"5 Stars!...Once again, author T. K. Sheils draws upon Mayan mythology to create a richly textured, uniquely detailed story guaranteed to keep you awake long after the last page is turned. The hypnotic swirls of the graphics created by a serial killer destroy people who seemingly have nothing in common except access to the Internet. When the latest victim proves to be the nephew of PPI (Private Paranormal Investigator) Gareth Pendragon, the game is on. Assisted by his deceased nephew's lover, Vicki, Pendragon matches wits with a killer known only as K. Soon Vicki discovers her own psychic abilities, brought about during her sexual encounters with Pen. Between them, amid finding more and more victims of the grotesque killing methods, Vicki and Pen are determined to find the modem operandi of this horrific killer before Vicki herself becomes a victim. Combining grotesque horror and raw sexual play, Modem Operandi creates a spellbinding tale of sinister power."—Cindy Penn, Wordweaving

The background of the screen was black, in front of which pixels of blue, and shades of purple, cerulean, aqua and puke green danced in vague lines and swirls. Its orientation was horizontal and as it completed itself, the words “Manzal-Ik” appeared at the bottom.

Arthur stared at it. It wasn’t a picture of anything. Just a weird non-pattern of colors. But as he stared at it, the colors seemed to blend into each other, change place, move in slow, undulating twists and spirals. It was a still picture, but it was nonetheless alive. It was a complete abstract, but in motion it became something. Unidentifiable…but something.

“Whatcha doin’, Art?” Vicki’s voice came from the bathroom, and he realized the sound of the shower had stopped.

“Checking my email.” His voice sounded hypnotized even to himself.

“What’s the matter? Bad news?” Vicki had obviously caught the strangeness in his tone.

“No. Come see this.”

“Okay, just a sec ’til I finish drying myself.”

Moments—or minutes?—later, Arthur was aware of the soft dampness of Vicki’s breasts on either side of his head as she bent to look at the screen.

“What the devil’s that? A self-portrait of your stomach contents?”

“Dunno. It’s my email.”

“That could be the broccoli there…Who sent it?”

“Dunno either. The only word is that one.”

“‘Manzal-Ik’? What’s that mean?”

“Dunno.”

“Sheesh, you don’t know much, do you?” Vicki laughed. “Maybe it’s some kinda weather forecast. Rain tomorrow. Come to bed.”

“Just a sec. Look at it…I mean stare. Does it seem to move?”

Vicki’s breasts pressed harder against his ears as she leaned forward and fixed her eyes on the screen. “No. It’s just a mess of shapeless colors.”

“But they move. They’re like oil on water…look harder. Can’t you see? They almost look like something and then they dissolve and swim into nothing. Weird.”

“You’re weird. It’s just a still blob of colors…like a lump of old plasticene. There’s no movement at all. It must be your glasses.”

“I don’t wear glasses,” Arthur protested.

“That’s what I mean.” Vicki laughed. “Maybe you need to. Come to bed. The sense of touch is all you need there.” Her hand slid down over his bare chest, over his flat stomach and into his groin, as if to prove her point. “Please, Artie? Let’s noodle.”

“All right.” Arthur sighed, for he could feel his noodle beginning to rise. He filed the email, shut down and went to the now-dark bedroom where, he knew, Vicki—lovely, blonde, blue-eyed, hot Vicki—was waiting for him, with her long, strong legs spread wide on the bed. In a way, it was a pity that their time together was so short now.

He was completely preoccupied with the odd graphic all through their lovemaking though, hardly responding to her lips on his most sensitive flesh, only perfunctorily going through the caresses and kisses she expected, and though she achieved a quite satisfactory orgasm, he did not come at all.

Finally, he rolled on his back and they lay there, Arthur seeing the picture on the dark ceiling above his head, swirling and undulating there—slow, lazy and, somehow, vaguely ominous.

It almost became an identifiable representation three or four times in his mind’s eye, but then it, or his mind, drifted off into the vague abstractions of shifting color.

Finally, when Vicki’s breathing had become deep and regular, Arthur Reynes arose, padded barefoot back to the den and called up the “Manzal-Ik” file.

Vicki awoke at three, according to the glowing red digits on the bedside clock. She wasn’t sure what had awakened her—whether there had been some sound or whether in her sleep. She had reached out and Arthur wasn’t there, but she became aware of the bluish glow from across the hall and realized he must be at his computer. So she rose and, because the night air was still warm with July humidity, she strolled across to the den in her nakedness.

That curious blue and purple picture was glowing on the screen. She could see it from the door, and Arthur, with his back to her, was apparently staring at it—or asleep. His head was leaning against the top of the chair’s back. She circled around so she could see which it was, staring or snoozing. If it was the former, she thought she’d dance naked between him and the screen. If it was the latter, she’d holler “Sodom and Gomorrah,” or some other Irish curse.

But it was neither.

For Arthur had no face.

Where it used to be, a pulpy, bleeding mass of shredded flesh and shattered bone blindly faced the computer monitor.