The Children of the Wolf

by Karl Tutt

  Chapter Fifteen

  The Hispanic woman had helped her into the car. It was a relief to get out of the room, but a sense of fear invaded what was left of her awareness. She was cold, and the trembling came from inside her. The van negotiated the traffic smoothly, and she even fell asleep for a moment. The man beside her had held her arm gently, whispering Spanish words in her ear that she couldn’t quite make out. It almost felt good, but the trembling remained. She knew that soon it would all be over. She thought of the Virgin . . . mouthed a silent prayer for mercy. Still, she was on her way . . . but to where . . . and to what. Maybe it was better to sleep, perhaps even to dream of a release . . . a type of salvation that she knew would be less than that.

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  Lobo’s secretary had gone to a wedding. A niece she actually didn’t know that well. Lobo hadn’t been invited. He was glad. The pomp . . . the circumstance . . . the vows that would be broken as soon as a better deal came along. It all disgusted him. Better that he should attend the divorce. Maybe he’d even take a gift.

  He picked up the phone. He recognized the voice immediately, but something wasn’t right. He’d always relied on instincts that rivaled those of a hunted animal. After all, that’s what he was, and he hadn’t become the king of the beasts without a prescience that bordered on the supernatural. Mig wanted to come up on the private elevator. But why? That was unusual, and mostly unnecessary. Lobo stared at nothing for a moment and reluctantly gave his okay. Then he slid the bottom drawer open. The Beretta 9 mm lay on an oiled rag. He knew it was loaded. It always was. He picked it up gingerly. He’d never liked handguns. After all, he had legions of lackeys to do the killing, and he really didn’t do well with the smell and taste of blood. It was simply repugnant to him, and besides, it left nasty stains on the clothes and the carpets. He killed, but only when there was no other choice. He considered himself a businessman, plain and simple. Killing was merely a function . . . an expedient, but one he really didn’t like to perform himself.

  The Wolf heard the familiar tone announcing the elevator as it arrived. He turned the knob, and pulled at the handle of the faux closet. Then he racked the slide of the pistol with a reassuring click. The door eased open on greased tracks. He balanced on both feet, stood with his finger on the trigger and the barrel aimed at gut level.

  There, before him, Mig was perched on wobbly legs. His eyes were glassy, his cheek running red, and the fabric of his jeans saturated in thick, dark, crimson. His lips moved, but there was no sound. Behind him were two shadowy figures.

  Pete planted his hand on Mig’s back. Suddenly the giant bounded forward from a massive push. He staggered and Lobo fired a 9 mm slug directly into his belly. He collapsed in a thud at Lobo’s feet. His body shuddered and Lobo paused for just a moment to watch the man die. That was his mistake. The two figures bounded out of the small box and stood on either side. Lobo knew he couldn’t get both of them. He turned to the one on the right. Pete had already pulled the trigger of the Glock. His aim was true. Lobo dropped the Beretta and clutched his shoulder. The blood exploded. He fell to the carpet and writhed like dog that that been hit on the highway. Bart straddled his chest and bored the barrel of the Sig into his forehead.

  “So you are the great Lobo. Sorry my friend. I hope you will find this a good day to die. For it may be your time. You took my daughter. If she is still alive, you will tell me where she is. If not, you will join the angels, or perhaps rot in the clutch of the demons of hell. That choice is simple. It is not mine, but do understand, it is I who determine whether you will take one more miserable breath.”

  Bart pressed the steel, and the flesh around the barrel swelled, then grew a sickly yellow. Lobo swallowed a mouth topped with bile and spoke between halting breaths.

  “She is gone. I suspect the plane has left. Believe me, she will be well cared for . . . a life of leisure awaits her. Your child will be a princess.”

  Bart withdrew the pistol and smiled. Lobo let out a quick sigh of relief just before the warm metal crushed his cheek. His eyes bulged and his mouth hung open.

  “Now you may tell me the truth. Who has her? Which airport? Another lie and the pain will surge through your body before you beg me to kill you.”

  Pete stepped over, and hovered over the crying man. Lobo glanced at him, his eyes reflecting a horror and agony that pulsated and throbbed with every contorted gesture.

  “Kill him,” Pete said, “but if you have a problem, I will gladly embrace that pleasure.”

  He kicked Lobo in the bleeding shoulder. It splattered like mud from the boot of a child splashing after a spring rain.

  Lobo spit out a few words. Bart could hardly make them out, but Pete nodded. He knew the place. If they left immediately, they could be there in forty-five minutes.

  “Let’s go,” Pete said, “it may be the only chance for Maria Elena.”

  Bart crawled off the pitiful creature.

  “Thank you,” he whispered.

  Mig’s bowels had released and the stink of blood and shit hung in the already fetid air in the office. Bart gasped for breath. One man was dead, his pathetic throes now silenced, but prescient, weighted by the curse of Cain, the brother-killer of the Bible. Nevertheless, he had been a man . . . a bad one . . . the spawn of hell, but a man. Should another follow?

  Bart fingered the trigger and gritted his teeth. His stomach shot acid up into his throat. For a moment he thought he would vomit, but he swallowed hard, and the vile liquid burned back down his throat. He stared at the Wolf, then at Pete. He nodded. Then Bart fired a leaden slug into Lobo’s gut. One would be enough. Now there was a flood below his waist like the Red Sea crashing down on the cursed Egyptians. The beast would not last long. They scrambled back into the elevator and made for the car.

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  He wasn’t sure it would work, but he had to admit he looked rather spiffy in the brown work clothes. He clutched the cardboard box. It was empty, too light, but he didn’t think she’d notice. The knife was in his pocket. He fingered its hard, cold outline along his thigh. A simple delivery. Happened all the time. What the hell? He’d kick the door in if he had to. Who knows? She might even be glad to see him. She’d damned sure enjoyed that last visit. His mind flashed to that blond natural and the sheen of the silk on her thighs. Yes . . . he was ready, whether she was or not.

  Priss got home in time for the wine and the bath. Then she did it, the thing that had haunted her. She made the decision. She would keep the baby. Her career be damned. After all, they couldn’t fire her or even lower her pay. Maybe they could find her a nice safe desk job with regular hours. She would become a mother with all of the love, devotion, and sense of right she could offer. The monster would be submerged in the deep folds of her memory. It wasn’t the monster that mattered. It was her child. She said it out loud. Her Child. The words were beautiful. She even thought about names . . . Angelina . . . after her grandmother, if it was a girl, and if it was a boy . . . well, she hadn’t gotten that far yet.

  She inhaled the scent of jasmine on her skin and in her hair. She smoothed the velvet skin on her belly. It was getting round and more firm. A living thing, she thought . . . growing, gaining the will to breathe the blessed air, feel the heat of the sun, and bathe in its own starlight. She smiled.

  Priss was a bit surprised when she heard the knock on the door. She had been expecting a package from Amazon, a couple of books and an old Steely Dan CD she hadn’t found at the mall. She slipped into her robe, pulled it tight around her, and shook out her hair. Her bare feet padded on the carpet as she approached the peephole. It was almost 8:00, but these guys worked until the job was done. Brown uniform, a package. UPS . . . at your service, ma’am.

  At the last minute, something told her to wait. She reached for the chain lock, hesitated and looked though the peephole one more time. “UPS,” she heard through the door. “Okay, Miss Tough Cop,” she thought to herself, and laughed into he
r fist.

  Priss had only cracked it when he slammed his shoulder into the wood. There was a splintering sound. The brass chain hung on its mount and swung morbidly. The force knocked her onto her back on the carpet, her robe askew. He flashed the blade.

  “Now you just be real quiet and ol’ Stuart won’t have to hurt you.”

  He greedily eyed her almost naked body, focusing on the tuft between her legs.

  “Oh, baby, I love a natural blond. It’s just like I remember. Trust me honey, it’ll be long, hard, and sweet. You may even want to taste it. That stuff will seep out of you just like the last time. I’ll take it slow. You’ll be waiting . . . begging, for that thing to be shoved way up inside of you. When it’s over, you’ll know you’ve been fucked by the best.”

  Priss quickly scanned the room. Her .38 was on the dresser in the bedroom. It might as well be in another country. No way she could get to it in time. Nothing else she could snatch. Was it going to happen again? The awful penetration, the violation, the destruction of what was left of her as a woman?

  “I’m thinking,” he grinned, “the table might be nice. Just like we were having a quiet, intimate little dinner. Think of it as a party. I see you’ve already chilled the wine.”

  “Stand up, bitch,” he snarled.

  She snatched the folds of the robe together and tried to cover herself.

  “Aw, honey. That ain’t necessary. You’re gonna be slipping out of it anyway.”

  With one hand he reached for his zipper. The acrid sound was quick, but it drilled into her brain, and she began to shake. She struggled for control. She tried to steal a moment, but this would be all she’d get. “Okay,” she thought. Then she smiled and dropped the cotton fabric over her shoulders. Her nipples were taut.

  “That’s more like it,” he taunted, “sit on the table and spread those beautiful legs. Daddy’s comin’ up in you.”

  It was an ugly strategy, one that made her crawl, but she had a baby inside her. She told herself, “Just fuck him.” Let him leave his filthy cum in me one more time. Coo and moan like it’s the greatest show on earth. What the hell? Maybe she could use a good fucking. Let him do it. Invite him back and promise him more. Then maybe he’ll pull out and leave. Just keep the baby safe. Give in . . . and hope.

  “See . . . you didn’t need that robe,” he said softly, “trust me Honey. . . just enjoy it. Remember? You did the last time.”

  She smiled through her teeth and nodded. He lowered the knife to his side, but the rigid tendons in his hands told her he was still ready. Priss backed up to the table. She sat on the edge and opened her legs. Goddamit. She was wet. For a moment she hated her body. It had betrayed her. Maybe there was a wanton slut within her waiting to emerge . . . needy, eager, silently pleading for a hard dick and a hot load. She wasn’t sure she knew, but if it was so, she’d deal with that later.

  He leered again, and took a deep breath. It was as if he smelled her sex and her willingness. He brandished the knife in an unspoken threat, and approached her like a jackal stalking wounded prey. He got closer, flashed the knife one more time, and slapped her across the mouth. The blood came quickly. Then he did it again. She sucked the blood off her lips and managed a sickly grin.

  “Makes it a little more fun, don’t it?” he said.

  He took his left hand and fondled himself, pointing the pulsating flesh directly at its target.

  “One last warning, pussy cat,” he said, “no noise, no fight. You just shut up and let ol’Stuart put that good stuff in you. Then I’ll go and you can get to your dreams. Dreams of a real man. One who knows what he wants . . . and takes it.”

  His eyes were hollows of madness. He was a lying bastard. She knew it. This time she would die.

  She took one more breath and steeled herself. She wiped the blood on the back of her hand and smiled. She even managed to beckon to him, although she knew it was grotesque. She could feel the head of his monster prick kneading her waiting, slippery pink. Her fingers pulled the lips of her vagina apart and she felt the first thrust. His knife hand dropped to his side, and his eyes rolled. He was mesmerized. It was time. She grabbed the green bottle and slammed it into his temple. He staggered and shook his head. The bottom rim of the cylinder cracked, then bounced onto the floor. The last of the red wine splashed onto the tile. He was stunned for a moment, his eyes trying to focus. He still held the knife. He tried to wave it, but the arc was shaky and uncertain. His lips had grown pale. They moved, but no sound came from them.

  She took the jagged edge of the glass and drove it into his belly. The brown fabric of the uniform ripped and she felt the sharp edges grind into his stinking flesh. She withdrew it and hammered it back home. Stuart dropped the knife. He fell back onto the floor and clutched the gore. It ran in rivers between his fingers. She stared for a moment. His penis was still almost hard. She drove the broken bottle into his crotch. She gave it a final push, then twisted it until his horrid thing hung by a shred of bloody, mutilated skin.

  So much blood. He would die . . . maybe ten minutes . . . and she was glad. She picked up her robe and wrapped around her trembling body. Then she went into the back and collapsed on the bed. It was several minutes before felt the warm stream and realized there was a puddle of red flushing from between her legs, soaking into the mattress.