Chapter One
Officer Helms rolled up to the curb without his lights. He intentionally neglected his siren when he cruised into the neighborhood. He didn’t want to draw attention to himself tonight. He was already too obvious, his sleek white Dodge hissing through the dark like a shark at dusk. He was the first responder, and there was no backup.
The cruiser door slammed with an echo, a repeated bark fading against the tall buildings above him. South Street was empty. The whole block may well have been deserted. Helms knew that fires had cleared out much of the neighborhood, leaving the dead husks of brick slums to crumble and rot from the inside out. He looked up into their blackened windows, wondering if anyone remained, anyone who didn’t make it out.
Someone had to be here. Helms was dispatched following a 911 call about screaming in the alley. Now he stood at the opening of the long, narrow path between decaying slums. The downtown alley led back into a labyrinth of brick corridors with no easy way out once you’re in deep.
Officer Helms could conduct himself like the man in charge, even if he had no idea what was going on. It was a trade skill, and standing over six feet with a buzzed top, he was sufficiently intimidating. Shoulders up, chest out, there was enough bass in his voice to command compliance. And if all else failed, he had his belt full of tools. He had his pistol.
Tonight though, as he set foot in the alley, he couldn’t seem to arch his back. He didn’t feel so tall under the towering walls. He kept a hand on his belt. Moonlight poured down where the rooftops allowed, casting the skeletal shadows of pipes and wires and fire escapes. It lent a haunting translucence to the fluttering ghosts of tattered clothes, hung out to dry and never pulled back.
The air was painfully dry. It was stagnant with the stench of garbage and desertion. Helms recognized the lingering scent of burnt housing—ruined drywall and roofing and chemicals. He had worked on a number of arson cases in these run-down neighborhoods. Half the time, it was a desperate property owner, hoping to collect insurance. There were still people in there.
Helms tried to shake ugly memories from his mind as he shone his flashlight from wall to wall, up and down the broken concrete path. Gradually, he became aware of an uneasy sound, a voice, somewhere in the dark. It was a pitiful, sobbing sound, and it was hoarse. He followed slowly, not eager to find its source. It seemed to grow more persistent, more intense as he approached.
Moaning, trembling, crying somewhere in the abandoned alley. The unsteady beam of his flashlight betrayed a shake in Helms’ hand. It shivered across a dingy brick wall, and over a face with no eyes. Helms recoiled with a shout, pulling his beam from the ghastly sight. In the pitch dark, he felt his chest pound. His stomach twisted. He had found his crime scene. With anxious breath, he returned his light to the face. It had belonged to a man, middle aged, with a great deal of wear and tear prior to the events of the evening. He was likely a vagrant, squatting in the alley. His beard was sticky with blood. His jaw hung slack and the eyes were gory sockets. The smell was rank.
Helms reached for his radio, and realized that the sobbing had stopped. Whoever had been crying had now hushed to observe him. His ears rang as he felt the gaze of someone unseen, the presence of another in the dark. A murderer was with him in the alley—a mutilator. As he turned away from the corpse, Helms thumbed the clasp of his pepper spray, but settled his palm on the pistol.
The flashlight cut a hole through the darkness, against the endless brick walls, until he caught a glimpse of something crooked. In a brief moment, Helms saw the gaunt limbs of a fleeing figure, thin and hunched, darting around the corner. It seemed vaguely human, but little more than a shadow. Helms did not want to know exactly what it was. The six-foot officer turned and ran.
***
Ferrill perched on a concrete wall, watching the sunset glow in the city smog. His home was on the other side of those buildings, but he felt the need to venture out to the rough side, where his parents told him not to go. It really was a great place to find trouble if you’re looking, but he wasn’t looking. Not seriously. He only wanted to look like he was looking. He stuffed cigarettes in his leather jacket and kept a knife in his sneaker. When he propped his leg up, you could see the handle.
A pasty young man stood at his feet. Grant was taller and his hair was longer, kept out of his eyes with a red bandana. He grew his hair out first, and Ferrill like the look. His parents did not. That was the best part about Grant. Ferrill’s family hated him.
Grant had been pestering Ferrill. “Try it once and you’ll love it,” he’d say, then he’d snort at his finger like bumping coke. Booze is one thing, but drugs are different, right? Ferrill could score a case of beer any time he wanted, no problem. Grant was great for that. But lately, he’d been pushing dope on him. And harder stuff. Ferrill was only in his teens, but he knew kids that got into that and never came back. It seemed like fun until it wasn’t.
They had lined up a row of empty cans along the wall. And Ferrill was about to add another. A few years older, Grant had bought the case at a gas station down the street. He used Ferrill’s money, but called it “halfsies.” It was part of Grant’s sales pitch. A few more empty cans and Ferrill might warm up to the idea.
Blinded by the breeze, Ferrill pulled a lock of straw-brown hair off his face and turned his wallet over. It was empty save for a couple of bucks and a condom older than his driver’s license. “I’m already spent,” he laughed. “You blew it all on the beer, man.”
Grant grabbed him by the ankles and yanked him off the wall. “The first time’s on me,” he said. “If you don’t love it, you’ll never hear about it again.”
Grant’s buying? The thought flattered Ferrill. He swirled the idea around in his head for a few minutes, letting it breathe. He half-suspected some sort of trick, that the career deviant would come collecting one day, rolling up to his safe suburban home with a pistol in his pants. A piece. They call it a piece. He looked Grant up and down. There was a pre-assured grin parting his permanent stubble.
“Let’s go,” said Ferrill. “Why the hell not?”
Grant gave him a jarring slap on the back. “That’s my boy! C’mon, I know a guy just around the corner. I do a lot of business with him. He’ll make your first time real special.”
Ferrill felt more like a kid on training wheels than a punk, or a junkie, or whatever he was trying to be at this point. The arm across his shoulders was not reassuring, and he couldn’t seem to stand up straight.
ALL THE HEARTS YOU EAT by 
