Past Echoes

by Graham Smith

  We bind the three of them into a top and tail sandwich, with the guy in the middle, and then we head back towards the stairs.

  As we’re about to exit the dining room I hear footsteps. The brisk, fast footsteps of someone walking with a purpose.

  83

  The footsteps come our way. Ike and I take one side of the door into the hallway, and Baruch takes the other.

  As it opens, Baruch’s left hand snakes out and drags a man into his right fist.

  The man drops in a heap with a rustle of clothing. He’s dressed like a prep school student, which is enough reason for me not to care about the damage Baruch’s punch may have done to his face.

  I have nothing personal against the prep school type, it’s more a general dislike of rich people who have life’s opportunities fed to them with a silver spoon. Those who are self-made get my respect, because they’ve created their own success.

  I guess my feelings stem from a lingering resentment of some of the high school jocks I was educated alongside. They had behaved in a way that spoke of entitlement and assumed superiority. I hadn’t been liked by them and the feeling was mutual.

  Ike and Baruch hog-tie and gag the unconscious man while I take a few tentative steps towards the staircase.

  Like everything else in this house its opulence is hard to ignore. The treads look to be marble and the four-foot-wide strips of carpet are plush and thick.

  I take slow steps up with my gun in front of me. I’m watching for any sign of movement, listening for any out of place noise, and sniffing, hoping a waft of cologne or perfume will give me warning.

  While the carpet’s plushness will hide our footsteps, it will also mask those of anyone on the upper floor.

  The three of us crest the stairway and find a long corridor. To the right, are four closed doors.

  On our left there are three closed doors and an open one.

  Through the open door I can see shadows on the far wall of people dancing.

  It’s logical to assume that’s where Tagliente and his guests are, so it’s my first target.

  Baruch and I pad our way across the corridor and position ourselves by the door. Ike is left behind to cover our rear in case anyone comes out of the rooms on our right.

  I hear women’s laughter and the jokey tones of horny males, as the music segues from one dance track to another. So far as I’m concerned, Tagliente deserves everything I’m about to do to him for his taste in music alone.

  ‘Freeze. Nobody move!’

  Somebody tries reaching for a jacket until Baruch’s shotgun, which blasts a hole in the middle of the TV, makes him think that becoming a statue would be an excellent idea.

  Baruch takes a swipe at the stereo system, causing it to career halfway across the room.

  With the room silent, I waggle my gun at the five women and three men. ‘On the floor, everyone.’

  ‘I have money. There’s a safe behind the picture. The number is 57-98-43-82. Take everything, but please don’t hurt us.’

  I kick Tagliente in the ribs and tell him to shut up.

  As everyone is congregating in the middle of the floor, I pay attention to the women. They are all beautiful, which, considering Tagliente’s money, is a given. They’re all wearing slutty clothes, which tells me they’re either wisteria girls – who are, by nature, fragrant, decorative and ferocious climbers – or they’re hookers.

  My money is on hookers because of one simple fact.

  None of the women have a full complement of arms and legs.

  Each one of them is missing at least one part of a limb, and when the redhead cranes her head to look my way, I see the left side of her face is covered with scar tissue that only a third-degree burn would leave. The eye on that side of her face is a glass one. Sure, it looks expensive, and the colour is a close, if not exact, match for her right eye, but it’s still a glass eye.

  Something inside me chills my already arctic blood several more degrees. People living with disabilities should have the same lifestyle choices as anyone else; the fact that Tagliente has found five, beautiful, disfigured women and got them all round to his place, has a deeper meaning.

  His actions are not philanthropic or charitable. To me this exposes his desire to feel superior in every way, to those he’s rutting on top of.

  It’s all I can do not to put my gun against Tagliente’s balls and pull the trigger.

  I plant a boot into his groin as a salve to my temper, and bind the other men together as best I can while Baruch covers me.

  I guess my anger stems from the fact that all the girls have a disability. Had there been only one of them with a limb missing, I dare say I wouldn’t have thought anything of it.

  ‘Hey, Mister. You let us girls go, and we’ll give you and your buddies the best night you ever had. Ain’t that right, girls?’ It’s the redhead who speaks and her accent is pure New York.

  The other girls echo her sentiments.

  ‘Thanks, ladies, but lovely as you all are, I’m spoken for. If you don’t cause us any trouble, no harm will come to you.’

  I place a strip of tape over each girl’s mouth and smooth it with a gentleness I hope they recognise. A slow wink from the redhead tells me she understands.

  With the others bound and safe, I tie Tagliente’s hands behind his back and bind his body three times until his arms are taped to his torso. A quick pat down of his pockets locates his cell. I stuff it in my pocket and start believing that my plan will work.

  Ike joins us as Baruch grabs one of Tagliente’s feet and drags him to the next room.

  I police the room, gather up all the cell phones from the folk on the floor, and make sure I have ripped the telephone from its socket. The cells get tossed along the corridor out of harm’s way, and I make sure anything that could be used as a weapon, or a tool to cut their bindings, joins the cell phones.

  When I join Baruch and Tagliente, I find the latter has been tossed into the middle of a huge bed, which has black, silk sheets and a mattress that is sprung better than an Olympic trampoline.

  ‘Please, please don’t hurt me. Whatever you want, I can get you.’

  Tagliente looks at Baruch, which is typical of his kind of small man thinking. Baruch may be the largest of us, but it’s me who’s in charge. In Tagliente’s narrow mind, size is in direct proportion to authority. It’s the commonly held belief of the small man.

  ‘I only want one thing.’ I waggle his cell at him. ‘I want you to call The Mortician and get him over here. If you do that for me, you’ll be alive when I leave.’

  For the first time since we appeared, his eyes show fear. I can tell he was expecting us to be thieves. Now he knows our real purpose, he’s scared.

  I don’t suppose my threatening to kill him will have given him a lot of reassurance.

  Tagliente’s head shakes back and forth as he babbles a series of denials about knowing The Mortician.

  Rather than wasting time making empty threats, I use a knife to slice away his shorts, and retrieve the blowtorch from my backpack.

  I press the ignition button and sweep it over his legs. Not quite close enough to burn, yet near enough to singe the hairs on his legs. His yelp is driven more by fear than pain, but I’m cool with that.

  Much as I despise him and everything he stands for, I’d rather not have to resort to torture in front of Baruch and Ike.

  Tagliente doesn’t need to know that though.

  I hold the unlit blowtorch above his singed pubes. ‘Do you want a moment to think whether or not you know him, or should I jog your memory?’

  ‘I know him, I know him. Please; if you make me call him, he’ll kill you and then he’ll kill me.’

  ‘It’s your choice: either you call him, and gamble what you say isn’t true, or, I kill you right now and find another way to get to him.’

  ‘What if he doesn’t come?’

  I waggle the blowtorch. ‘I’ll burn as many parts of your body as it takes to make you beg me to p
ut a bullet in your brain.’

  Tagliente thrashes on the bed but achieves nothing except a bouncing motion.

  I hold up the cell and he nods.

  ‘Good man. Do I need to tell you what will happen to you if you try and warn him?’

  He shakes his head.

  I lie on the bed beside him, so I can hear both sides of the conversation, and scroll through Tagliente’s contacts until I find The Mortician’s number.

  I press call and hold the cell to Tagliente’s head.

  Give Tagliente his due, he does a good job of convincing The Mortician that he not only has a job for him, but that he must come over and see him right away.

  The Mortician agrees and promises to be here within three hours. I expect him to be here in around two and a half.

  84

  We now have a minimum of two hours to kill; time I intend to put to good use. I instruct Ike to check the prisoners are okay, and dispatch Baruch to check on Yerik at the gate. Their secondary tasks are to secure the house and make sure every door that can be locked, is locked.

  As for me, I plan to have a further chat with Tagliente.

  I could tell by the way he looked at me that he hadn’t recognised my voice as the guy he’d spoken to at his brother’s wedding. This doesn’t surprise me in the slightest. People like Tagliente don’t pay attention to the little people like me. Unless we can provide them with a service, we’re of no interest to them.

  I’m pleased he hasn’t identified me as I haven’t yet decided whether he deserves to live or die.

  I pull a padded chair to the side of the bed and look at him. A part of me is enjoying the terror in his eyes, while another part feels revulsion at what I’ve become.

  ‘We need to talk.’

  The old favourite break-up line makes his eyes widen, and there’s a tremble to his voice as he begs me not to use the blowtorch.

  It’s good that he’s afraid I’ll use it to make him talk; it means I don’t have to stoop to that level again. I’m fully prepared to use the blowtorch on him, but only if I have to. Every step I walk along the road to vengeance is costing me a piece of my identity.

  Last week I was a doorman who broke up fights – sure, I have taken a man’s life on two previous occasions, but only as a matter of self-defence.

  Since Taylor’s death, I have set out to kill. I have planned murders and have executed my plans – and anyone else I felt may have impeded my path to Taylor’s killer. A line has been crossed and, while I know I can never undo the implications of my crossing it, I don’t want to travel so far over to the dark side that I lose sight of the line.

  ‘I want to know all about The Mortician. Who he is, where he’s from, where his loyalties lie, and his background.’

  Tagliente’s head thrashes against the silk sheets as he shakes it. ‘I can’t help you. I don’t know any of that stuff.’

  I pick up the blowtorch. ‘What do you know about him?’

  ‘Just what he does. And that he’s very good at it.’ He yawns but I ignore it. It’s almost midnight, I’m threatening him with a blowtorch, and a paid assassin is coming to his house. I’m confident he’s tired rather than bored. ‘The tales I’ve heard about him are the stuff of legend. He kills his targets and never leaves a trace.’

  ‘Why do they call him The Mortician?’

  Tagliente gives a sigh of relief; this is the kind of question he’s happy to answer. ‘It’s because, after meeting him you’ll be needing a mortician.’

  ‘Where do his loyalties lie?’

  ‘You mean whose side is he on?’ I nod. ‘He works for the Italian families as far as I know. He is freelance and has a rule that he won’t take out a target who works for any of his regular employers.’

  ‘How much does he charge?’

  Tagliente is a money man. He will know the answer to this question.

  ‘It starts at fifty thousand and goes up from there depending on the difficulty of the job.’

  ‘What is his background?’

  He shakes his head.

  A press of the blowtorch’s ignition doesn’t make him talk, but as soon as I lean forward with it aimed at his pecker, he starts chattering.

  ‘It … it’s only rumours, but I heard he used to be Special Forces; that he’s done tours in both Afghanistan and Iraq.’

  What he’s saying makes sense. A former Navy SEAL or Army Ranger would make for a good hitman. They are trained killers who’ve been taught to use guns, knives, and their bare hands. I’m no expert, but I’d expect them to have a working knowledge of explosives as well.

  None of this information is comforting, but I’ve no plans to take on The Mortician in either a shooting match or a one on one fight. Instead, he’ll be ambushed, told the reason he is going to die, and executed.

  ‘Is he right or left handed?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  It’s a shame he can’t answer this question as the answer may prove useful. I don’t push him though. It’s too easy for him to lie and I’d rather not find out the hard way that he’s spun me a line.

  I’m about to leave him be when I hear the creak of a floorboard.

  I turn, expecting to see Baruch or Ike, but the person creeping my way is a stranger. He has a baseball bat in his hands and fury in his eyes.

  As I turn my body towards him, he dashes forward and swings the bat at my head.

  I have enough time to duck beneath its tip and shoulder charge him against the wall before he can halt the vicious swing.

  I’m inside his arms, throwing punches at his kidneys and ribs, and he’s banging the bat against my back and shoulders.

  When he catches the back of my head with his bat, I disengage myself and put some distance between us.

  ‘You chickenshit pussy. Come and fight like a man.’

  He’s misunderstood my reasons for finding space. He thinks I’m running away.

  As he advances, I pull out the carving knives and wait for him to reconsider his options.

  He smiles at me. ‘They ain’t gonna help you none.’ He strokes his bat with one hand. ‘This here, has got way more reach than your knives.’

  ‘You’re right, it has.’ The knife in my left hand flies towards him.

  He swings the bat at it, but he’s too slow and the handle of my knife bounces off his thigh.

  Before the first one has fallen to the floor, the second is arcing its way towards his stomach. This one needs to be accurate and successful, otherwise I’ll be fighting him with my bare hands.

  The knife digs into his skin and its handle flops downwards as gravity takes hold.

  As he’s dropping the bat and reaching for the knife, I’m on the move.

  I get to him as his fingers grasp the knife’s handle.

  Instead of wrestling for control of it, I deliver a hard palm-strike to the top of the handle, driving it further into his gut.

  He yelps, giving me a strong whiff of stale barbecued meat.

  My next blow strikes his hands, driving the knife in his gut sideways. I grab his wrists and shake them until he loosens his grip.

  The knife is slick with blood as I grasp it and open his stomach.

  Entrails slither from the wound as he crumples to the floor.

  I put him out of his misery with a stab to the heart and turn away from him. He’s dying, and I don’t want to watch the light in his eyes diminish.

  Who he is doesn’t matter. He’s not The Mortician; that much I do know. This guy is tall and thin, whereas the glimpse I got of The Mortician confirmed that he’s short and stocky.

  I check there are no more unexpected assailants, and leave Baruch standing guard over Tagliente and the people in his upstairs lounge.

  With that dealt with, I find a quiet space and call Alfonse. We talk for a few minutes and hearing his voice makes me feel normal again, but I don’t learn much beyond the fact that he changed his plan for the release of Ms Rosenberg’s information, and sent it out under the cloak of the Anonymous
Hackers Group.

  It’s the thing he excels at and I don’t need to ask him if he’s protected himself from detection.

  The most important thing he tells me is that Cameron’s donation has gone ahead, and John has received the necessary treatment.

  I cut the call and offer up a silent prayer that it works.

  85

  While searching the house Ike found the intercom, which connects the house with the guardhouse where Yerik is stationed.

  When its buzzer goes off, Baruch, Ike and I tense. My hand reaches its telephone first and I put it to my ear.

  ‘What is it, Yerik?’

  ‘There’s someone here. I don’t think it’s him because he’s driving an SUV, not a Ford.’

  I relax a little and tell him to get rid of whoever it is.

  Baruch and Ike join me at an unlit window and together we watch as Yerik leaves the guardhouse and walks to the gate.

  The garden’s lights cast a mixture of shadows and glare and it’s not easy to see much more than a silhouette, but Yerik is more than big enough to stand out.

  For some reason I start to get an uneasy feeling. It doesn’t just tell me things aren’t right, it tells me they are very wrong.

  Before I can verbalise my concern, I see the driver’s arm snake from the SUV’s window.

  There’s a gun at the end of the arm and, as Yerik halts and returns to cover, it flashes.

  Yerik drops to the ground and doesn’t move.

  Beside me I hear an outburst of Yiddish from Baruch and anguished wails from Ike. There’s some scuffling and more Yiddish, but neither man leaves the room.

  I leave them to manage their grief and keep watching. The car’s door opens and a short, stocky man steps towards the gate. He slips through the opening, puts his gun against Yerik’s head and pulls the trigger before dragging him behind the wall. As with his first shot, there’s no sound. His pistol must have a silencer.

  A minute later he’s opened both gates and is driving the SUV in.

  He turns the vehicle so it’s facing the gate and climbs out.