Thirst & Perks: A Lurking In The Shadows Novella

By Alex Ankrom

Reese Parker, a former Philadelphia Homicide Detective turned Private Investigator, is hired by a mysterious man to find a young woman as a serial killer has been leaving bloodless bodies around the city. This case takes him on a dark path through the city introducing him to predators lurking in the shadows that may have been responsible for his sister's disappearance seven years ago.

This novella serves as the start of a new novel series by award nominated writer Alex J Ankrom called Lurking In The Shadows that will deal with a ragtag unit of desperate people that may very well be humanity's last hope against the forces of evil.

Alex J Ankrom was born and raised in Pennsylvania. He earned two degrees from Boston University: a BA in Political Science & Philosophy and an MFA in Creative Writing. He also has an MFA in Screenwriting from The American Film Institute. He has been a semifinalist in the Final Draft Big Break Contest and the Nicholl Fellowship. He currently lives in Los Angeles.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Alex Ankrom
• Release date: Aug 20, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301622368

Alex Ankrom

Alex J Ankrom was born and raised in Pennsylvania. He earned two degrees from Boston University: a BA in Political Science & Philosophy and an MFA in Creative Writing. He also has an MFA in Screenwriting from The American Film Institute. He has been a semifinalist in the Final Draft Big Break Contest and the Nicholl Fellowship. He currently lives in Los Angeles.

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Thirst & Perks

A Lurking In The Shadows Novella

By Alex J Ankrom

Thirst & Perks: A Lurking In the Shadows Novella copyright 2013 Alex J Ankrom

Cover Photo and Design copyright 2013 Three Five Bravo

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Thirst & Perks: A Lurking In the Shadows Novella is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without the express written permission of the author.

For Dave & Kim Ankrom

My Parents

Who taught me to never be afraid of the things that go bump in the night…

Except clowns.

Fuck clowns.

"The streets are safe in Philadelphia,

it’s only the people that make them unsafe."

Mayor Frank Rizzo

CHAPTER ONE

The Gates of Hell

PHILADELPHIA, PENNSYLVANIA

JUNE 25th, 2008

The man in black fled through the Fairmount Park, and I gave chase. My lungs burned. Blood pounded in my ears, and I tasted sour acid at the back of my throat, but I wouldn’t let my legs quit moving forward, plunging head long across traffic on the Ben Franklin Parkway and almost getting pancaked by an SUV. My feet ached, and I cursed the departmental dress code. How did they expect me to catch a fleeing suspect in pair of wingtips? Though they would say that I'm a detective; it's not my job to be chasing down suspects on foot, that I should have just called in a rover and the ghetto bird to perform the actual chase. A blister on my little toe burst as I took a misstep and tripped over the curb, causing stinging pain to shoot through my foot up into my lower leg and dampening my sock. I stumbled toward a bench, catching myself before I spilled over it. When I regained my footing and looked up, I could no longer see the man in black.

I had already chased the man across traffic on Spring Garden Street to the Ben Franklin and down the sidewalk, and he was much faster than me and showed no sign of tiring any time soon. Luckily, at this late hour pedestrians were at a minimum, so the man couldn’t just slip into a crowd and hide in plain sight. I walked in the direction that I last saw the man running, giving myself a short chance to catch my breath, too much smoking having robbed me of much of my stamina a long time ago. Once my heart rate slowed to a manageable speed, I closed my eyes and listened.

Cars whipped down Route 676, sounding as though as they were waves crashing against the shore. Live music blared from a bar back on 22nd street, but it only lasted a few seconds, making me think that I heard it because someone opened a door. Horns bleated around the city, and a jackhammer pounded pavement somewhere behind me. My cell phone rang. The call was from my partner Frank Washburn, but I ignored it. I tried to push out the din of a typical Philadelphia evening, separating the metropolitan symphony from the sounds that I was looking for until all I heard was a dull drone. I was just about to give up and call it in that I had lost the suspect when I heard a splash of water as feet trampled through it.

I sprinted toward the sound, cutting through a hedgerow, serving as the border surrounding The Auguste Rodin Museum. I had only been to the museum once back when Sarah was going through a phase in high school where she thought that she wanted to be an artist. She had wanted to show me The Gates of Hell, saying that she thought somewhere locked beneath all the Dante inspired grotesque imagery that it possessed genuine beauty. I thought they were ugly as sin and creepy as fuck. At least the asshole didn’t head toward the Museum of Art proper and choose to recreate Rocky; then I probably would have just shot him on principle.

The man ran through the park’s reflecting pool to the stairs leading to the museum’s main entrance, and I gave chase. His steps obscured the moonlit Gates of Hell, making the statue appear to vibrate with intense energy. But instead of taking the stairs, the man rushed toward the wall splitting the double staircase and leapt.

I skidded to a stop and stared as the man grabbed the fifteen-foot high ledge and pulled himself up over the wall as though that were an everyday feat. My mouth hung a gape. I didn't even notice that the water from the reflecting pool and spilled into my shoes and soaking my pant legs. After I caught him, I had to ask the son of bitch just how in the fuck he did that. Only a handful of athletes around the world could do something like that, and I doubted this guy had a pro ball career. I let out a low whistle, and pulled my service pistol from its holster. I double-timed it up the left staircase, keeping the Glock low at my side.

The man in black pounded on the oxidizing bronze face of the Gates. He shouted in a thick Northern English accent, sounding a little like Michael Caine in Get Carter. Come on. Open up. Open the fuck up, ya daft cunts!

I ambled up behind the man, watching him strike the priceless piece of art. While the image should have been comical, there was something about the man’s delusion that sent electricity through my veins. I lifted the weapon and took aim. The hairs on the back of my arms stood and twitched in the breeze. My tongue felt too thick for my mouth, but I willed myself to speak. Yo fucktard, it’s just a statue.

The man in black stopped assaulting the sculpture and turned. Is it now? Must have been my mistake.

I stepped forward. You on something?

The man smiled and held out his arms. Just high on life.

I tapped my finger against the pistol’s slide. So do I have to wait for my slow ass partner or you gonna make it easy on the both of us?

The man raised his hands out toward me, palms up. I’m nicked then, aren’t I?

I pulled out my handcuffs and told the man that he knew what to do next. The man turned his back to me and pressed himself against the Gates. He splayed his legs and spread his arms across the bronze. I searched him while keeping my gun on him, finding a punch dagger hidden in his belt buckle and a .40 caliber Walther P99 tucked into a holster at the small of his back.

I have a permit for that.

That’s not my concern. You can sort that shit out when you get to the Roundhouse. I slipped the pistol into the back of my pants and the dagger into my jacket pocket. I handcuffed him behind his back and marched him back down the stairs. All the while he whistled. It took me a few minutes to place the tune, but when I did, I couldn’t help but crack a smile. He whistled Always Look On the Bright Side of Life.

As we approached the Meudon Gate to exit the museum grounds, the man ended his tune and gave a chuckled. He shook his head as he looked up at the thinker and said, I should have listened to Sarah.

I stopped and looked at the back of the man’s head, thinking that I must have heard him wrong. Or at least hoping that I heard him wrong. The fuck did you just say?

What? He glanced back at me and shrugged. Nothing.

You didn’t say nothing.

Oh just mumbling about how Eric Idle was such an underrated member of the gang.

That’s not the name you said.

Okay, you caught me. A friend warned me about you. Said if I wasn’t more careful you’d be coming after me.

I’m famous now?

Something to the effect. Said you always get your man in that Dudley Do Right sort of way.

"This someone have