Chapter Twelve
The small courtyard was situated at the back of the hospital. It was built to be a natural haven for the patients; a place where people could catch a glimpse of greenery to remind them that something existed beyond the clean, lemon scented walls of the sick infested wards.
Cassie was sipping on a coffee and looking at Anthony. He had asked for a hot chocolate and she sat in quiet amusement at seeing the big guy with the tattoos drinking something so sweet and innocent. It hadn't been long since the last time she'd seen him but he looked like a different person, as though he was ten years younger and alive with a sense of vitality. He looked up at her with a chocolate moustache covering his top lip. He smiled and wiped it with the back of his hand.
"This is fucking fantastic," he pointed to the cup. "Thank you."
"It's a pleasure," she shrugged. "It's just a drink."
"It's not just a drink," he said. "It's the first thing I've tasted since my escape that isn't my own blood."
Cassie hadn't thought of it like that.
"I'll get you another on in a minute, and anything else you'd like," she shimmied along the bench to sit closer to him.
She heard her own voice and realized how eager she sounded and changed the subject.
"So, you'll tell me everything?"
He nodded.
"Everything."
"Ok... When you're ready," she pulled out her notepad, ready to be in professional mode once again.
"I... I thought no one would believe me. I'm not the most innocent of guys and well, I'm not sure where to start."
"You can start with your name," Cassie suggested.
"Anthony Umber."
"Umber," she said as she scribbled. "I've not heard that one before."
"It's German," he explained. "Comes from my Dad's side of the family."
"And how old are you Anthony?"
"Thirty-two."
Cassie realized he was the same age as she was.
"So Anthony, why don't you think we'll believe you?"
"I'm an ex-con. We're not known to be the most reliable types."
"I'll decide if I believe you or not," she chewed on the inside of her cheek, a habit she performed when annoyed. "I just want to hear your story so please, go ahead."
"Ok," he bowed his head and looked at the bottom of his empty cup. "I get paid to fight, it's what I do. My Dad did it and all my brothers. We're the best at it too. Real fuckin' good fighters we are."
"You're talking about bare knuckle boxing?"
He nodded.
"Yeah... But most people, like my brothers, get burned out and quit, get their shit together and start families, but I didn’t. I took it one step further. I started working for some real crazy people. Fought in the weirdest of places."
"What do you mean by weird places?" Cassie interrupted.
"Like... Private parties. I'd get paid to fight in front of all these rich guys in tuxedos and they'd sit at and watch with a look of mild boredom on their faces as they sipped their Martinis. The only time they'd get excited was when blood was splashed on their clothes and they'd show off to one another as though they'd just won a trophy."
Cassie didn't know what to say to that. He was right, his story was pretty unbelievable.
“So where were these parties?”
“I don’t know,” he shook his head. “We’d be blindfolded on the journey there.”
“Uhuh… So you had to escape from one of these parties?”
“No,” he chewed his lower lip. “It was afterward. I’d just won a fight, hurt this guy real bad and he was lying unconscious on the floor. I remember standing in this huge dining room, covered in paintings of these old dudes and looking up at the ceiling and seeing it was covered in gold. Then I looked down at the guy at my feet and saw his blood run against a marble pillar. It all seemed so wrong. Then there was a hand on my shoulder, a voice beside me. Before I could turn to see who it was there was a gun in my ribs, a bag over my head. Then it all went dark for me. When I woke up, I was in some room. It was cold and it smelled rotten. My hands were chained up over my head. As I opened my eyes I saw I wasn’t alone. There were people everywhere.”
The story was starting to sound like Latrece’s. Cassie had a dark feeling in her gut. She knew what was coming.
“Some of them were alive,” he continued. “But some of them were….”
He trailed off. He didn’t need to say anymore. There were tears in his eyes and his bottom lip was quivering. He crunched the empty paper cup in his hand and held it tight between his fingers. Cassie rested her hand on his forearm.
“You did really well,” she cooed. “Really well. It can’t be easy to talk about it,” she placed down her notepad.
She knew it wasn’t protocol and you were trained to never get too close to people on the case but she found herself putting an arm around Anthony and squeezing him tight.
“You should get back to the ward. It’s a miracle you’re even walking about with your injuries.”
“Morphine is a wonder drug,” Anthony said with his eyes still cast down. “But don’t you wanna know how I escaped?”
Cassie wanted to know that more than anything. Since he’d begun his story she tried to figure out how he could have freed himself from the chains but she didn’t want to push him too far, thought he could shut back down at any moment.
“If you’re ready,” she rubbed at his back.
“He… That guy, the rich bastard, he thought he was so clever keeping me down there. He’d laugh at us as we pleaded for our lives. He took so much pleasure from our pain. If I see him again I swear, I swear I’ll pummel his face into the ground. But he wasn’t as clever as he thought he was…”
“And why was that?” Cassie leaned in close.
“You ever heard of the Siberian Chain Escape?”
Chapter Thirteen
Batista lowered the hunting rifle and the fawn in the distance galloped away unaware of its close brush with death. The billionaire watched it disappear into the distance. He could have killed it so easily but something stopped him. Bertie was standing beside him with a pained expression.
“Dear God, Bertie. I wish you wouldn’t look at me like that. You’re putting me off.”
“I’m sorry sir, I just can’t stand to see an animal harmed.”
“You are literally the worst hunting companion.”
“I am sorry sir.”
“You vegans are freaks,” Batista slung his gun over his shoulder and pulled his cap down over his forehead. “Come on, I’ll take you back inside and you can murder some tofu.”
The two crunched through the snow. Batista was often infuriated with the old man beside him but what could he do? From the outside he was just a valet but to the young man, he was more like a kind uncle. In fact, Bertie had been the only steady influence in his life and had served the family long before Batista was even born. It was why the billionaire put up with him and saw him more as a close ally, a friend he could depend on.
“By the way Bertie, I’m sorry about your car. That bastard with the dragon tattoo… I had no idea he’d steal it, obviously.”
“Don’t mention it, sir.”
“No, I mean it. It’s partly my responsibility. How about we get you a new one eh? You were due an upgrade anyway weren’t you?”
“That’s frightfully kind of you, sir, but may I ask if has there been word of it being found?”
“As a matter of fact there has!” Batista rubbed his frigid fingers together and blew on them to warm them up. “That stupid bastard crashed it in Portland!”
“Portland?”
“Yep. Seems he drove like a bat out of hell and ended up there. He’s in the hospital now. Easy pickings,” he laughed.
“And the police are aware?”
“Who do you think told me? Sergeant Munro was a friend of my father’s you know?”
“Ah I remember him. He’s a nice fellow isn’t he?”
Batista nodded
and looked up to the tree tops. The snow was beginning to fall around him, dusty and dry as it landed on his clothes.
“You’ve been to Portland before, haven’t you, Bertie?”
The old man gulped as he knew what was about to be asked of him.
“I have, many years ago.”
Batista turned to face him, his features blank and expressionless. Bertie pursed his lips and looked down to his feet, scuffling crispy leaves beneath his soles.
“I’ll do whatever you ask of me,” he said to his boss with a furrowed brow. “But I assume you know I don’t like to be involved in your macabre affairs.”
“I know,” Batista narrowed his eyes as he looked deep into the forest.
There was a gentle rustling in the distance. A small, stout tail danced between the branches, snowy and pert.
“But Bertie, you are not innocent in all of this. After all, you have done it before, you can do it again.”
The valet remembered the times he had killed on his boss’ behalf. He couldn’t say no to the boy he often thought of as his own. He thought about the girl with the red blouse and the way her body fell limp into the grave. The serum… It seemed so innocent when you held it in your hand. It was nothing more than a green liquid that looked almost like mouthwash, but it was deadly and its effects could not be seen until it was pushed hard and fast into the veins of its victims. It was only then that you could see the devastation it caused. The girl with the red blouse, he’d seen her eyes roll back in her head and her skin turn purple. He’d watched as her teeth chattered and her fingers grasped at the air, searching and scrambling for an invisible savior. He wondered when there would be an end to all of this.
“Sir?” he looked up to Batista’s chiseled features. “When do you think you will find what you’re looking for?”
“What do you mean?”
“Your research, you conduct it for medical reasons, in a way, and it’s because you are so desperate to learn about anatomy and the pathology of death. Am I correct?”
“You are.”
“Then when will you know when your research is done?”
“I will feel it… in my bones. There will come a time when I know it feels right to stop.”
“Dare I say I think that time has passed?”
Batista glowered at the old man with fire in his eyes. He was enraged because he knew the valet was right, but that meant compromising his ego and he was never prepared to do such a thing.
“Bertie, if it weren’t for the fact you mean so much to me, I’d send a backhander flying across your face.”
The valet recoiled and took two steps sideways to get out of Batista’s arm’s length.
“I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to be pertinent. I only ask because I care.”
Batista relinquished his anger and stopped walking before placing his rifle down on the crisp and frosty ground.
“I understand,” he said. “I understand that you do not want to do what I ask of you but it must be done.”
“Killing a man in a hospital bed has nothing to do with your research,” Bertie held a gloved hand to his head.
Batista knew he was right. Things were getting wild and disorganized. They were out of hand, disappearing from the clutches of his control.
“It must be done,” he uttered a gasp as he spoke and the cold air bit at his breath. “It has to happen because word must not get out. Well, no further than it already has. And you must know that I can’t do it myself. I’m recognizable, people will notice me.”
For a moment he was certain he saw a tear in the corner of the old man’s eye but then he turned away and looked behind him.
“Very well, sir. Tell me what to do.”
Chapter Fourteen
Anthony was drifting in between the worlds of sleep and wakefulness. His dreams were tragic and abstract, blood filled agonized visions of torture and decay. When his eyes opened all he saw was red. It filled his sight until he blinked it away and at last he could make out the young detective at the end of the bed with her pale and perfect face framed by her honey blonde hair. She smiled at him, her calm demeanor soothing him.
“I thought you would have gone back to the station?” he rubbed his eyes and sat up.
Cassie should have returned hours ago but, if she were being honest, she didn’t want to. She wanted to sit beside the wounded man and make sure he was ok. She’d listened to his dreams, knew that if they were as terrifying as they sounded that he’d be slumbering in his own private hell. She believed everything he said but didn’t know what to do about it. As he slept, she watched his sleeping body. Saw the way his face twisted into a grimace as his nightmares took over his mind. At one point she’d stood next to him and brushed his matted hair from his eyes. She’d contemplated bending down and kissing him but refrained, choosing to trace a finger over his tattoos instead. There was a name on his forearm. It was in the center of a crimson heart that was starting to fade at the edges. The name was Trudy. She glanced down at it now and he followed her gaze.
“Trudy was my mother,” he explained.
“Oh,” she sensed sadness in his voice and diverted his attention. “So, the Siberian Chain Escape. Tell me how it’s done.”
“I can show if you like.”
“I don’t have a set of chains handy,” she smirked.
“That’s a shame,” he shrugged with his voice dripping in sarcasm. “I was kinda looking forward to having you tie me up.”
An awkward silence descended on the room. Cassie could feel her face become hot and red, could feel his eyes on her. In a bid to rid herself of the excruciating bout of bashfulness she was feeling, she reached into her bag and pulled out her tablet and changed the subject yet again.
“If you saw the man again, the one who tortured you, would you be able to identify him?”
“Yes!” he flung up his hands. “I’d never forget a face like his, the smug bastard.”
Cassie swiped across her screen a few times until she rested on a photograph of John Batista.
“Was this the man?”
Anthony’s eyes grew wide. His jaw dropped open then he looked away, obviously pained by the sight of his tormentor.
“It’s him. Although-“
A knock on the door interrupted him. The young doctor stepped in with his trusted clipboard clutched to his chest. A pen rested behind his ear and he pulled it from his head and placed the end against his lower lip. He looked in deep thought as he regarded his patient.
“How are you getting on, Anthony?”
He shrugged with a heavy weariness.
“I feel like hell, doc.”
“I’m not surprised but you seem to be in much better shape. Your injuries will heal and fade over time, I’m sorry that your memories sadly won’t.”
Anthony looked down to his hands and rubbed at the purple grooves around his wrist. Thank God his dad had taken him to the circus all those times when he was a kid. If he hadn’t witnessed all those Houdini knock offs, unleashing themselves from a multitude of chains, he wouldn’t have been able to escape. He remembered the look on his captor’s face when he confronted him. It was sheer shock for a split second followed by a collected coolness that surprised Anthony. Cold… The man was cold and cared for nothing. Even when he’d connected his fist into the side of the sadist’s face he didn’t appear pained. Only, when Anthony knocked the man to the ground and sprinted for the door had he became agitated, stumbling punch drunk after his tortured prize as he ran out the building. He had found himself in the servants’ quarters where he saw a little Mercedes waiting for him. He’d driven like a madman the minute he’d touched the green wire to the red one.
As he left, he’d glanced in the rear view mirror and caught a glimpse of the crazed man who had held him prisoner. He was leaning against a pillar at the front of the house, a rifle pressed hard into his shoulder. A shot had sounded. The bullet ricocheted off a nearby tree and Anthony was gone, the tires kicking up snow covered gravel as he s
ped through the mountainous forest. He could see the shapes of the trees as they passed by in everything green he saw in his hospital room. He was so lost in the memory that he was unaware the doctor was talking to him, holding a piece of paper between his clean and delicate fingers. He pointed his pen at a name on the page.
The Billionaire's Trap Page 6
