The Scorpion's Tale

by Wayne Block

  “I told Joaquin that I was going to accept the assignment and permanently assume the role of the priest. We both knew this would be our final work together. The negotiations with the Cardinal concluded with our demonstration that we had taped all contacts with him and had overwhelming evidence of his complicity against God’s laws. We established a mutual understanding that we each had sufficient leverage against the other to dissuade either party from betraying the other’s identity. Joaquin and I divided our spoils from the island and our business and said goodbye. I went to Costa Rica where I remained for several months before being summoned to the Vatican. Joaquin disappeared for years.

  “As I fulfilled my responsibilities at the Vatican, I constantly traveled back and forth to Ecuador and to the missions throughout the country. Each time I visited Ecuador, my religious identity strengthened. I started diverting massive amounts of money into the economy to help my parishioners. Wherever I traveled, I brought resources to feed and clothe the poor. Ultimately, I became a legend in the Ecuadorian mountains and I was dearly beloved by the natives. Eventually, I executed my task at the Vatican. Unfortunately, the Cardinal knew that I was now dispensable and had to be eliminated. However, perhaps due to a moral dilemma regarding how to get rid of me, the Cardinal hesitated in his follow through. I, having no such issue, killed the Cardinal after completing my mission, and both his murder and my mission remained unresolved. I stayed at the Vatican for several months and received instructions to return to the mountains of Ecuador to carry out my mission with the Catholic Church. Now I could freely travel throughout the world as Father Mateuse, an identity that allowed the Scorpion to travel as well.

  “That is the Scorpion’s Tale, or at least the background you need to understand me.”

  “Understand? Why must I understand you?”

  James pulled out a one hundred dollar bill. “I’m going to leave you with your thoughts; it was indeed a pleasure brunching with you. I have been truly honored and blessed by a visit from the son of Tomasso Capresiano. When I stand, you will have several choices. You can try and stop me. You can try and kill me. You can try and follow me, or, you can simply let me leave. I have discussed everything I needed to discuss with you. I have cleansed my soul and cleared my conscience. If you still must kill me, you will have one last opportunity. I shall never again underestimate your ability to find me and I will never make another mistake. I will assume that you know almost everything there is to know about me and I will act accordingly.”

  “Almost everything?” Steven asked.

  “Yes,” James said, smiling pleasantly at Steven. “I retain an element of mystery. That is the power I will always hold over you. When I leave this restaurant, you have the choice of never seeing me again.”

  Holding a box, James stated: “Here is your destiny. You can follow these directions and find me again or you may disregard them and return to your life. If you follow these instructions, you will come to my island and you will learn the lessons that I must teach you. And you, Steven Capresi, son of Tomasso Capresiano, will know what it is like to walk in my shoes.”

  “I still don’t understand.”

  James pushed back his chair, stood, and threw the bill on the table. “Read, and you will understand. Follow the instructions and see my island or turn away. The choice is yours. But do not expect to rendezvous with Nick Manzione in Quito. Those plans have been changed; he and his lady friend are now guests on my island. Your detective friend, Michael Johnston, is keeping them company. If you do not follow my instructions, I will kill all of them, but I will not trifle with you again. It is your decision. I wish you a long and happy life. You have the opportunity to seek the peace of Christ or the eternal torment of Satan. It matters not to me. May the peace of the Lord be with you.” The Scorpion removed his watch and handed it to Steven. “This was your father’s. Now it is yours.”

  Steven watched James slowly turn and walk out, disappearing. Steven desperately wanted to stand up and plunge a knife into his neck, but he couldn’t move a muscle. Strangely, it wasn’t fear that was paralyzing him. He opened the box and read the Scorpion’s instructions. He had been given no time to consider his options. To continue the game, he had to be aboard a specific private jet within the hour.

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  After spending the night alone in a rustic bungalow, Giovanna entered an awaiting seaplane occupied by two armed men. An hour later it was Nick’s turn, only this time, two armed men boarded the jet where Nick had spent an uncomfortable night and removed him into a waiting car.

  As the car approached the seaplane, Nick asked, “Are we taking another flight?”

  “You are. Stay dry, Mr. Manzione,” said the big man who had rendered Nick unconscious.

  The seaplane glided away from the dock and slid into open water, where it built up enough thrust to become airborne. They reached about 1,000 feet and then circled back toward the airstrip. Nick could see the jet beginning a slow turn at the end of the airstrip as it prepared for take-off. As the seaplane flew by, Nick watched the jet accelerate down the runway. He closed his eyes and prayed that Giovanna was safe, unaware that she was only one hour ahead of him.

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  The Scorpion’s island was more like a movie set than a real island. It seemed impossible that an ecosystem, designed and built as a hunters’ paradise, could continue to flourish decades after it was no longer used for its original purpose. Viewed from above, the island was a contradiction of nature. Occupying twenty square miles, it contained several incompatible terrains that coexisted solely because a wealthy man had willed them to coexist. There was a section of forest, one of open plains, and another of overgrown jungle, all separated from each other, yet connected.

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  The plane touched down and turned into the wind as it glided atop the ocean. Looking out the window, Detective Johnston spied land in the distance. As the plane approached, he made out a floating dock, anchored to the sea bottom, upon which three armed men awaited his arrival. The detective slid out first, hopped onto the dock, and turned toward Joaquin with an extended arm to help him deplane. Joaquin looked down at him and simply shook his head.

  “I’m not going with you detective. I’ve been instructed to return to St. Thomas.”

  The detective drew back momentarily with a puzzled expression on his face. “Are you kidding? Who ordered you to return to St. Thomas?”

  “The Scorpion.”

  “The Scorpion? When did you speak with him?”

  “All this was prearranged,” Joaquin answered. “You have received an invitation to join him, and I have not. I wish you the best, Detective, but I must leave you.”

  “Wait a minute, you double crossing son-of-a-bitch!” he shouted. He took a menacing step towards Joaquin and two guards quickly pointed their rifles at him, screaming and motioning for him to fall to his knees. He couldn’t understand their language, but their gestures had the detective on the ground in seconds.

  “If I were you, detective, I wouldn’t excite the guards,” Joaquin cautioned. “They are native South Americans whose families have proudly maintained and protected this island for decades. They are poor, unworldly, and easily agitated. They are also very loyal and protective of their benefactor. Like starving dogs, they are ready to rip you to pieces on command.”

  The detective glared at Joaquin as he spoke in an even tone. “You set me up! You were never coming onto this island, were you?”

  “I’ve seen too much of this island in my life and do not wish to return here.”

  “What happens now?”

  “You wait for the other guests to arrive. After that, I have no idea. I hope you do well, Detective.”

  Joaquin silently withdrew into the plane. The pilot started the engines and the seaplane pulled away from the dock. Detective Johnston surveyed his surroundings. All he could see was a small area of white, sandy beach sandwiched between two areas of dense vegetation extending to th
e water’s edge. He realized he had no chance of escape and reluctantly boarded a dory, carefully attended by two armed natives. His adventure had begun.

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  Steven boarded a 2004 Cessna Citation XLS in Quito. Along with its pilot and co-pilot, he was the only passenger. Steven leaned back in his chair. He had no idea where he was going and no time to develop a strategy. It was now clear to Steven that the Scorpion had orchestrated his ‘discovery’ of him. Steven knew he did not have a choice. He would get answers to questions concerning his father and then his revenge. Steven was mentally prepared for whatever awaited him.

  Steven slept for the duration of the flight, only to be jolted awake as the jet bounced off the unevenly paved airstrip. A few minutes later he was boarding a seaplane with two silent guards. Their weapons did the talking. As the seaplane flew by, Steven watched the jet accelerate down the runway. Suddenly, a brilliant flash of light and a subsequent boom emanated from the jet as he watched it explode. The seaplane quickly veered off to the north, and Steven turned away from the window to catch the casual expression on the faces of the guards sitting across from him, knowing that they had anticipated the explosion. They were both grinning widely. One made a childish face, waved, and simply said: “Bye-bye”. Just a few less loose ends for the Scorpion, Steven thought.

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  Detective Johnston stepped onto the white beach. One of his guards walked in front of him, down a trail through the vegetation. The second man shoved his rifle butt into the detective’s back, prodding him to follow. The path quickly changed from sand to packed dirt; Detective Johnston tripped several times on exposed roots from the jungle surrounding him. They walked in silence, the only sounds made by exotic birds flying through the canopy. The path emerged from the jungle directly in front of an impressive façade of an ancient castle, built of massive stones, blackened over time and covered with overgrown vines. Bright sunlight could not dispel its dark and cold appearance. There was no moat, gatehouse, or drawbridge, nor was there any castle bastion. A series of worn, terraced steps led up to a set of heavy wooden doors with sculptured doorknockers that resembled gargoyles. The lead guard opened the door, beckoning Detective Johnston to enter. The doors slammed behind him with the sound of an electronic bolt.

  For the briefest of moments, Detective Johnston was unable to believe he was inside a structure, since the outside jungle had encroached into the castle’s interior. He surveyed the chamber with the veteran eye of a homicide detective, instantly sensing an ancient despair that chilled his spine.

  The room was immense; the size of his high school gymnasium. Oddly, it was a contradiction in time: ancient rot and modern technology mixed in with new and crumbling furnishings.

  Until recently, the castle had clearly been abandoned for decades. Moss grew on the rock walls, and the rotted vestiges of once fine mahogany and leather furniture were strewn haphazardly against the south wall. Against the backdrop of the jungle’s attempt at reclamation, there were several sets of new red leather chairs and a well stocked bar that stood out as a mockery to time. On each wall, Detective Johnston observed thick yellow cables, stretching along the rock ceiling thirty feet above him, hanging with vines that grew in scattered clusters. The cables were carefully and logically placed, attached to sets of video cameras that were obviously monitoring him from all angles.

  Hung on the north wall, underneath an open walkway six feet below the ceiling, was the focal point of the expanse: a large oil painting which the detective could still make out despite its decomposition. It was a man standing in a military uniform, surveying the immensity of the room. Below the portrait was a huge fireplace that comprised half the northern wall. Detective Johnston moved toward the hearth, his steps echoing on the stone floor, drawn by a feeling that something significant lay within the fireplace’s recess. The hearth was sealed shut by rusted bars. He kicked a brittle object and immediately recognized what it was from the sound it made. On top of a heap of moss lay a skull surrounded by numerous other human skeletons. Peering closer, he saw two skulls had bullet holes where brains had once been housed.

  He jumped when the still of the room was disturbed by a booming voice over a loudspeaker.

  “Welcome, Detective Michael Johnston.”

  Detective Johnston walked toward the closest video camera and addressed it directly. “Am I going to have the honor of knowing my host’s name?”

  “You may simply call me Scorpion,” the voice replied. “We are waiting for our other guests to arrive before we can begin. Meanwhile, please make yourself at home. There is a well-stocked bar. Passage beyond this room is impossible.”

  “Are you going to fill me in on what’s going on?” the detective asked, aware that he wasn’t going to get a straight answer without employing his interrogator’s guile.

  “All in good time, Detective. For now, just relax and have that drink.”

  “Mr. Scorpion, should I toast your incompetence in your last assignment? Killing a pregnant woman and child?”

  “Constable, you may toast to anything you want, including your own ineptitude, for you are here, as I willed you to be, and you are under my control.”

  Detective Johnston heard an almost imperceptible change in the Scorpion’s voice. He knew he had struck an emotional chord, as expected, since Charlie had told him that the Scorpion was conflicted over the killings. His interrogation rule was to keep the person talking to bring light to the unknown.

  “Poor little Scorpion. I may be inept for being led here, but I’m no baby killer. Did you spend much time researching the behavior of your two-year-old victim before you so capably hunted her down? You should be very proud of yourself.”

  “Constable, with the noted exception of Steven’s family, I only kill those deserving death.”

  “Don’t flatter yourself little Scorpion–a killer is a killer.”

  “You know Constable, you amuse me,” the Scorpion said, his voice back to a monotone. “If you truly believe name calling will upset me, then . . .”

  Johnston interrupted him with a louder voice, “all we were doing was discussing your lack of professionalism in murdering a pregnant woman. Does that hurt your feelings little Scorpion?”

  “Detective, are you here to kill me?”

  “I want to bring you to justice,” Detective Johnston answered, a little too eagerly.

  “I am so glad that I included you in this group of hypocrites who refuse to admit to themselves their true personas,” the Scorpion scoffed. “How will you bring me to justice? Are you going to handcuff me, take me from my island, with my henchmen surrounding you in the jungle, and swim with me on your back until you get to New York City? Please, Detective, do try.”

  A set of handcuffs dropped at his feet from the walkway above.

  “Do you not want to kill me?” the Scorpion repeated.

  “No,” Detective Johnston answered, with considerably less vigor.

  “You know, Detective, you initially were not part of the cast invited to finish this Greek tragedy.”

  “What changed your mind?” the detective asked, hoping to figure out what was planned before anyone else arrived.

  “Detective, I was wondering why you followed Steven around the world. It makes no sense unless you want to kill me. But you say you do not. Why have you followed Steven, Detective? Am I missing something?”

  “No you aren’t, Little Scorpion. I do my job wherever it takes me. It’s my profession, and I’m good at it. Better than you. Why do you want Steven? You killed his family. He’s no threat to you.”

  “Now, now, Detective. You want honesty from me, yet your lies sadden me. Let me answer my own questions. You see, Detective, in this new age of the internet, answers are one push of a button away.”

  Detective Johnston moved to the bar and poured a tall glass of gin.

  The Scorpion continued. “Detective Michael Johnston, whose lovely wife Ruth was killed in a crime of opportunity while j
ogging in Central Park. The killer was never found, even though you dedicated thousands of hours in pursuit of justice. Tell me Detective, would you hire me to kill the person who murdered your wife? That is what I do. Be truthful. There is no time for pretense.”

  Detective Johnston glared into the camera lens, hatred in his eyes. “No, I would want that pleasure for myself!”

  “Detective, I ask again–why do you follow Steven?”

  “To save his life.”

  “You lie. Why do you follow him?

  “To kill you,” he said, draining his drink. “You are evil and I despise your very existence. I seek to kill the killer.”

  The Scorpion then ended his interrogation. “Ah, the truth at last. My dear Detective, you will have your chance.”

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  Fifteen minutes had passed since Detective Johnston’s conversation with the Scorpion. His mind was a blur. He heard the electronic bolt and looked up to see a young woman escorted into the main room by guards. The electronic bolt clicked again.

  Detective Johnston walked over, extending his hand to her. “Hello, I’m Michael Johnston.”

  She tentatively shook his hand. “Is this your house, Mr. Johnston?”

  He laughed. “No, this is not my house. I’m a guest of sorts. May I have the pleasure of knowing your name?”