Serenity Avenged

by Craig A. Hart

  Shelby emitted a sharp rush of breath. “Don’t be evasive. You have to start being straight with me or you’re going to get us all killed. Did you know how dangerous they were when you got the loan?”

  “I’d…heard things.”

  “And you thought, what…that the rules wouldn’t apply to you?”

  “I didn’t think I’d have trouble making the payments. Robert…he promised money but hasn’t followed through.”

  “I’m guessing the money isn’t mentioned in the divorce decree?”

  “No.”

  “You took the word of a lawyer?”

  “It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve been foolish when it comes to Robert. I married him, after all.”

  “And these men—the loan sharks. How’d you find them?”

  Helen sat in silence.

  Shelby bent over and waved a hand in her face. “Helen? An answer, please?”

  Helen took in a deep breath and exhaled slowly. “The man’s name is Darkmore. Robert represented him a few years ago and got some serious charges dismissed. For a while, Robert was on retainer, although that ended when the two had something of a falling out. Anyway, when I found myself in dire need of cash, I remembered Darkmore had been accused of money laundering and racketeering.”

  “And this seemed like a good idea to you? Making financial deals with a mobster? Christ!”

  Helen glared at Shelby. “You wanted the truth. This is the truth. I’m not proud of it, but don’t climb on your high horse. I was desperate, Shelby. Haven’t you ever felt desperate? Completely alone? Willing to do anything, yet lacking the judgment in that moment to make good decisions?”

  Shelby backed down. She had a point. He’d felt that way many times over the years, and done things he wasn’t proud of as a result.

  “When did things go wrong?”

  “Without Robert’s promised influx of cash, I couldn’t make payments on the loan. Then I began to feel as if people were watching and following me. At first I thought I was being paranoid, as if the pressure of the past months had been too much. But then they started approaching me, sometimes in broad daylight, and demanding money. Then I began to see a younger man lurking around the house. One night, he forced his way inside. I thought he was planning to rape me, so I gave him every cent I had—my emergency fund in case I had to leave town. I promised him more the next week, although I had no idea where I’d find it. He seemed satisfied and left.”

  “And you haven’t made a payment since?”

  “No. I managed to scrounge up enough extra cash to buy the gun you found, but not enough to make a dent in the loan.”

  Despite his best efforts, Shelby found himself calculating the approximate timeline of Helen’s story. Much of it fit nicely with her renewed interest in him, not to mention the use of that damn nickname.

  “Do you know where I can find this Darkmore?”

  “No. But Robert might.”

  “And where can I find Robert?”

  “At his office downtown.”

  “Got the address?”

  Helen provided the street address. Shelby pulled the pistol out of his belt and shoved it into the back of his pants. Then he grabbed his jacket and pulled it on, neatly concealing the weapon. Helen watched without saying anything, but Mack said, “You want me to go along, Shel?”

  “Yes. In fact, you’re both coming.”

  Helen shook her head. “No, Shelby, I don’t think—”

  “You won’t have to see Robert, if that’s what you’re worried about. But you can’t stay here. We don’t know what Darkmore and his goons are up to.”

  “Why not drop me off at Leslie’s?”

  Shelby shifted uneasily. “I think they might know about Leslie’s apartment.”

  Helen paled. “Oh my god.”

  “Fortunately, Leslie’s in the hospital,” Shelby said. He quickly clarified, “I mean because she’s safer there. We don’t have to worry about someone getting to her.”

  Jimmy fidgeted in his dining room chair for a few minutes before getting up and pacing. Despite not having eaten for hours, he had little appetite. The recent revelation regarding Darkmore’s involvement in his father’s death and his own continuing anxiety concerning his future weighed heavily on his shoulders. Darkmore was cold-blooded as a viper, and seeing into his soul—if indeed he had one—seemed impossible. Darkmore claimed a willingness to give Jimmy another chance, but that could simply be a way of keeping him under control until a more permanent decision could be made. Jimmy wondered why he had been told about his father. Was it to drive home the point Darkmore was not to be trifled with, or engender a sense of gratefulness that he, Jimmy, was being given another chance? Either way, it seemed a losing play on Darkmore’s part. Jimmy felt nothing but disdain for the man. He had once looked up to him as an example of independent success, free of The Man, answering to no one, flouting the law, doing it—as Sinatra might have sung—his way. As time passed, Jimmy began to see behind the curtain and gradually discovered the Wizard of Oz had serious flaws. The carefree, charming outlaw could swiftly and unexpectedly become vicious and brutal. As Darkmore himself had said, he maintained control by showing no fear, although to Darkmore, that meant showing an abundance of cruelty.

  A muffled scream interrupted Jimmy’s thoughts. He froze, trying to pinpoint the direction of the scream. It had seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere at the same time.

  He moved out into the hallway, but saw no one.

  Another scream, this one more distinct, came from down the hall and to the left. Jimmy turned and began walking. He’d never been in this area of the house and so proceeded carefully. Although not expressly forbidden, he’d always had the distinct impression that wandering freely through the residence was frowned upon, and expected an armed guard to appear at any moment and either shoot him on sight or frog march him to neutral quarters.

  The hallway was long and made to seem longer by the agonizingly slow pace. Jimmy had no desire to come unexpectedly on one of the guards, and he was also listening carefully for any sounds that might lead him to the screams. The hall ended at a cross corridor and Jimmy paused to listen and look both ways. Still no one in sight. His neck began to prickle and his palms turned moist. Something was wrong—why hadn’t he run into someone by now? Another nagging question was more personal: why was he even out here? What did he think he would do once he found the source of the screams? Jimmy had never thought of himself as a hero. Was he just curious? Or was there something in the horrific sound that drew him onward? A curiosity either sick or fueled by compassion; he wasn’t sure which.

  Another scream, this one much louder and clearer. It echoed down the hallway to Jimmy’s right. He made the turn and began walking, even slower than before.

  Ahead he saw a shaft of light stabbing into the hallway. It was different from the soft, subtle ambient lighting. This new light was sterile and blueish, like that of an operating room or warehouse megastore.

  Yet another scream found its way into Jimmy’s ears. The last one had been loud; this one seemed to reverberate. The sound was clearly coming from the same place as that cold, blue light. Jimmy crept closer, wanting to turn and flee, but needing to know, almost physically propelled toward the source of the screams. A door, partly ajar. Jimmy smelled the blood before he saw inside the room. And when he saw inside the room, he clenched his teeth to keep from vomiting. A naked male form lay strapped to a stainless-steel table, the body covered in a maze of countless cuts, each trailing of blood. Some of the cuts were older, since the blood appeared dry and crusted. Others still oozed. None appeared individually life-threatening, and although inexperienced in the art of torture, Jimmy could tell he was witnessing the work of a master. Malone stood beyond the table, his arms crossed over his chest, his face implacable. Next to the table, his immaculate attire covered with a full rubber apron, stood Darkmore. He held instruments in each hand. In his right, a thin scalpel and in his left, some type of forceps. As Jim
my watched, Darkmore brought the scalpel to his victim’s bare leg and cut lengthwise, using the forceps to pull back the skin. The helpless victim emitted another stomach-wrenching scream.

  This must be the kill room, Jimmy thought. And it was far more horrible than he’d ever imagined.

  Another cut, another scream. Jimmy tasted bile. He tried to choke it back but made a retching sound as he did so. Malone looked up and Darkmore turned toward the door. His eyes found Jimmy’s and held them. He laid the instruments on a steel tray that lay to one side, each clicking horribly as he did so. He walked to the door, his steps agonizingly slow, a sick smile playing across his face.

  “Jimmy. What a surprise. I hadn’t realized I’d left the door open. But, as long as you’re here, you might as well come in. I have something to show you.”

  Jimmy stood transfixed to the spot. His mind whirred and spun, struggling to accept and process what he was witnessing. He’d known Darkmore could be cold, calculating, certainly capable of murder. But this—this was something else entirely. Jimmy had thought he’d hardened during the time he’d spend in Darkmore’s employ, but it was abundantly clear he was merely an amateur in a game he had no desire to master. This wasn’t what he’d signed up for, and not something he’d ever be able to accept. He’d somehow convinced himself there was nobility in the street game. Even bloodshed between rivals could be inevitable. Some of the men considered themselves soldiers, with all the honor that entailed, even if their activities went against the ordered society a real soldier fought to maintain. Jimmy had found this narrative attractive, not to mention the sense of belonging it provided. Darkmore’s brutality to his own men, and then Jimmy personally, had raised questions in Jimmy’s mind, but he had excused them with the logic that Darkmore had to maintain order in the ranks. Darkmore’s own words had backed this up. But torture—the mindless inflicting of pain for no other reason than the gratification of the torturer—made Jimmy’s skin crawl. There was no honor in torture, no righteous cause to be defended.

  Darkmore motioned him forward. “Come in, Jimmy. There’s nothing to be afraid of. In fact, I believe I’ve solved your problem.”

  Another disturbing thought wriggled its way into Jimmy’s frenzied mind. Why had he never heard the screams before? What’s more, why hadn’t he heard any screams after Darkmore had closed the door? There was only one explanation: the room was sound proof. This led Jimmy to another conclusion. Darkmore had left the door ajar on purpose, to draw Jimmy to the kill room and allow him to see the darkness for himself. Was it intended as a message? Or a test? Was Darkmore suggesting, warning, that Jimmy could end up on the table unless he began pulling his weight? Or was Darkmore trying to see exactly what sort of man Jimmy was, whether he would tolerate or even approve of such activities? Either way, it was clear the morning’s display had been for Jimmy’s benefit. This knowledge made the heavy sickness in the pit of his stomach grow yet heavier.

  As if being controlled by a puppet master, Jimmy moved forward. Everything inside screamed at him to flee, get away before it was too late. But something—curiosity or some artifact of Darkmore’s insidious control—pulled him onward. He stepped inside the room and took his first full look around. Most of the room reminded him of the televised depictions of morgues and autopsy rooms, all stainless steel and blue light.

  Then he saw something that dispelled that association entirely. Beyond the table where the unfortunate man lay stood a wall of cages. Imposing steel bars stretched floor to ceiling. At first, he thought they were empty, but then he saw movement in one. He knew his face must be the picture of horror and shock, but he couldn’t gain control of himself. With the same involuntary steps, he moved to the cage bars and peered through.

  A slab of metal protruded from one cell wall and served as a bed, on which lay a young woman. Jimmy had seen her before, visiting the woman who owed the money. He’d assumed they were mother and daughter. She looked toward the bars, her face streaked with tears and her eyes wide and bleak.

  “Please,” she said. “Help me. My baby.”

  Jimmy backed away from the cage and looked back at Darkmore. His face must have registered confusion, because Darkmore laughed.

  “Call it collateral,” he said. “Either the woman pays what she owes, or her daughter and grandchild pay it for her. It’s quite simple. Now perhaps you can understand my frustration with your failure to collect all this time. You simply weren’t willing to do everything necessary to complete the job. You must be able to use force when the situation calls for it, not only threaten. Threats are useless if the target calls your bluff. Then you look foolish, and that’s bad for business.”

  “You won’t actually kill her, will you?”

  “I don’t think I’ll have to,” Darkmore said. “I suspect once the woman knows we have her daughter, she’ll find a way to get the money. Besides, if you didn’t notice, our prisoner—Leslie, she said her name is—has a baby on the way. We picked her up as she arrived home from the hospital. Bit of a lucky break for us.”

  “The hospital?”

  “Something pregnancy related. She kept trying to tell us about it, but I must admit I tuned it out. Very tedious stuff.”

  “What about the baby?”

  “What about it?”

  “What if it…comes?”

  Darkmore waved a hand. “Hardly a concern. You’re much too easily distracted by secondary issues.” He raised an eyebrow and asked, in the manner of a schoolteacher giving a pop quiz, “And what is the goal?”

  “The money.”

  “Precisely! And now you know the lengths one must be willing to go to achieve said goal.” Darkmore turned back to the subject on the table. “And now, I must continue with my most pressing project.”

  Jimmy backed toward the exit, expecting Malone to stop him at any moment. But it never happened. As soon as he felt his back press against the door, he turned, grabbed the handle, and nearly fell into the hall.

  Somehow, through the fog in his brain, Jimmy retraced his steps. He saw no one on the return trip and soon found the dining room, almost stumbling through the door. The table had been cleared of food and dishes, only a decorative centerpiece remaining. It was eerily still, yet Jimmy could feel—not hear—the screams continuing. They pounded in his head like physical blows. He couldn’t stand here, knowing what was happening a few walls away.

  He had to get out.

  Jimmy went to the windows and examined them. They were stout, thick-paned, with locks on the inside. It would be a simple matter to unlock the window and slip out, Jimmy thought. Then he looked up and saw an alarm node at the top. Any tinkering with the window, either breaking the glass or sliding it open, would likely set off a shit storm. Although he didn’t know for sure, Jimmy felt certain there was a nerve center somewhere in the house, from which a guard would see immediately where the breach was happening. He’d probably be collared before making it over the sill. Perhaps he could simply walk out the front door. He had bullshitted his way out of several tough scrapes, simply by exuding enough confidence. As a teenager, he used to amuse himself by seeing how many places he could walk into unchallenged, armed only with a haughty attitude and a clipboard. He was always surprised by how few people questioned anyone who acted like they knew what they were doing. In addition, Jimmy didn’t know for sure he was a prisoner in the house. Perhaps he was free to come and go as he pleased, although he had the feeling this wasn’t the case. He could test it by attempting to waltz through the front doors, but that would also mean tipping his hand. There was also the distinct possibility this was exactly what Darkmore had anticipated when he lured Jimmy to the kill room. If he ran now, it might confirm some suspicion Darkmore already entertained about his young charge: that he wasn’t able to handle the truth of the organization.

  Although knowing this was a real possibility, Jimmy knew he had to get out, had to make a real effort to escape and alert the authorities. It was too late for the man on the table, but time was runn
ing out for the pregnant woman and however many other victims Darkmore had waiting in the wings, their flesh ripe for his knife.

  Jimmy returned to the hall, still seeing no one. The lack of personnel reinforced his suspicions Darkmore was testing him, trying to goad him into running. Well, if that’s what he wanted, Jimmy decided, that’s what he’d get.

  The front door was out of the question, the risks being too high. But a side door might provide the opportunity he needed. A door that was used enough to make keeping it alive with an alarm unrealistic, but not so busy that it would be impossible to slip through. Jimmy had seen the guards use a side door on occasion as they went into the house to take a leak or answer a summons from on high. From his glance out the window, Jimmy knew he was facing the rear of the house and, as best as he could remember, the door he’d seen used was on the same side as the dining area, but closer to the front.

  Jimmy began walking down the hallway, hoping to find another leading to the side door. Although he wasn’t intimately familiar with the house, he felt it wasn’t far, based on his exterior observations and the scene from the dining room window.

  He spotted a turn ahead and his heart quickened. Then it leapt into his throat as he heard a door open and slam shut. From around the corner, heavy footsteps thudded on the carpeted hallway. Jimmy looked around for a place to hide, saw nothing, and braced himself. The footsteps stopped briefly, another door opened, and he heard footsteps resume, this time sounding like someone walking on tile—a bathroom, perhaps. Then a door closed and all was quiet.

  Jimmy peeked around the corner. There were two doors in sight. One at the end of the hallway—probably the door to the outside—and one to the side—no doubt where the guard had entered. For a moment, Jimmy froze, unsure how to proceed. Should he move now, taking advantage of the guard being occupied, however briefly? Or wait until the guard had returned to his normal pattern of patrol? The burden of decision was taken from Jimmy’s shoulders when another door, this one farther down the hall where Jimmy was hiding, banged opened. Jimmy swung around, expecting to see an armed guard coming straight for him. Instead, the front end of a metal serving cart loaded with dishes appeared. Knowing the staff member pushing the cart would soon follow, Jimmy ducked around the corner and made for the side door. As he made his move, he heard the muted roar of a flushing urinal. There was no time to check the door for alarms or live cameras. Jimmy gripped the door handle, turned it, and slipped outside as quietly as he could while still moving at top speed. He paused for a moment, squinting in the bright morning sunlight, and got his bearings. Not far away, at a diagonal course across the open yard, he spotted the nearest cover: a large, sloping berm featuring a short, broad-based pine and a few naked shrubs. While the shrubs hadn’t yet sprouted leaves, the evergreen would provide good cover while he planned his next move. Jimmy made for it at a dead run, knowing the guard could appear at any moment and put a bullet in his back.