Black Mountain

by Laird Barron

  “Aha! You’re gonna fuck my shit up?”

  Jekyll smiled broadly.

  “Whatever you do, not in the face,” Lionel said.

  “For God’s sake,” Delia said to me. She’d returned at an opportune moment to gather the gist of the conversation. “Aren’t you going to do something?”

  “Yes. I’m going to watch Lionel get his ass beaten . . . Couldn’t reach your dad?”

  The glare she hit me with was loaded with shrapnel.

  “Un-fucking-believable,” she said. “My father is sending a helicopter for me. He wasn’t in a talkative mood.”

  “Perhaps you could call off your dogs before you go,” I said.

  “Actually, we answer to Mr. Labrador,” Jekyll said. “Coleridge, as far as our boss is concerned, you’re with Stupid here.”

  “‘I am a pretty piece of flesh.’” Lionel had propped his Stetsons on the coffee table. He rested the bottle against his knee.

  “Romeo and Juliet?” Jekyll unbuttoned his cuffs. “I was in the chorus in our senior-class performance.” He rolled up one sleeve, then the other. A detailed tattoo of the Black Dog corporate logo scored his forearm.

  “‘I strike quickly, being moved.’”

  The big men traded glances.

  “All right, punk—”

  Lionel became still.

  “Say ‘move.’”

  Hyde reached into his jacket for what I knew to be a large handgun. That gesture escalated the confrontation from pedestrian trash talk to rocket velocity. It didn’t exactly surprise me, given the nature of Black Dog thug culture, but it did narrow my options.

  People were bound to die.

  I say that with authority because I fully intended to ventilate both goons if they laid a finger on my friend. Coarse jokes and petty bickering aside, Lionel was more of a brother than any of my legal kin. Also, I hadn’t capped anybody in a while. Sad to admit, it’s something a man can grow to miss.

  “Gentlemen and lady, this portion of our program is over,” I said.

  Jekyll noticed the revolver in my fist. He nudged his partner. They faced me at an angle, hands raised to shoulder height. Hyde slid his left foot back an inch or two, attempting to separate from Jekyll. I nixed that with a slight motion of the gun barrel.

  “You won’t take both of us,” Jekyll said. He might’ve been right. He and Hyde were muscular and composed—stood to reason they’d be fast too. I’d murdered, maimed, and mutilated plenty of men like these two and reckoned it could be a messy proposition.

  “No need. After I shoot Ms. Labrador, her infuriated dad will shred you into fish flakes and save me the trouble.” I nodded at Delia. Her flat mien betrayed contempt rather than fear. Kudos to her. “That said, after Ms. Labrador’s brains hit yonder window, I will plug you, then the other Bobbsey Twin. Then, I’ll find an anchor and dump the three of you in the lake. I’ll hum a show tune while disposing of your carcasses. Later, I’ll eat an expensive dinner and sleep like a baby. Assuming that Mr. Labrador takes it hard, he’ll send some guys. They’ll suffer lead poisoning as well. Days or months afterward, I’ll pop out of a cake or a laundry hamper and put several rounds into the old tycoon himself.”

  The men remained silent. Nervous, but not panicking. Former soldiers, they’d obviously survived perilous situations. Nonetheless, I very much wished for them to experience doubt as to the wisdom of defying my commands.

  “My father—” Delia said.

  “Hey, sweetie.” Lionel swigged. “Please, please, please stifle yourself.”

  “Have you done your homework?” I said to Jekyll. “Do you understand my capabilities?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Wonderful. So, when I direct you to remove your holster rigs and place them on the table, it will happen smooth and easy and nobody will miraculously receive an extra hole in his or her body.”

  It went smoothly and easily.

  After the duo sullenly positioned themselves lotus style on the floor, Jekyll seized the opportunity to remark Mr. Labrador wasn’t a man to provoke and that Lionel and I were digging a hole. Lionel interjected and told him to shut up too. He fished cable ties from his jacket pocket and secured their hands and feet.

  I beckoned Delia to sit on the couch.

  “Kindly get your dad on the horn.” I holstered my revolver and waited.

  “Daddy?” Her demeanor remained cool as she summarized our current pass, including my sincere threat of violence. She made eye contact without flinching. I almost felt a pang of guilt for ruining Lionel’s red-hot romance. “Coleridge wants to talk to you. Yes, Coleridge. Yes, the big guy. No, Dad. Dad . . . you’d better talk to him.”

  I accepted the phone and said hi.

  “Swine,” a cultured, and thunderously enraged, voice said. “You have committed a serious error in judgment.”

  “Mr. Labrador? Isaiah Coleridge. We were enjoying a swell vacation until your bullyboys crashed the party. At your behest, I’m certain. Two reasons it was an ill-advised strategy. One, everybody here is a consenting adult. Delia accompanied us of her own volition. Second, sending a pair of lunks to do the job of a whole squadron of lunks is always ill advised.”

  “Fret not, you’ll be up to your ears in ‘lunks’ at any moment.” Mr. Labrador wheezed every third breath. Stress can aggravate asthma.

  I lowered the phone and raised my eyebrows at Jekyll and Hyde.

  “Black Dog is organized; that’s the rep. Can the boss really snap his fingers and summon a paramilitary death squad to this location in a matter of minutes? Lie and my friend will smash your kneecap.”

  “Fat chance,” Jekyll said without hesitation. “He can dial in maybe two or three professionals and a carload of yahoos. We have yahoos by the bushel. A real strike team takes forty-eight hours to a week, depending.”

  “Depending on whether they’re busy pillaging a village in a developing country when the call comes in?” Lionel said. “Three-to-one you’re fired, by the way.”

  “Sorry, Mr. Labrador,” I said into the phone. “Where were we?”

  “What do you want, besides a reprieve from execution by sniper fire today? Did you force Delia to call in order to negotiate terms of surrender?”

  I’d seen pictures of Jonathan Labrador—silver-haired, patrician, impeccable dresser. His features were deeply grooved and stern. I doubted he smiled unless grinding someone under the heel of his prohibitively expensive Italian shoe. A conceited winner and a sore loser. In essence, a generic ultrarich shithead.

  “Sir, allow me to explain the situation.”

  “I understand the situation perfectly. Your objections notwithstanding, the material facts are plain. You’ve kidnapped my daughter and are holding her at gunpoint.”

  “Nobody is pointing a gun at anybody. However, if a helicopter with mercenaries hanging off the stanchions shows up, bullets will inevitably fly. In that scenario, her safety isn’t guaranteed.”

  “More threats!”

  “Hear me out before we cross the Rubicon.”

  “Fine. Twenty-five words or fewer.”

  “Valero Technologies. Rowden Refrigeration.” I enunciated each word. “Anvil Mountain Refuge. The Croatoan. Tri-state murders. Morris Oestryke.” He didn’t interrupt. I’d seldom actually witnessed a pause so very pregnant.

  He finally said, “Go on.”

  I drily recited the relevant details, highlighting Zircon’s elaborate yet critical relationship to Morris Oestryke in the form of two intermediary employers, one of which seemed to maintain an unwholesome arrangement with the Federal government and another whose main factory exploded, killing several people; and the corporation’s indirect funding of an expedition into the Catskills that Oestryke accompanied for reasons unknown after a long period of absence from the public eye.

  “Utterly compelling and utterly opaque,”
Mr. Labrador said. “Should this Oestryke person be relevant to me? If you have a thesis, do make the argument.”

  “Relevant? My hunch is he’s a long-lost Labrador who changed his name and entered Zircon’s Witness Protection Program catering to guilty scumbags; thus, yep, relevant. I recall your older brother Ephraim bought the farm in an accident. Right around the time Morris Oestryke’s bizarre, post–high school career took flight. Ephraim’s funeral wasn’t closed-casket, by any chance? What a coincidence. Oestryke—and I’ll refer to him as Oestryke rather than Uncle Ephraim, as a courtesy—is a notorious murderer.

  “I may not yet be able to prove in a court of law that Zircon abetted his criminal activities, starting with the murder or otherwise dastardly disposition of the original Morris Oestryke, but I’m putting the pieces together.” I didn’t confuse the issue by noting that Morris—or Ephraim, depending on one’s inclination—was likely dead for real. There’d be time for further complications if I escaped this predicament intact.

  “Your accusations and threats are duly noted. I’ve listened to enough of this—”

  I cut in with my flattest tone.

  “There will be time to sort the dirty laundry. For the moment, focus on what’s in front of you, okay? Once the Feds get involved, I’m willing to wager a bundle you’re up the creek with no paddle in sight. Or, perhaps you think the authorities will lay off in perpetuity—could be the DoD still has an interest in protecting ‘Oestryke’ for reasons unclear. Hate to break it to you, but not everybody is willing to play footsie with your organization. You and your daughter are cognizant of who employed me before I came east and hung my shingle?”

  His wheezing encouraged me to carry on.

  “Make no mistake, the New York branch of the Family is distraught over the deaths of Harold Lee and his dear pal, Ray Anderson. If you are unfamiliar with those names, your daughter can fill in the blanks. Highly placed members of the New York Family are understandably concerned that a trend has developed.

  “They ask themselves who might be next. They ask themselves who’s responsible and what horrible punishment should be meted upon that person or persons. What I’m trying to explain, Mr. Labrador, is that I’m only the opening salvo in a private war. I’m reconnaissance. An army of Mafia foot soldiers is on standby—piano wire, machine guns, car bombs, and the rest of those fun toys. You’re a powerful man, and Black Dog has firepower galore. But you don’t want to go to the next level with these guys. Neither does Delia, unless she plans to get plastic surgery and go into hiding in South America.”

  “What do you want?” he said. I’m confident he hoped this was a problem that could be remedied with a bag of cash. Most problems are.

  “As it stands, I’m inclined to hand over my files to a certain vengeful criminal boss and let nature take its course. Do you know any reason why I should do otherwise?” Again, I played fast and loose with the truth by not explaining that an imitator or acolyte of the Croatoan was the real culprit in Harold Lee’s killing. I wanted to tighten the screws while I had the opportunity.

  Another long, icy pause.

  “Please permit me to speak with my daughter.” He sounded as if a pair of large, muscular hands were lightly squeezing his neck.

  Concentrating on stoicism, I passed Delia the phone.

  She muttered affirmations. Then she looked at me.

  “I think it best if you two leave.”

  And that, friends and neighbors, is how my Catskills weekend ended with a whimper instead of an orgy of blood. I wasn’t totally disappointed. The way this shitshow was headed, there’d be plenty of mayhem before I closed the account.

  Delia quietly informed us that her father had forestalled his plans for retribution and we’d receive an RSVP to discuss the incident in a civilized setting. I said thanks. Meanwhile, my thinking ran along the lines of Whatever, lady. I’m bringing an assault rifle with a grenade launcher to our next tea party.

  Lionel and I gathered the materials from the crawl space and hustled for the exit. As we bailed, he made a phone of the cradle of his hand, gazed mournfully at her, and mouthed, Call me.

  I wondered if she would.

  PART III

  BLACK SUNSET

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  Lionel bombed that Monte Carlo back to the farm. He chain-smoked, and I stared at the countryside whizzing past under an overcast sky. Accoutrements of murder and a cool $1.5 million in the backseat. A film noir afternoon in New York State.

  Neither of us spoke the entire drive.

  “Apologies for how it went down today,” I said once we arrived. “You were chill and I appreciate that.”

  “‘Chill’?”

  “While I was menacing your girlfriend, you were a trouper.”

  “Oh, man, that. Why wouldn’t I be cool? You’ve got the ‘no women or children’ policy. I just played along.” He checked his phone for texts. Ninth or tenth time since we’d made it home.

  “I don’t have”—I cleared my throat and reversed course—“any idea what I did to deserve a pal like you.”

  “Were you on the level about Delia’s uncle? You like him as the Croatoan?”

  “As the Croatoan, yes. Somebody else whacked Harry. History indicates Ephraim Labrador was a budding psychopath. Then he dies suddenly. Zircon has the resources to pull off a caper; change his identity and set him up with the DoD doing cloak-and-dagger bullshit. No college, which would be a disadvantage for a government agent, although the Labrador kids attended private schools and were instructed by world-class tutors from kindergarten on.”

  “Sounds wild.”

  “Got Labrador’s attention.”

  “Surely there’s photographic evidence,” he said. “Compare some pictures of Ephraim Labrador and Oestryke. If the pics match, case closed.”

  “I checked the old photos of Ephraim. There aren’t many available—not publicly and not through my back channels. The ones I examined are grainy newspaper clippings. He and Morris Oestryke were within a year or two. The men in the shots resembled each other. I don’t know; not with any certainty.”

  “Well, something I do know. We made ourselves a bona fide motherfucker of an enemy today in Jonathan Labrador. How far would a man in his shoes go to cover up the truth about his killer brother?”

  “A question to keep a man awake at night,” I said.

  * * *

  —

  WE UNPACKED, barred the door, and drew the curtains. How to proceed?

  “Shitcan this and this.” He tossed the ghillie suit and knives onto a chair. “Hide this.” He lifted the bin of cash onto the table. “I’m not watching those.”

  I unboxed the VCR cassettes and inserted one into the ancient machine he’d given me as a cabin-warming present.

  He watched anyway, mouth curled into a half snarl. He whistled, dry and tuneless.

  “Mother of Christ. What I thought. We are hip-deep in shit and the tide is rising.”

  “Get your snorkel.” I wasn’t smiling.

  Nothing remotely amusing about a murky video shot in a cave where a guy, probably a mobster, lay bound and helpless on the ground, his eyes bulging as he tried to scream against a gag. Rats crawled over him, gnawing flesh here and there. The cassette was labeled 1985: SQUEALER. The other videos weren’t any more enlightening—locations were unknown, so too the victims, although I could discern each was an adult male. Screams interspersed the few garbled words. Some gray-haired capo probably would’ve recognized the dying men, as it stood to reason these were wiseguys, or close associates of wiseguys, based on the dates.

  The videos were filmed via camera and tripod. The Croatoan, when he appeared, wore indistinct clothing of the era, and a stocking mask. In this instance, I refer to him by his nom de guerre because he wasn’t in character as Ephraim Labrador, Morris Oestryke, or Donnie Duster. He was a demon with a name of
power who had traveled from the lower circles of hell to manifest in the world of men.

  Lionel and I had witnessed and done terrible deeds in our professional capacity. This cracked our armor as if it were papier-mâché. Wordlessly, I poured bourbon and we drank. He poured and we drank. And for at least twenty minutes, that is all we could do.

  While the violence enshrined on the tapes lacked inventiveness, it excelled in barbaric cruelty. The torture itself may or may not have served a larger purpose—the audio was partially degraded and I couldn’t make it fully intelligible. Whatever the motive, it was terrifying.

  How many related snuff films existed in the wider world and was Agent Bellow cognizant of them? I’d heard the catch in his voice during our phone conversation and now I knew why he’d been evasive. He’d seen a version, and in proclaiming the tapes to be a hoax, attempted to spare me the horror. I flinched at a vision of him grilling in his apron and hat while innocent children raised hell nearby, and how his even temperament disguised monumental suffering. No one should witness such vileness, least of all a retirement-age family man.

  Cassettes 4 and 5 were odd departures, primarily due to their subject matter and because an accomplice operated the camera, tracking the Croatoan as he walked into vistas of ever-unfolding gloom. Labeled BLACK MOUNTAIN 2011, these tapes were recorded in several locations: grand, deserted structures fallen into ruin against woodland backdrops; deep, forested mountains; and the interior of a cavern illuminated by the spotty flash of a miner’s lamp or the light from the camera. Each segment of film was presented without audio except for the infrequent sigh of wind or clatter of loose stones. The cave sequences hinted at coldness and the presence of moving water.

  The sixth cassette wobbled my universe on its axis.

  The label read 1988: I’M BACK, BABY! I recognized the storeroom at the house in West Kill. Someone slumped in a chair. The figure was caked in gore, thick as a layer of tar. The Croatoan entered the frame and leaned close to the camera, blocking out everything with his upper body.