by AnonYMous
No answer.
‘Hello,’ he called again, more softly this time. ‘Is someone there?’
Still nothing. Must have imagined it. He turned back and walked on towards the kitchen, pressing his hand hard against the wall to steady himself.
Then he heard it again. Another footstep behind him. He stopped dead, frozen to the spot. And listened. There was definitely someone behind him. He could hear breathing. He could, couldn’t he? Of course he could. Devon Hart knew what breathing sounded like. He held his own breath for a few seconds to be certain it wasn’t himself he could hear.
‘Hello,’ he said again, this time not looking back. ‘Listen, I know there’s someone there. I can hear you.’ Dreading what he might be getting himself into, he turned round again and stared into the dark abyss of the hallway that led back to the reception area.
And then there was light, although only a little. Ten yards in front of him Devon Hart saw a flicker of light. A tiny flame, even, the size of a fingernail on someone’s little finger. It confused him momentarily, before he realized what it was. A cigarette. Strangely, though, it appeared to have lit itself.
‘Hello,’ he called out yet again. Terror was now really beginning to grip him, squeezing the air from his lungs. Someone was there. They had made it known by smoking, but they weren’t speaking. ‘Who is that?’ he called out once more, straining his eyes in the hope of seeing a figure behind the tiny glow at the end of the cigarette.
After what seemed like an age, Hart saw the end of the cigarette flare brightly one last time, and then whoever was holding it dropped it to the floor. He stared at it, watching it burn away on the floor, expecting to see it extinguished by the person who had discarded it. But it stayed lit. Then the sound of footsteps came again. His unwelcome visitor began to move towards him, the sound of his boots getting louder and the steps quicker with each passing moment.
Finally the footsteps came to a stop. Devon Hart felt a hand seize him around the throat.
Thirty-Three
Sanchez was tired of this same old bullshit. Barely a month went by without him being dragged down to police headquarters to look at mugshots of criminals who might be the Bourbon Kid. In the past it had always been the worn-down old cop Archie Somers who had forced him to endure this ritual. The results were always the same; the familiar faces would be brought up on the computer screen. Sanchez knew them all, and none of them was the Bourbon Kid.
On this occasion he had been called in by Detective Hunter, one of the three cops who had visited the Tapioca the day before. With uncharacteristic kindness, Sanchez had brought him a bottle of his finest ‘homebrew’, seeing as how the detective had enjoyed the stuff so much on his recent visit to the bar. Hunter had taken the bottle eagerly, and was now enjoying frequent sips of the dark yellow liquid. He had even succeeded in spilling a few drops on his sweater in his eagerness to get the bottle to his lips.
Sanchez wasn’t sure what irritated him more, being dragged down to look at the same old mugshots, or the fact that Hunter was enjoying drinking this morning’s fresh piss. ‘Look, man, this is a fuckin’ waste o’ my time,’ he sighed. Hunter ignored him, clicking his mouse again to bring another face up on screen.
The interview room they were in was a shithole, to the say the least. It had once been the office that Archie Somers had shared briefly with Miles Jensen before the pair of them had perished in unusual circumstances on the night of the last eclipse. Hunter was sitting behind the desk in front of the window with the blinds pulled down for maximum interrogation effect. His computer monitor was turned around so that Sanchez, sitting on the other side of the desk, could get a good look at the mugshots coming up in the slideshow. It was obvious even from the bartender’s clothing that he wasn’t into the whole process. His grubby white T-shirt carried a simple logo, its message aimed directly at Hunter. ‘FUCK OFF!’ it read in large black letters.
‘That’s Marcus the Weasel,’ said Sanchez, looking at the latest picture on the screen. ‘He’s fuckin’ dead, man. Been dead for about a year. Jesus! Don’t you ever update these things?’
Hunter clicked the mouse and another photo appeared on screen.
‘Dead.’
And another.
‘Dead.’
And another.
‘Dead,’ said Sanchez again.
‘Bullshit,’ Hunter snapped. ‘That guy was in here last week.’
Sanchez shrugged. ‘If you say so.’
Another mugshot appeared on screen.
‘Dead.’
Hunter released his grip on the mouse and pursed his lips, glaring furiously at Sanchez. ‘Are you saying “dead” for all of them now, just to be annoyin’?’
‘Yep.’
‘You fuckin’ porky prick. You think I enjoy having you waste my time?’
‘Look, buddy,’ said Sanchez leaning across the desk. ‘You’re wasting both our time. There are no fuckin’ pictures of the Bourbon Kid in your database, okay? Never have been. Never will be. I’ve given E-fit descriptions of him to your artists plenty of times.’
‘I’ve seen ’em,’ said Hunter. ‘You’re a real fuckin’ comedian, you know.’
What the detective was referring to was a particularly annoying habit that Sanchez had. On no fewer than five occasions he had given descriptions to police artists and successfully tricked them into drawing pictures of themselves instead of the Bourbon Kid. It was a lousy gag, but it was the only way to get back at the bastards for repeatedly dragging him down to headquarters. He sat back in the chair and folded his arms. ‘We done?’
‘Nope.’
Hunter flicked another mugshot up on screen. This one grabbed Sanchez’s attention and he leaned forward, unfolding his arms.
‘My God!’ he whispered. ‘It’s him.’
Hunter brightened. ‘The Bourbon Kid?’
‘No, my paperboy. That bastard’s been late three times this week.’
‘Right. That does it.’ Hunter roared. ‘I’m going to kill you. I mean it.’ He was just about to lunge across the desk at Sanchez when the door in the wall behind Santa Mondega’s most annoying bartender opened. Michael De La Cruz walked in, wearing a crisp red shirt buttoned to the neck and a pair of smart loose-fitting black pants.
‘Any luck?’ he asked.
‘You kiddin’? This guy’s a fuckin’ joke. He’s not gonna tell us shit.’
De La Cruz grabbed hold of Sanchez’s shoulder and squeezed it tightly. ‘You know the Bourbon Kid is gonna be dropping by your bar again some time soon if we don’t catch him? Only, this time he might not let you live. And as you’re the only person alive who knows what he looks like, technically you’re the only person who can save himself from being killed by him next time he comes in.’
Sanchez turned around to face De La Cruz. ‘Is that supposed to be ironic?’ he asked.
‘No. It is ironic.’
‘Look,’ said the bartender, already tired of the conversation. ‘There’s two things in life I never wanna see. And one of them is the whites of that man’s eyes. Not even in a fuckin’ photo.’
‘Well then, maybe you’ll start being more cooperative,’ De La Cruz suggested. ‘This is for your benefit as much as ours, okay?’
‘Sure.’
‘So – you said there were two things you never wanted to see, right? What’s the other thing?’
‘How meat pies are made.’
De La Cruz shoved Sanchez in the back of the head. ‘Useless prick.’
‘Can I kill him?’ Hunter asked.
‘It’s tempting. But we’ve got bigger problems. There’s been an incident.’
‘An incident?’
‘Yeah. You know the Dr Moland’s Mental Hospital on the edge of town? The one where Igor and Pedro snatched the Bourbon Kid’s brother?’
‘Yeah.’
Sanchez butted in. ‘The Bourbon Kid has a brother? You’re fuckin’ kiddin’ me! Who is he?’
‘None of your goddamn business,’ snapped Hunter.
The two officers stared at him.
‘How the fuck do you know about that?’ asked Hunter.
‘I don’t. It’s just a rumour. In fact, it’s a rumour I haven’t even heard yet. Forget I said anythin’.’
‘You know what?’ said Hunter. ‘That wagging tongue of yours is gonna land you in some trouble you can’t weasel out of one day.’
‘Least my tongue knows what whiskey tastes like.’
‘What the fuck’s that supposed to mean?’
De La Cruz had heard enough bickering. ‘Will you two shut up a goddamn minute?’ he barked. ‘You wanna hear about what happened at the hospital, or what?’
‘Sure. Sorry. Go on,’ said Hunter.
‘The hospital burned to the ground last night.’
‘What?’
‘Burned to the ground. Fire Department found a hundred and twenty-five dead bodies inside.’
‘Fuck,’ Hunter shook his head. ‘Those crazy werewolves. They set the place on fire?’
‘Nope,’ De La Cruz wagged a dismissive finger. ‘It wasn’t them. The place was still right as rain when they left. This fire happened in the early hours of this morning. Long after they’d gone.’
‘So it was an accident? Or what?’
‘Nope. This was no accident.’
‘Many survivors?’
‘None.’
‘None at all?’
‘None at all.’
Sanchez remained sandwiched between the two officers, listening intently. First-hand gossip – a rarity indeed. And De La Cruz looked like he had a whole lot more information to pass on.
‘Not one single survivor. Wanna know why?’
‘All the fire escapes were blocked?’ Hunter ventured.
‘Nope.’
‘So you’re tellin’ me all one hundred and twenty-five people that were in the hospital when it went up in flames were burned alive? Not one fuckin’ person managed to get out?’
De La Cruz shook his head. ‘Nope. No one burned alive. This was a cremation.’
‘Huh? I don’t get it.’
‘All one hundred and twenty-five victims were dead before the fire started.’
Hunter recoiled in his seat and arched his shoulders back. ‘What the fuck? How come?’
‘Take a guess.’
The thin-haired South African detective frowned for a few seconds before coming up with an answer. ‘Gas leak?’
‘You ever heard of a gas leak gouging out people’s eyes? Decapitating them? Blowing off kneecaps, ripping out throats?’
‘Say again?’
‘You heard me.’
Hunter’s jaw dropped. ‘You’re sayin’ that someone killed all these people first? Then set fire to the place?’
To get the attention of the two officers Sanchez cleared his throat and pointed at the picture of his paperboy on the computer screen. ‘Well, it won’t be him,’ he said.
De La Cruz slapped him across the back of the head again and turned back to the other detective.
‘Hunter, it’s gonna be the Bourbon Kid. That’s who’s done this.’
‘Yeah, but why? None of the people in that hospital did anythin’ to him. Except maybe any security guards who let Igor and Pedro through. That’s just a motiveless killing of a hundred and twenty-five innocent people. What the fuck’s the point in that?’
De La Cruz shrugged. ‘Don’t know. Who knows why that guy does anything?’
‘I do,’ Sanchez offered.
‘What?’ asked De La Cruz.
‘I know why he killed all those people. And why he did it so brutally and mercilessly, too.’
‘This guy’s a fuckin’ clown,’ said Hunter. ‘Come on, Sanchez, crack your funny joke and get out. Why’s the Bourbon Kid killed all these people this time? C’mon – what’s the punchline?’
‘There’s no punchline,’ said Sanchez soberly. ‘This is for real. You wanna know why he killed all these innocent people, and made each of them suffer horribly in many different ways before they died? Or not?’
‘Go on,’ De La Cruz was taking more interest than Hunter. For once he was right to, because for once Sanchez wasn’t kidding around.
The bartender stood up and picked his dirt-brown suede jacket from the back of the chair he’d been sitting in. He started to put it on as the two officers waited for his response. Having slipped his arms into the sleeves, ready to leave, he finally answered.
‘He killed these people to make a point. And that point, my detective friends, is this: the biggest mass murderer in livin’ history doesn’t need a motive to kill people. He does it for fun. But you guys – well, you killed his brother and gave him a motive. I reckon the point he’s making is that you guys are gonna suffer way worse than those hundred and twenty-five folks that never did anythin‘ to piss him off.’ Sanchez squeezed round De La Cruz on his way to the door. ‘I gotta head outta town an’ do some shoppin’,’ he smiled.
‘Hold on a goddamn minute!’ Hunter shouted from his seat behind the desk. ‘How come he never kills you, huh? You’ve encountered this guy twice and survived both times. What are you? Friends with him, or somethin’?’
Sanchez stopped, reflecting on what Hunter had asked him. Both officers waited for him to offer up an explanation.
‘Y’know,’ said Sanchez, after considering his answer for a moment, ‘the reason I’m still alive is ’cos I don’t overstep the mark with that guy.’
Hunter waved a dismissive hand across his face. ‘Bullshit! “Overstep the mark?”’ he sneered. ‘You don’t even know what it means.’
‘I know where the Bourbon Kid’s mark is,’ the bartender said quietly.
‘Yeah? An’ where’s that?’
‘Take a look behind you.’
Thirty-Four
Elijah Simmonds was not exactly Bertram Cromwell’s favourite employee, but he was exceptionally good at his job. He was the Operations Manager at the museum, and where Cromwell was a man of the people, Simmonds was all about profit margins, and how to increase them. The two of them had been sitting in Cromwell’s office going through the museum’s accounts for over two hours, and what Simmonds had made abundantly clear to the Professor was that cuts were going to have to be made or profits were going to be severely hit.
Cromwell had sat in his vast leather chair looking through the profit-and-loss columns in the accounts as Simmonds, who was seated on the other side of the desk, regularly leaned over to explain some minor detail to him. Simmonds was a highflyer in his late twenties. Young as he was, he already had an eye on one day having Cromwell’s job overseeing the whole museum. He had no love for the art and historical artefacts held within the museum, but he did love earning money, and he was addicted to power.
Cromwell was well aware of his Operations Manager’s ambitions, and wasn’t fooled by his fake enthusiasm for the pieces in the museum. But he respected the fact that, for reasons he didn’t quite understand, the younger employees seemed to like Simmonds. Maybe it was his trendy hairstyle and cheap but flashy dress sense? Personally, Cromwell thought a man in a suit sporting bleached blond hair tied back into a ponytail looked a little slimy, but he kept his opinions to himself. In his view, judging people by their appearances was foolish, and if it had been a rule he lived by it would have prevented him from meeting some truly wonderful people over the years.
‘So this is the sixth consecutive month that profits have fallen, then?’ Cromwell asked, peering over his glasses at the younger man as he looked up from the book on his desk.
Simmonds was in a smart blue suit over a white shirt that had the top two buttons undone. He wore no tie, something that Cromwell would never consider. And he was scratching his balls a lot when he spoke to the Professor, something he did regularly but to which he appeared to be oblivious.
‘Yep, six months
straight,’ Simmonds confirmed. ‘Since the initial burst of interest we had after the theft of the mummy, things have just gotten steadily worse.’
Cromwell took off his glasses and put them down on the desk. All this staring at numbers had made his eyes tired. ‘It’s hardly surprising is it? The Egyptian Tomb was our centrepiece, after all. We’re going to need to find something particularly special to replace it I suppose. Thing is, a genuine Egyptian mummy is a pretty tough act to follow.’
‘Well, yeah,’ Simmonds agreed as he continued to tug at his crotch. ‘But in the meantime we’re going to have to cut costs.’
Cromwell shifted uncomfortably in his massive leather chair. His expensive grey made-to-measure suit from John Phillips in London could withstand all manner of fidgeting without ever creasing, unlike Simmonds’s cheap off-the-rack number.
‘I take it you have something in mind already?’ Cromwell ventured.
‘Yessir,’ said Simmonds, sitting up straight and placing his hands on the desk where Cromwell could see them. Which was a relief to him. ‘We can afford to lose at least one member of staff, as a start.’
‘Really? Are you sure? Because the last time I checked we were already pretty thin on the ground.’
‘True, Professor, true. But we can afford to get rid of one of the under-performers.’
‘We have under-performers?’ The older man laughed gently. ‘How did this happen?’
‘Well, actually there’s only one, sir. I’m afraid your track record for picking employees isn’t the best.’
Cromwell was taken aback. ‘Excuse me?’
‘I’m not showing off or anything,’ Simmonds replied, ‘but all the staff I take on are impeccably behaved and work extremely hard. The last few people you’ve employed, largely as an act of charity, haven’t exactly fitted in well here, have they? Remember that guy Dante Vittori?’
‘The one who smashed a priceless vase over your head?’
‘Yes, him. He was useless.’
‘Nice guy, though.’
‘Come on, Professor, he was an idiot!’ Simmonds protested.
‘Granted, but calling him an idiot while he was holding a priceless antique vase above your head was hardly your finest hour, was it?’
