Prologue

Beckett

It’s late, well past midnight, but still loud and garishly bright. It’s always too bright here, neon lights and colors screaming for attention. Harsh noises swirling together so strong you can’t hear your own thoughts. The people are no more real to me than the artificial wasteland that is Las Vegas. I slip past groups who are laughing, tumbling against each other in their intoxicated states on the sidewalks or spilling out of bars. They’re clearly celebrating and they disgust me. Their happiness makes something thick and dark rise up inside me, but I can’t let it take over. Not now. Not when I’m supposed to be passing for normal.

I’m only two blocks away when a drunken idiot slams into my shoulder while he’s passing with his pack of friends. He spins on his feet and shouts at me, some kind of warning. I keep walking. I’m not looking for a fight, not tonight at least. But he is drunk on cheap liquor and testosterone, a dangerous combination. As his friends shout words of encouragement he comes after me and grabs my arm.

I turn, slowly, and glance at his hand where he dared to touch me. He looks like he’s in his mid-thirties, old enough to know better than to pick a fight with a stranger. He’s overconfident, cocky, with his friends behind him egging him on. He doesn’t know that he made a big mistake yet, but when I swiftly grab and twist his arm in its socket until his face turns white and he drops to his knees, mouth falling open in a scream, then he realizes I’m not a man to be fucked with. His friends run forward to intervene but the look I give them they freeze in their tracks. People can sense it in each other, just like animals. Their instincts warn them that I’m dangerous.

My point made, I let go of their friend’s arm and kick him away from me where he cradles his injured limb, then continue on to my destination at an unhurried pace while they circle and help him to his feet. They go their way, I go mine. A group of three women saw the entire thing unfold, then watch me and smile, whispering together. One of them, a redhead in a short dress, pushes her hair to the side and winks at me. I give her voluptuous body a sideways glance then keep walking. Any other night I might have taken her back to my sprawling penthouse, ripped that flimsy excuse of a dress from her body then fucked her brains out before showing her the door. But not tonight. I’m not even remotely in the mood.

It’s just around the corner now. This is my tradition. Every year, without fail, on this date I come to Woodlawn Cemetery. Through the gates I walk down the path I know by heart, the path I could walk with my eyes closed. The path I’ve walked every year for twenty years now. This place is so still and quiet, as if the cloak of death is so heavy it pushes out any sign of life. An anomaly in this wild city. I make my way past the cold stone tombstones in varying sizes and shapes; some are neglected and ignored, others have bouquets of fresh flowers and framed pictures against them. I always come empty-handed. Nothing I could give them would matter now, they’re dead.

I stop and stand in front of the towering structure; the Carter family crypt. Tall white stone with an arched roof, two tall columns and a couple of carved urns outside the wrought iron door. My grandparents are buried here, my parents are buried here. There’s a space for me too, when my time comes. I’m the last of our family, and I have no intention of continuing our cursed bloodline. Taking my key I open the door and walk inside the small space, walk to the wall where their names are carved. Where their bones lay, just on the other side. I place my hand against the stone, running my fingers along the smooth marble. Visiting each year on this day reminds me that I once had people who loved me. It reminds me what was stolen from me, and why I do what I do now.

After I’ve stayed for a while I walk out of the cemetery leaving the dead behind, rejoining the living. There is always a second part to this yearly walk that I take, to the place that changed everything in an instant. I head down busy streets, past bars and casinos, until I find the alley. It looks like any other dank alley, with a scuffed up metal side door past a rusted dumpster. There’s no plaque, no flowers. Most people would never know what happened here, but I do. Sometimes I wish I could forget, but I still wake up screaming from nightmares and know I probably always will.

I kneel and touch the gritty pavement beneath me, remembering that night. I was so confused, so scared. Dad was telling them to stop, pleading with those men not to hurt his family. Mom was telling me through tears to close my eyes. I did, I shut them tight, a sobbing and trembling eight year old unaware that his entire life was about to change. Two gunshots, so loud my ears were ringing for hours afterwards. When I opened my eyes, the men glared at me, then ran away. My parents were lying on the ground, their blood pooling around them looking black in the night. There was nothing anyone could do, they were gone long before the paramedics arrived. Long before they took me away from their bodies crying hysterically.

I don’t cry tonight. I’m far past that now, but the pain is still there like a dull ache. And beneath that, the simmering coals of my anger. Vengeance. Hatred. I place my hand against the ground on the spot their hearts stopped beating, shutting my eyes and taking a deep breath. Another year, yet this city is still oozing with filth and criminals. I still have work to do. Mother, father, I promised you I would clean up this city. I promised I would punish those responsible for taking you from me. Every night, I patrol these streets in the shadows. Every night I remove criminal garbage from the city. Some people call me a hero. The police call me a dangerous vigilante. Criminals call me the Phantom, and they know I’m coming for them.