“And now you’re more worried?”
“Yes, I guess I am. I feel guilty for what I did, Therese, as difficult as that may be for you to believe. I will protect you if I can.”
“I don’t need your protection.”
She expects him to offer some rebuttal, some typical thing that men do when they decide that a woman is a prize to be held and controlled. Instead, he just looks at her, grinning. But instead of one of his usual, quick and disarming smiles, this one hints at a devious knowledge. She finds herself feeling a creep of fright.
“Oh, yes. You do. The problem is that I am not sure I’m up to the task.”
“What?” she asks, confused. “Then … why are you here?”
“I’m here to caution you. To hopefully get you to stop, because if you do become a problem for the Malkuths, they will kill you. They will not kidnap you or use you as bait. They will kill you.”
She parts her lips, going to speak, but no words come out. She gives a jerky shake of her head.
“I … his name just came up with something I’m investigating regarding libraries and rare books. That’s it. He’s a tangent. He’s not even the main thing I’m investigating.”
He has another drag on his almost forgotten cigarette. He nods, contemplatively, as he delivers another forceful exhale of smoke.
“Libraries and rare books.” He then looks at her. “Knowledge.”
She blinks, eyes studying him anew.
“How sure are you that Denman Malkuth is just a tangent in this investigation of yours?”
*****
She hangs, inverted, legs wrapped tightly about the punching back. She brings herself up again, feeling that burn in her abdominal muscles. She’s lost count of how many she’s done, but somewhere in her subconscious, she has a familiarity when enough is enough. She pushes, feeling the simmer of pain. This is what she wants, and she is not ready to stop yet. Her face is a flushed sheen of perspiration, her breathing an audible accompaniment to each curl of her body. She finally stops, reaching up to hold the chain and use that leverage to drop back to her feet.
“Amazing.”
Lilja looks over to see the same woman from before again encroaching on her supposed private exercise.
“Pardon my bothering you again, but I just could not stay away.”
The redhead goes into some push-ups, trying to ignore the intrusion. The woman does not get to a workout of her own, just watches. Lilja finds it difficult, so she finally gives up, rising to her feet, looking the woman in the eye.
“May I help you?”
“I’m just watching. You’re amazing.”
“It’s just exercise. Anyone can do it.”
“Well, not like you do. I am sure many benefit from your instruction.”
Lilja narrows her eyes a bit. The woman makes her feel defensive, but there seems no reason to react that way.
“I hope so,” she finally gives.
“Self-defense is important. Self-reliance.” The woman nods as though having proven the point. “When will your classes resume?”
“I don’t know.” Lilja does have an idea, but she isn’t going to tell.
“Surely it’s not for lack of interest?”
“No.”
Lilja moves back to the punching bag, turning to better face the woman. She begins striking the bag.
“Is there some other reason, then?”
Obviously, Lilja thinks, wanting to just evict the intruder.
“I’ll be going out of town soon.” Just as she says this, she wonders why she’s offered it.
“Oh?” The woman perks her eyebrows, acting as having sniffed a juicy morsel. “Having a holiday?”
Lilja bobs and dances on her feet, moving with a fluid effortlessness. She hammers several punches into the bag.
“I guess that’s none of my business,” the woman accedes.
The snapping and thumping reports of the punches have become the instructor’s language as Lilja continues to refrain from any reply.
“Still, you’ll be coming back. Won’t you?”
Lilja pauses, looking over. Something in the woman’s tone halts her. This doesn’t feel like the cloying attempts at casual conversation typically thrown out by this visitor. The last sentence has been pitched almost as a dare. Lilja peers at the woman, furrowing her brow.
“Of course, I’ll be coming back,” she finally declares, immediately wondering why she has again let more be drawn from her than she likes.
“Mmm.” The woman nods, slowly, staring back in an unabashed way.
Lilja moves about, taking a few steps toward the woman.
“I hope you have a fruitful trip,” the woman says, giving a pleasant smile and cant of her head. She then turns and exits the room.
It is some time later when she is visited again, and she just sits there, quietly.
“Lily?”
It takes a moment for the sound to register, but she finally looks over, head moving slowly. She blinks, then gives Skot a shallow smile.
“Hmm?”
“You’ve been in here a while. I was just checking on you. It got too quiet.” He smiles.
She rises to her feet, grabbing a towel and patting herself with it. She picks up her large glass of water, drinking down a good portion. When she glances back over, he is still there, just looking at her.
“I’m all finished up. I think I’ll have a shower.”
He moves closer, grinning, reaching out for her. “Would you like some company?”
“I’m fine,” she says, giving him a quick hug before leaving.
Skot watches as Lilja leaves. Something feels off to him. Things have certainly been tense since the operation at Barrington House, but Lilja feels decidedly distant. He glances about the area, hoping to perhaps garner some clue as to her behavior, but nothing looks out of place here in the training room in their house.
Chapter Six
“The man is a murderer.”
Therese drills Duilio with her eyes, plumbing his dryly delivered declaration for truth.
“How can you be sure?”
“I have seen him kill.”
He leans back in the chair, taking a drag on a cigarette. The sun has set as they sit outside at this café. Their prior engagement had ended with far too many questions, so she had agreed to meet again. She is still cautious, having told him of this place none too long before the time of the rendezvous. He understands.
“Then why don’t you go to the police?”
He gives one of his short chuckles, smoke escaping with it.
“I used to be the police. You know that, don’t you?” He studies her. “I was the police when I orchestrated your kidnapping. I worked for criminals. I don’t trust the police, and I don’t think you do, either.”
“Worked?”
“Well, yes, Denman Malkuth is a criminal, but … he is of a different class.”
“What do you mean?”
She has taken a few shallow sips of her beer, as though out of some propriety. This has not discouraged Duilio, and he finishes his first glass of red wine. He gives an agreeable nod to the passing waiter, wordlessly ordering another.
“I encountered many international criminals when I was with Interpol. I used to work for a powerful crime boss right here in this city. I thought I knew it all. Even though I was cynical, I still had that hubris. How wrong I was.”
Therese continues to stare, boring into him despite its lack of results. “I still don’t understand.”
“You don’t want to.”
“Try me.”
“The Malkuths are powerful and sophisticated. They don’t deal in petty things like extortion or human trafficking. For all I know, they consider those ‘bad’ things. They don’t even do what they do out of greed, though they are phenomenally wealthy.”
“What do they do?” Therese persists.
“They …” Duilio’s words trail into more of his chuckling. He barely stops when the waiter returns wit
h a fresh glass of wine. He raises it to Therese, drinking off a good portion.
“Stop getting drunk, or I’ll leave.”
“Oh, Therese, I would like to get drunk. I have even thought of killing myself.”
She blinks, showing little sign of reaction, but inside, she feels again that creep of fear.
“I am experiencing this new thing, this guilt. It rarely bothered me before. I feel a sense of responsibility, maybe even atonement. I want to do some good before I’m gone, but I worry I have made a deal with the devil.”
“You mean Denman Malkuth?”
Duilio gives a slow nod. “Yes. He is a devil.”
Therese watches him, continuing to closely observe.
“You mean that metaphorically?” she finally decides to ask.
The manner in which his eyes snap to hers again feeds that fear.
“Of course I do.” He chuckles, and it sounds overly dismissive to her. He leans over the table, placing both elbows atop it. She does not like the proximity. “They are bad people, the Malkuths. I don’t want to work for them anymore, but if I leave, I think they will try to kill me. And … well, I may be able to do more good if I stay where I am.”
“Work from the inside,” Therese says, gaining a nod from him. “Subvert their operations. If they’re so sophisticated, that will also get you killed.”
He responds with a chuckle. “Yes, you’re probably right.” He has another lengthy drag on his cigarette.
Therese finally has more of her beer, still keeping her samples small. Her eyes rarely stray from the man across from her.
“So, what was all that about when you kidnapped me? You said I was bait. We’re you trying to trap the vigilante?”
Duilio has again leaned back in his chair, and he gives Therese a somewhat sidelong look, eyes narrowing. She can sense the wheels turning, but she says nothing.
“Yes, we were.”
“That obviously didn’t work.”
“No, it did not. I will confess, I wasn’t sure if you had survived. I’m glad you did.”
Therese gives the barest hint of a scoff, a tiny pull to one side of her upper lip.
“What the hell happened there that night?”
“I … I am not certain,” Duilio says. “It was already unpleasant business, but it turned more so.”
“Unpleasant business,” she says, giving him a stony look.
“Yes, yes.” He tries to placate. “I have done terrible things. I am not washed clean, but I do wish to atone, as I mentioned.”
“Do you know who the vigilante is?” she asks, and though she pitches this with the same dry forwardness as all else, her pulse rises.
“Oh, no,” he casually responds, crushing out the remnants of his cigarette, then reaching for his wine. “That…” He gives a chuckle, holding the glass poised before his mouth. “Did not seem important once the night had ended.”
“I’m sure the police would like to know, or maybe even some criminal organizations.”
Duilio sets his glass back on the tabletop, drawing his fingertips down the length of the stem and holding them there at the base as he gazes at the young woman.
“Is that what this is all about?”
Therese does not answer.
“Are you hoping to sell that information and make a nice payday?”
“No!” Therese scowls, pulling back into her chair.
“Ahh, of course. What was I thinking? The vigilante is your friend, no?”
“No,” Therese repeats, but in a much less defensive tone.
Duilio emits a low chuckle. “The vigilante saved you. Twice.”
“Because I was stupid and got caught. And you know what?” she all but taunts, and Duilio leans forward, curious. “The second time was a fluke. The vigilante wasn’t there to rescue me.”
“Then why was he there?”
“To bust up your operation.”
“It was not mine!” Duilio pulls back from the table, shoulders scrunching up.
“Your boss’s, then,” Therese snips, eyes slit.
Silence resolves between them. Duilio fishes another cigarette from his pack, but he does not light it, merely rolling it betwixt his fingertips.
“There was more going on there than my boss knew.”
“What do you mean?”
“Things were much worse than he thought. In fact, he thought things were about to get very good for him, but he was so very wrong. I wonder, though, did your vigilante know about those worse things, hmm?” He sets eyes on her, perking his eyebrows.
“How should I know?”
“Ah, excuse me, the question is … rhetorical. I just wonder how much the vigilante knew.”
Silence again finds a place, but Duilio intercedes before it may take too much of a hold. “What is this really all about? Why are you looking for Denman?”
“You said you didn’t want to know.”
“So you keep reminding me, but I am like you – an investigator.”
“That information is privileged.”
He gives a shrug, tilting his head and pursing out his bottom lip. He then brings the cigarette up and slips it into his mouth. He grabs the lighter, flicking it to life.
“I will have to tell them something, and if it doesn’t satisfy them, they will push me away and use other methods.”
“What’re you going to tell them?”
“I have not yet decided, but I’m not sure they’ll be satisfied with the answer of ‘rare books’.”
“You think they’d come after me over something like that?”
“I really don’t know. I have given up on trying to understand the Malkuths. But maybe we can help each other.”
“How?” Therese challenges.
He fixes her with another piercing stare. “How good are you at hiding, Therese?”
****
Night. What illumination there is comes from the sporadic fires. Some lick up from within diminished barrels, others toil on the ground, quickly eating their fuel amidst a haphazard collection of rocks and detritus. Shadows dance to the fiery beat. Fog has rolled in, giving more disturbance to proper perception.
A series of coughs erupt. The grating sound rises to a wet crescendo. Several pairs of eyes stare at Pierce as his hacking disturbs the otherwise eerie quiet. A reflecting gleam flashes off the fresh blood at his lips. He wipes at with a bony knuckle.
He looks back at those watching him. Most avert their eyes. Others here are lost in a dreamy haze of drug-use. They hide clueless within their own shroud, separate from the one infusing the area.
“It’s coming.”
Pierce’s eyes then find Lance, giving him a nod. He takes his compatriot by the arm, moving him into a darker part of this place they have all come to think of as some perverse home. Lance stumbles, limping, trying to keep up. He grumbles out some protest.
“Just sit down and be quiet!” Pierce all but hisses at him.
They both do. Their observance darts about. The fog further rolls in.
The sounds begin to seem louder, as though echoing off the condensing air. Some reposition themselves, or make some pitiful effort to do so. Others hold their place, eyes fixed, their entire aspect one of apathetic surrender. No one is standing.
Light grows from the westerly direction, the strange illumination finding the mist, giving it more life as though a restlessly weaving vibrancy to the very air. Some might say the radiance merely shows what had always been there, but they would be wrong. It is not blinding, this light, but it should not be there all the same.
Some of those gathered glance at the growing illumination, a few looking over their shoulders, others staring from across the way, transfixed. Two people scoot away, still not taking to their feet, merely dragging their rumps over the worn earth, uncaring of rent pavement. They find a discolored, cardboard box to hide behind, huddling in like frightened rats.
“Whu-whu-whu-?” one asks, bringing up a bent finger to point toward the light and swirling f
og. The question remains unvocalized, a thick stream of spittle trailing down from the hanging lip.
A figure has appeared, something insubstantial in the haze. It possesses a humanoid shape, though it seems too tall, the arms far too long, very slender. Something waves atop the head, as though suggestive of hair but all too thick. There is no wind to cause the motion. No one screams. Many just keep up the hypnotic observance.
Some others try to get away, crawling about, generating a ruckus. They do not go far, only trying to get some distance between themselves and the nearing shape. Whimpers arise, people huddling together, watching, waiting. Whispers rise between some, the sound sibilant, and a word may be discerned: “sacrifice”.
The figure in the fog continues its lumbering approach, becoming larger but somehow not sharper. The haze appears to embrace it and thread through it. It moves by two people huddled on the ground, trying to become insubstantial themselves. Their wide eyes watch the passage.
The creature displays no awareness of those here, that bright light continuing to eclipse any detail of itself, giving up no more than the strange, shadowy shape. The movement continues atop its head, the tendrils giving forth a crinkling, wet noise.
The eyes of the observers stay latched on it, magnetized to the happening. The thing walks by another, this one laid out on her back, completely lost to intoxication. It pauses, rising further, its height already impossible. It then strikes out with a preternatural speed that appears all the more shocking due to how lumbering and slow it has been up to this point. Voices cry out to punctuate the motion, but the one that proves loudest belongs to the man now held in the creature’s unfailing grasp.
“No. No!” he protests, struggling. “Not me. I don’t want to go!”
The thing brings him closer, evincing more of its own bizarre size now that is has captured a closer point of reference.
“No. Oh, God, no!” The man’s voice tapers off to retching, the meager contents of his stomach pulsing forth, sputtering out in an impotent dribble.
The monster turns, back to its slow movement. The man spasms in its grasp, finally lulling after a croaking series of sounds heralding more vomiting. The audience remains tense, silent, those that are aware. When the beast has finally faded, peace and quiet return. It might seem that nothing terrible has happened at all. The discharged fluid from the taken man mingles with the ubiquitous stains about the place, becoming one of many and nothing special.
Soul of the Butterfly Page 10
