The Children of the Wolf

by Karl Tutt

  Chapter Four

  When Priss missed her period, she didn’t think much about it. It had happened before, especially when she was stressed --- and she was. They’d found two bodies in the last three weeks. The tipster and a Hispanic girl --- maybe twelve, but no ID, no missing persons’ reports, no physical evidence except signs that she’d been gang-raped. Her throat had been sliced with a sharp instrument, probably a razor blade. She’d bled out in a dirty alley on the edge of Little Havana. Priss had seen the body, the hollow eyes, the golden skin turned the color of bile, the gray lips gaping in astonishment. Then she walked a few steps into the shadows of the discolored bricks and threw up. Oh, one other thing . . . her liver had been removed, and according to the ME, with surgical precision. A small rectangular imprint could be lightly traced in the asphalt. A box of some sort had sat next to the body. There were traces of moisture, as though the sides had sweat because of something colder inside. Stolen organs for transplants, she figured. That was relatively rare in Miami, but something that the department took very seriously, and added to her beat.

  Don and Pete pounded the pavement in the immediate neighborhood, knocking on doors, asking questions, showing a few mug shots --- nothing. Nothing. She was tired of nothing.

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  Liam O’Malley had been indicted. His license was suspended in the state of New York. Questionable practices . . . that’s what they called it. He was a plastic surgeon and a damned good one . . . lines of wealthy clients who weren’t quite satisfied with the way they looked at the cocktail parties and the opera. But his wife went through money like corn flakes. He could survive that, but his own taste for copious amounts of white powder and illicit female companionship had finally done him in. He never thought it would happen to him, the star of the Big Apple society pages and an honor graduate of Johns Hopkins, but some people just couldn’t get enough. He and Heather were two of them.

  He honestly thought that he ought not to be worried. He was too valuable, but in his gut, the one known as Lobo scared him. The man had long arms and very sharp claws. Nevertheless, they spent several weeks in Miami each year, being wined and dined by their charming host. Liam told himself that it wouldn’t be all bad. Maybe it was time to consider becoming a permanent resident. He could certainly prove his worth in that setting. The last he’d heard, Lobo had already made all the arrangements. New identity, false papers. He and Heather could easily alter their appearances a little. He had plenty of cash hidden in four different banks in the Caribbean, all numbered accounts, of course. He’d been careful and now it would pay off. Hell, they might even buy an island. In a twisted way, he even looked at it as an adventure. After all, he was an undisputed master with a scalpel. He just needed to be able practice his considerable skills away from the light of day. No dumb-ass medical boards and restrictions on procedures. Lobo would see to that. The need was great, and the client list was growing exponentially. He could smell the money.

  O’Malley followed the instructions to a tee. No luggage, no jewelry . . . they would buy new clothes when they arrived. All of his papers packed away in one black leather suitcase. No cell phones, no goodbyes, even to those they were intimate with. The limo would pick them up at precisely eleven P.M. and take them to the small private airport across the state line in western New Jersey. He was flattered that Lobo was sending the Lear Jet. It would be swift and comfortable. He had seen it the last time he and Heather were in Miami. Lobo even let him sit in the cockpit and steer for a while. Very cool. Everything according to plan.

  Liam went up the silver steps and entered the main cabin, Heather trailing behind. It was truly opulent, just as he remembered. Now he really felt honored. Lobo, himself, nattily attired in a cream silk suit, pulled Liam to him and gave him a fond hug. The same for Heather. Then they settled into the plush reclining seats and strapped in for takeoff. A beautiful blond attendant in a tailored blue suit served the drinks. For him, a Gray Goose martini with just a taste of dry vermouth, and three plump Greek olives. Actually, he preferred the Kalamatas. He smiled. The attendant had remembered. Heather favored a good rich Manhattan with George Dickel rye and a touch of sweet L’Afrique. She eyed it greedily, the fat maraschino cherry lolling in the crystal glass. Lobo was sipping an oily tequila on the rocks. The cocktails were perfect and the conversation light and entertaining.

  Lobo put down his tumbler, smiled warmly, and leaned over to Liam.

  “You have done quite well, Doctor, and I have paid you generously. But unfortunately you were not careful. Your habits have betrayed you and your lack of discipline has caused me great concern. I am first and foremost a businessman. I must be cautious where I invest my money . . . as well as my trust.”

  Lobo’s eyes were like shards of black ice.

  Liam felt Heather shudder slightly beside him. He placed his hand on her forearm and put his drink down warily on the table. He had heard tales of those who had crossed The Wolf, but he always figured a man of his skill was essential, and anyway he’d chosen not to believe them. Who was better than he? No one, but the naked fear creeping up his spine told him perhaps he had been more than a bit naïve.

  “I need something,” the Patron said.

  “Absolutely. Name it. Heather and I are most excited about our new life and our chance to make your business even more successful.”

  He tried to sound confident and assured by the man’s friendship. And after all, it was all about simple capitalism. Supply and demand. He’d covered Lobo’s ass and made him lots of money. That was the bottom line.

  “I need the numbers of the private accounts you hold in the Caribbean. All of them. I need them now.”

  Liam looked over at Heather. The light in the cabin made her seem very pale. He reached into the inside pocket of his Brooks Brothers sport coat and pulled out a small address book. He hesitated a moment, then handed it to The Wolf. The Patron fondled the black leather between his fingers, shuffled the pages lightly, then lifted his arm, and waited. The blond attendant came forward and took it. Lobo nodded. She went to the captain’s cabin and returned momentarily.

  “They are confirmed. The transfers are underway as we speak,” she whispered in Spanish.

  Liam bit his tongue and sat very still. Suddenly he felt a huge paw on his right shoulder. Mig snapped his neck and the physician’s head dropped to his chest before his wife could scream. She was next. Her glass tumbled onto the carpet leaving a dark puddle with a tint of golden brown. The attendant was ready with a towel soaked in cold water. The stain was gone in an instant.

  The bodies were stuffed into black garbage bags. Lobo knew they would vanish quickly once they hit the water. The gods of the inky depths would see to that. The dark lumps were shifted into the cargo hold and the pressurized door was secured. The jet was at least fifty miles out over the dark Atlantic near the center of the mighty Gulf Stream. The cargo door dropped and Liam and Heather went for their final swim. The water was warm and swift, but they didn’t know it.

  Lobo finished his tequila and considered puffing on a pungent Cohiba, but he just wasn’t in the mood. He decided on a nap instead, but not before reminding Miguel that he loved him like a son.