Groseclose looked up as he heard the unmistakable sound of the front door being unlocked. He set down his milk and moved to the foyer, his eyes widening as his 24-year old son Michael entered the house, looking disheveled. Michael was blessed with his mother’s good looks and his father’s intellect… but there were whispers that he was squandering both since dropping out of college two years before. Since then, he’d lurked in the shadows, vanishing for days on end with no explanation.
"What the hell are you doing?" his father demanded, all the frustrations of the past few days finding a new target. "I swear to heaven, I don’t think you care what the community thinks, do you?"
Michael’s jaw clenched, as if he were barely able to hold back his own anger. "I was out on business."
"At this hour of the night? I don’t believe you. I believe you were out drinking and whoring, that’s what I think!"
Michael shook his head and stepped around his father. "I’m going to bed."
"The hell you are!" Theodore bellowed, grabbing hold of his son’s arm and clenching it tight. "I’ve had enough of you. You’re my son! And that means people are going to look at you differently than if you were some ragamuffin off the street!"
Michael whirled around, bringing his face close to his father’s. Had Theodore not been so wrapped up in his anger, he would have realized that there was not a trace of alcohol on his son’s breath. "You know what, Dad? I’ve had enough of you, too. You sit in your office and you print your stories but what do you really know about life in this city? Have you walked its streets? Have you seen all the joy and happiness sucked out of its people because they can’t believe in the system anymore? Do you know that there are dozens of mobs out there, all vying for power? And that the men in charge turn a blind eye to it because they’re too scared or to crooked to do what’s right?" Michael yanked his arm free. "Oh, but you would know about that last part, wouldn’t you? You’re the one helping make sure good people are being put out on the street so your buddies can build their high-rises."
Theodore’s mouth moved silently for a moment before his anger gave him new voice. "How dare you?"
"I know a lot more about this town than you give me credit for. And I’m actually doing something about it." Michael spun on his heels and jogged upstairs, regretting the anger he’d shown his father, but refusing to back down. He slammed the door to his room shut and then sagged down onto his bed. He needed to get his own place if he wanted to really make a difference. Sneaking in and out of his own house was just one more headache that he didn’t need.
Michael had trained for months, preparing to take to the streets as The Dark Gentleman… but what had happened on his first night out? He’d run into not one, but two members of Assistance Unlimited, both of whom now thought he was a murderer. He’d meant to question Smithson about the men whose names were linked to Claudia’s death… but whoever had killed him had come and gone before Michael had arrived.
Claudia had been a lovely girl and one that would have normally attracted Michael’s intense interest. But he’d been so single-minded as of late that he’d never bothered approaching her.
Michael stood up quickly and began pacing. He wanted to do something, wanted to prove that the past few weeks hadn’t been some pointless lark. He could help Sovereign City, he was sure of it.
He suddenly realized that he needed to clear the air with Assistance Unlimited. Right now, they were probably wasting valuable time hunting him down when they could be going after the real killer.
Michael forced himself to stop. He had to get some rest. In the morning, he could go down to Robeson Avenue and make peace with them. Maybe they’d even agree to let him assist them in the case.
A smile suddenly blossomed on his lips. Michael realized he was beginning to feel like a kid hoping to fall in with the popular crowd at school. He needed to rest before he did anything reckless — more reckless than putting on a top hat and mask.
Devil Face stared in the mirror, marveling at the beauty of his visage. This was the true expression of his inner self, come to life in the form of a wooden depiction of Satan himself. The leering mouth, the jutting tongue, the crimson tint… They were everything that he so desperately wanted to be. They were far truer than the face he wore every day to the office, where he pretended to be so much less than he truly was.
It had been years since he’d moved to Sovereign City, this cesspool of immorality. The place had called to him and he’d recognized it as home. He had felt it in his blood and in the dark little corner of his mind where the Devil resided. At first, he’d tried to be good, tried to silence the voices that screamed for bloody murder… and he’d almost succeeded. But then he’d seen those whores, all made up like pretty dollies — they’d forced him to do what he’d done. He’d punished them for their sins, for using their breasts and their buttocks to tantalize and tease. Who knew how many boys they’d corrupted with their offers of love? He’d killed them and washed them, not to remove traces of his identity as the police had assumed: but to cleanse them of their filth.
Claudia had been different than the rest and she was the cause of all of Devil Face’s current problems. She’d been so sweet and desirable, nothing like those tarts he’d killed in the past. Claudia was a good girl. She’d sobbed to him in the end, begging him to spare her. She claimed she was a virgin and Devil Face almost believed her — he’d wanted so badly to believe her. But he knew she’d gone to Max’s apartment and they’d done things… dirty things that caused butterflies to swim about in his stomach when he imagined them. This made him realize that even if she wasn’t a whore yet, she was well on her way. So he’d punished her for the sins she’d yet to commit.
And then had come the guilt, so quick that it had surprised him. He’d borrowed Max’s address book during a brief visit to the other man’s hotel room. At the time, he’d merely wanted to find out more about Davies, who had seemed to be more than he claimed to be. Davies had this way of looking at everyone as if he could see through him or her. It was almost as if he was looking at Devil’s Face’s real features, which had been both exciting and infuriating.
After Claudia’s death, though, the idea of leaving the address book on her body had seemed the proper way to assuage his guilt. A part of him wanted the world to know who he really was and this dangerous game of leaving clues to his identity served his need for self-punishment.
But after her body had been discovered, the Devil had taken hold and a sense of self-preservation had emerged. Hansome knew his real identity, which meant he’d had to die. Hansome’s sexual interests had forced Devil Face to give him the same treatment he usually reserved for the whores: after all, Hansome probably would have offered his body if he’d thought it would have saved him. It was sickening, what Hansome would have done if given the chance….
Smithson was another problem. Too smart for his own good, Smithson had discovered Devil Face’s secret and actually sought to blackmail him. Devil Face didn’t think that Melvin knew the truth, but he couldn’t be sure. Smithson and the old man were very close. Since Smithson wasn’t a sex fiend like Hansome or the girls, Devil Face had killed him like an animal. It was the first time he’d ever killed without using the precious ritual — the ceremonial cutting, the washing of the flesh, reducing the body to chunks of flesh.