange, since his father died nine years before on September 2nd. He dug in his bag for the mascara and set about the part of this process that he had the hardest time with. Invariably, the mascara would smudge or get in his eye, and he would have to start again. The eyeliner was easier, and he traced his eyes thickly within artistic flare. He was nearly finished. He combed his shaggy sandy brown hair straight back with holding gel spread over the comb. His hair quickly appeared darker as the “wet look” took hold. Once finished, he stepped back and slipped a few bone-laden necklaces around his neck. He viewed the finished product turning his head from side to side.
Chris grabbed his jacket with its heavy industrial chains from the chair. After throwing the jacket around his shoulders, he looked at himself in the full-length mirror and smiled slowly. His own smile was the part that gave him the final push he needed. The adrenaline surged with a focused rush. With a force that was both unexpected and cathartic, Chris’s slow smile gave way to two fanged teeth, sharpened to a point that protruded as practiced onto his blood red lower lip. Because of a slight under-bite, normal conversation would not reveal the fangs- only when he smiled and forced them to the front.
The music shook the mirror. He thought again about the girl they had been looking for, the one last seen in the red ski jacket. Her name was Virginia Talon and she had been missing for over a week. The police had absolutely no leads.
Chris pushed the stop button and grabbed his custom CD from the player so he could test it in the car. It was time to party. He couldn’t wait to get to the club. As he closed his apartment door, he pretended not to hear his house phone ring four times followed by his mother’s voice leaving a token “I haven’t heard from you” message. She probably wouldn’t be hearing from him – at least not that night.
The chirping bug went silent.
The sun had been gone for hours. Chris was energized.
The Goth Am Club was nearly hidden from society. To even know about it, you needed to have inside information and clear directions about its location and method of entry. Chris had no problem getting invites from an on-line meet group on a web site called SocialVamp.com. The club was located two levels under a parking garage on the North side of the city. The club had its own secret knock at an unmarked entrance. The knock required six fast paced raps with a long scratch at the metal door. The friends he was to meet had given him the sequence. The door was banged up a bit and unremarkable except for an upside down symbol of anarchy that had been carved around the round doorknob. The symbol was simply a jagged letter “A” with a circle encompassing it – inverted. Chris executed the knock sequence.
Once inside, the music from the stage was intense. Not intensely loud, but mournfully energetic with an urgency that created an anxious atmosphere. The rhythmic half chant of the lead vocalist was paired ethereally with high melodic cries of a woeful girl dressed in long flowing black lace skirts and shiny black rubber halter. The dark stage was illuminated only by black light and red filtered Fresnel lights that were automated, moving in rhythm, showing up from below the stage through the smoked Plexiglas riser.
This particular vampire club was especially popular within the hidden but trendy sub-culture because of its willingness to allow its members to actually consume human blood. The club’s owner claimed to be a clan elder – a vampire that has lived over three hundred years. Chris had no proof of this, however.
The lights and sounds could have mimicked just about any club in town. But, it was the patrons, their clothes and their obvious obsessions with the underworld that gave the club its mystique. This, and a distinct smell in the air – one that was difficult categorize. It’s true that some attendees were simply social vamps that were out for fun on a Friday night. But some were much more serious about their interests.
Chris wore his selected attire and his filed down fangs with pride. This is so much cooler than Boston, he thought as he ordered a drink. The drink came with a complementary pop of ecstasy. He wasn’t sure if he should take it or not.
The master’s thesis that Chris submitted while at Berklee was different than most. He created a documentary that exposed one of Boston’s darkest underground occult groups during a time when The Occult was slowly gaining popularity thanks to several hot cable series and movies glamorizing and mainstreaming the once shunned societies. His film was called Bostonian Vampires: Breaking the skin. The focus of the production was on a massive vampire clan and its few elders. It was this direct-to-web production that originally captured the attention of Wolf Media and, more specifically, J. Stiles. It was also the time he spent undercover within the vampire subculture that drew him in. The outright acceptance he felt from the people there was unlike any he had encountered elsewhere. For the first time in his life he felt embraced by a crowd that just let him be himself, even though it was an act at first. As his investigation progressed, he identified more and more with the “us against the world” mentality that prevailed. Once, to prove his loyalty and worthiness, he actually succumbed to drinking blood. He tried to convince himself that it was only to get the story, but the truth was, he would have done just about anything to assure his place with these new friends. He walked away from their world knowing that because of his exposé he would never be allowed to return. It was one of the hardest things Chris had ever done.
He missed this uninhibited world.
The woeful cries of the background singer suddenly became shrill and pierced his ears. He quickly looked at her and felt as if she looked familiar. She was exotic with long straight black hair with several strands died blonde that curled around her face, full lips and glowing yellow contact lenses. She seemed to be staring straight at Chris.
Chris was determined to stay on task. I’m only here to get the story and get out. The club was crowded now and the music, while still droning and hypnotic, was increasingly louder than minutes before. Chris knew he needed to get some questions answered; he knew that Virginia Talon, the reporter in the red ski jacket, had been seen outside the club on the night she disappeared. She had been asking too many questions; she was getting too close. A clan member must have taken issue with her presence.
Wolf Media had gained a reputation for exposing fraudulent organizations and practices and acting as a “watch dog” for the liberal majority. But when they would occasionally stumble upon a legitimate public interest story– they responded. Chris had just taken the job but was sure he would make up some investigative ground quickly because of his first-hand experience with the vamp subculture. This story could be a headliner.
He had decided to strike up a casual conversation with a bored bartender when he recognized his friends standing across the club. They had posted their pictures on SocialVamp.com, so recognizing them was not difficult. Just as Chris began making his way through the growing sea of vampiresque bodies, his cell phone rang. He knew from the Van Halen ring-tone, it was J. Stiles.
“What’s up Stiles? I’m at the club.” Chris said loudly.
“I know. Listen, we don’t need you on this case anymore.” J. Stiles said.
“What? What do you mean?” Chris was confused– then was interrupted. “I just got – ”
“The police found her. There’s no story in it for us, and, it had nothing to do with the local vampire scene.”
Chris felt deflated as he turned away from his friends.
“I don’t understand. She was huge in this town. How could there be no story? Is she dead?” Chris said putting the ecstasy pill in his chain-laden jacket pocket.
