A normal person – one with a conscious anyway – would’ve been mortified at what they’d done. Not Simone; she kept yelling about the damage being done to her car by those trying to save the little boy. Yes, she was a special piece of work!”
“Because Simone Quintero had money and a sleaze-ball attorney, she got off with the loss of her license for two years and five years of probation. Kim Hertzel became despondent, quit her job, and three months later, she hanged herself on what would have been Liberty’s eighth birthday.”
Thor took a swallow from the flask and knocked ash from the cigar before continuing. “Our good friend, Simone, had major problems keeping from behind the wheel, and is arrested seven times in three months for driving without a license. Not to worry, her well-paid lawyer keeps her out of jail with extended probation.”
Thor emptied the flask and returned to his jacket. Another long puff on his cigar brought him absolute joy. His grandfather had said life was full of simple pleasures, and to enjoy them whenever possible. He wiped sweat from his forehead. It was hot and humid, and the air was just as stifling outside as in. The cigar made it smell much better, though.
“I spent a year, and over two million dollars, to systematically take everything from Simone Quintero,” Thor continued. “Before I was done with her, she was living behind a dumpster, selling her ass for enough to eat. Like I said, it’s amazing the things you can accomplish when well-motivated. After she had nothing left, I dragged her under my car for half-a-mile.” He smiled cruelly. “I laid under the car with her for twenty-two minutes, texting a friend, while she died. Her lawyer was killed by ivory poachers in central Africa. He kept trying to tell them he wasn’t a wildlife agent, but they wouldn’t listen. The uniform he was wearing, and badge he was carrying probably had a lot to do with it.”
“Listening to Simone begging for her life brought me great joy. The lawyer?” Thor spread his hands in front of him, with a shrug, “He wasn’t as good at keeping himself alive, as he was at keeping Simone out of prison.”
“Nice story,” Jenkins said quietly. “You should volunteer to read to children and old people. You certainly have the wind for it.”
Thor smiled the smile that melted women’s hearts like butter in the hot sun. “I just wanted to get a few things straight before the fun begins.”
Russell Jenkins smiled back; there was a bit of smugness left, but fear was working on wiping that from his face. “What’s that?”
“I just wanted to let you know, you’re not as observant as you believe,” Thor said, leaning back in the chair. “I have three PhDs; fine art, art history, and ancient history – hacking is just a hobby to pass the time. I’m surrounded by people that love me as much as I love them. My parents were the most caring, loving people this world has ever been blessed to have. I have killed plenty of people, but they deserved to die, and I’ve never felt and ounce of regret, or lost a minute’s sleep over it. I needed to break Simone Quintero, or she would’ve never learned. Her lawyer knew for a fact she was guilty, watching those poachers decapitate him was pure entertainment. Killing you will make the world a happier, safer place. Isn’t that what we all really want, a safe, happy place to live?”
Jenkins sneered. “Like I said, I’ve seen it all. Do your worst.”
“That’s exactly my point,” Thor said, chuckling. “You were wrong before, and you’re wrong again. You haven’t seen it all. You should be grateful; as bad as this is going to be on you, this is far from my worst.”
Thor donned a pair of latex gloves, placed a mask over his face, and goggles over his eyes. He withdrew a syringe from the small metal case at his feet, and approached Jenkins. He waited until the last possible second before removing the cap, then drove the needle just under skin at Jenkins’ right ankle and depressed the plunger. Keeping the face untouched for as long as possible was important. Once empty Thor replaced the cap over the needle, then placed the syringe back into the box.
“Something fun, I hope,” Jenkins quipped.
“GMOE- 472,” Thor replied. “It’s kind of like yeast; but instead of eating sugar and producing alcohol, it eats fat cells and produces acid. Don’t worry, it’s a weak acid, so it will take a few hours for you to die. Most of the little buggers will feast on the subcutaneous fat cells, making it feel like your skin is on fire. Some will find their way into your bloodstream, and your vital organs. That’s when the convulsions will start, and you’ll beg me to kill you.”
Thor snapped Jenkins’ right pinky with a twist, making sure to break the bone and not the joint. Jenkins grunted from the pain, but was otherwise emotionless and defiant. Thor sliced through the flesh with a disposable box cutter, and placed the severed digit in a plastic bag. Leaving evidence – especially DNA – went against Thor’s most sacred rule, but he made a promise to the Detective. The finger-filled bag went into a small hole, and covered with dirt and a neat pile of rocks. No one should miss that, not even the F.B.I.!
He placed the small box into a plastic bag, tying it tightly and placing that bag into a larger one. One could never be too careful when it came to that vile concoction; one drop on an open wound would start the unstoppable chain reaction. You could sever the affected area quickly and pray for the best, or put a bullet through the brain to avoid the impending suffering.
Neither option appealed to Thor. He yawned and stretched, looking toward the cloudless sky and hoping it did not rain during the night. That would really suck.
The laptop sat on the hood of the Ford, with its camera focused on Jenkins’ face. This was going to be a long, drawn out process, but Thor extended the charger cord with wires from the taillights, and he would turn the headlights on as it grew dark to make sure not a minute was missed.
There was nothing left to do but wait for the inevitable. Thor started the recording, and began the clean-up; making sure not to get in front of the camera.
Jenkins began to squirm. The skin surrounding the puncture wound was turning red. The man struggled at his restraints, whether to break free or simply a reaction from the pain, Thor did not know, nor cared.
“Scream all you like,” Thor said standing behind the camera. “No one will ever hear you but me.”
“Fuck you, asshole.” Jenkins grunted, “I’ll never scream like a bitch, or beg you to kill me!”
He was wrong; the screaming lasted most of the night. Six hours after the injection, Jenkins tried desperately to form words, but they came out as incoherent babble. The man could have been begging for death, or asking for an ice cream. I could go for an ice cream right now, it’s fucking hot!
The next morning Thor stared into Jenkins’ dead gray eyes. What remained of the face was frozen in a twisted agonizing, final scream. The man that had tortured and murdered eighty-one innocent victims would not be hurting anyone else.
He placed tape over the camera lens, and began to type. He pulled the earplugs free; they had helped to keep the other man’s screams at a tolerable level, but just barely. The sun was rising, casting brilliant shades of gold on the few clouds that floated along. Songbirds whistled sweet tunes and crickets chirped. The air was thick with the sweet scent of wildflowers. It was as if the world was just as glad as Thor was that Jenkins was dead.
He called Detective Montgomery, giving the G.P.S. position of Jenkins’ body, then tossed the phone into the shack. He parked the Ford close to the shack and started soaking everything with a mixture of gasoline and chemicals that would make a blaze hot enough to warp the car’s frame. He took one last glance around to be sure nothing had been overlooked, cockiness had almost gotten him caught in the past; a situation he swore to never be in again. He pulled a cigar from his jacket pocket, lit it, and tossed the match onto the trail in the dirt. There was a whoosh as the fireball rose skyward. The heat was intense, nearly intolerable from fifty yards away. Thor smiled. Nothing eliminated evidence like a roaring fire.
Dappled sunlight filtered through the trees, sparkling off the mirrored finish of
an orange, 1971 Barracuda– officially Go Mango – with black Hemi billboards on the sides and black Shaker hood scoop. Thor slid behind the walnut steering wheel, buckled himself into the black leather bucket seat, and turned the key. The 426 Hemi engine roared to life, without hesitation. His right hand wrapped around the pistol-grip shifter, vibrating with the engines massive power. He depressed the clutch, revved the engine, and slipped it into first gear. A few seconds later, Devo’s rendition of the song Satisfaction blared through the speakers, and the glow of the roaring blaze reflected in his rear-view mirror as he sped down the dirt road.
* * *
As much as it pained him, Detective Everett Montgomery informed the F.B.I. that he had received an anonymous phone call with directions to Russell Jenkins. Finding out that the calls came from the Vatican made him laugh hard enough he thought he would piss his pants. Too bad the F.B.I. couldn’t see the humor. He did, however, leave out the part that he knew Jenkins was already dead, and made up a bullshit story about their conversations he had with the man on the other end. That would be difficult to explain, and he had the feeling a long suspension was waiting at the end of this tunnel; best not to make it a permanent one.
For the past twenty minutes he had been following the convoy of local and federal agents down a dirt road that cut through the Everglades just west of the spot Jenkins has buried his victims. The acrid smell of smoke told him that something was burning just up ahead. Word had come through some time ago that the scene had been secured, but there had been no mention of a fire. Not that the Feds had ever been eager to share information either. The car in front of him slowed as they entered the clearing. Montgomery pulled his car as far to the left as possible to let the rest of the F.B.I. pass.
He got out of the car and stood with his arms resting on the car’s roof, watching the agents flood the scene. The remains of what was probably a small building was smoldering, the tires from the Ford were blazing and belching thick black smoke that stung his eyes, but there was something else in the air: the putrid smell of charred flesh. The first time Montgomery had smelled it, he had been a green rookie, and had puked-up his guts the rest of the night. The smell was no better now, but the shit you run across when everybody is trying to run the drug trade in your city tends to dull senses.
Then he saw the body – if you could call a jumbled pile of blackened bones a body – among the ashes. This ghost was well versed in covering his tracks; the fire had eliminated any chance at recovering anything useful to incriminate him. Montgomery just hoped there was enough DNA left in the bones to prove it was Jenkins. It was doubtful, though; that blaze did a number on the car, proving they’re anyone in particular may be out of reach of the current technology.
His cell phone rang; the number on the screen was Harold’s personal cell. What the Hell else could be wrong? “What’s up, Harold?”
“Monty, are you sitting down?” the younger man asked.
“Just spit it out, man.” Montgomery was in no mood for dramatics.
“There’s a video flooding the internet,” Harold said excitedly. “It’s coming in from every civilized country on the planet… Hell, Monty, the damned thing is everywhere. There’s so much traffic, it’s crashing servers all over the world!”
Two agents had been focusing their attention on an area fifty feet from the charred earth, and were pulling something from the ground. One of the agents held up a plastic bag, announcing the finger inside. You beautiful, cleaver bastard! “What the hell are you going on about?” Montgomery snapped.
“The video showing Jenkins’ death!” Harold shouted. “I haven’t seen the whole thing, yet. What I did see, however, made me want to puke. God, Monty, it’s gruesome. At the end… At the end, the numbers 9:14 comes up in bold print.”
The Detective lowered his head to hide a smile. He was trying not to smile, but he couldn’t help it. The world had its proof Jenkins was dead. Montgomery swore right then and there, he’d watch all nine hours and fourteen minutes of that video; no matter how repulsive it got. And I just wanted to put a bullet in his head and string him up on I-75!
Chapter 4
The sun was beating down from a cloudless sky as Thor made his way along the busy San Diego dock. The air was hot and sticky, but, at least, it beat the Gods’ forsaken climate of the Florida Everglades.
A gentle breeze blew in through the window of his Barracuda, keeping him from sweating through to his bucket seat. People stopped and stared as he passed by. He could not blame them; a car like Ann was a rare sight, even in the state filled with custom hot rods and pricey imports.
He depressed the clutch and revved the engine as a cute girl, no more than sixteen, blew him a kiss. He winked with a smile; the girl giggled as her parents glared at him as if he had just asked how much they wanted for her. Ah, to be that young and naive again.
Thor traveled away from the gawking cruise passengers to where the freighters were docked. As far as he was concerned, you could keep the cruise liners, their pompous crews, and bloated passengers. This was where the true action was. This was where hard-working men and women moved billions of dollars of freight every day, keeping the global economy thriving, and Thor loved every last one of them for their dedication.
Mjölnir was moored just ahead. She was an impressive sight; 508 feet in length and a beam of 55 feet. She was in a class all her own; sleek and beautiful, with her sky-blue hull and gleaming white superstructure. Some called her a yacht, others an expensive toy for a man with too much money and time on his hands. Thor just called her his home, and the ensign of Iceland flapping in the breeze at her stern – a white fimbriated red Nordic cross on a field of blue – beckoned his return.
The ship had been a gift from his grandfather, Vali; one Hel of a gift for Thor’s second birthday. It was a tough gift to top; a good thing the old man never tried!
Thor expected to find the ship’s crew busy stowing supplies and preparing to set sail. Instead, he saw two crewmen securing the UH-60 Blackhawk to the deck at the ship’s stern. The rest were dressed in their pressed white uniforms, forming two neat lines, flanking the gangway leading into the side of the ship like an obnoxious color guard. He hated when they did that, but he knew the men were not to blame for the presidential welcome.
On deck, twenty feet directly above the cargo bay door, a tall blonde woman stood with her arms folded beneath her ample breasts, shaking her head in disgust. Apparently, he was later than he thought; Bryndis saved that look until she was ready to kill him.
This was too much! He was tired of everyone’s attitude. He down shifted, putting the gas pedal to the floor with a hard kick. The old muscle car lurched forward like a rocket; speeding between the two lines of men, coming within inches of each man. None of the men even had the good sense to flinch. Thor hated that, too.
Sparks flew from the front of the car as he hit the gangway, the front tires slammed the deck with a thud as he cleared the ramp. He stood on the brakes just in time to avoid hitting the ship’s captain, Julia Smith. She shook her head, frowning at him; a look she gave him too often. It seemed every woman he knew was very good at judging him, and always too quickly.
“Five hours, bwoy,” Julia said in a thick Jamaican accent as he got out of the car. “We been standin’ round here five damn hours, wit our tumbs up our asses, waitin’ for da great lord o’ da manor to return. No call. We call; no answer. I never know what ta tink when it comes ta ya bwoy!”
Thor closed the car door. “I guess you’re just gonna have to love me.”
She stared at him, that spark of anger growing brighter. Her nostrils were flaring. He could not hear it over the ship’s noises, but he could tell she was grinding her teeth.
Shit, too soon for a joke. “I’m sorry, Grandma.”
“Sorry! Sorry! Ya always sorry, bwoy!” she said, her accent thicker this time. It always grew thicker when she was angry. She got so angry at him once, he could not understand a word she said for hours. For all he knew,
Julia was spewing gibberish, and finding it amusing that he just agreed with her.
Thor could hear the cargo door closing behind him. The crew was nowhere in sight, though. That was to be expected, they would sooner climb up the side of the ship with their bare hands than be around Julia right now.
She closed the gap between them, poking a slender finger into his chest. “Next time, I come ta bring ya home. Do ya hear me, bwoy?” The old woman meant it; she had done it before on occasion, though he had been much younger then.
Thor looked deep into her coal-black eyes, believing she would do exactly as she said, no matter how old he got. “Yes, Ma’am.”
“Good,” she said, wrapping her arms tightly about his waist. “Ya really had me… all of us worried dis time.” Her accent had faded, somewhat. They stood for a moment, each pretending her tears were not falling down her cheeks. Thor always gave the woman his grandfather loved so much, every respect she deserved, even if she did treat him like a child. His real grandmother died long before he was born, and Julia was the only grandmother he had ever known. If she was anything like you, I’m sure you would’ve liked her, too!
“I’m surprised you didn’t have Else out looking for me,” Thor said with a chuckle.
“She got back ten minutes before ya did.”
The smile faded from Thor’s face. Of course, she did. That’s why they were securing the helicopter.
“I got ta get ta da Bridge,” she said with a sigh. She pulled away, turning quickly so he could not see her wipe her cheeks with the back of her hand. “Oh,” she said without turning, “if you tink I’m angry wit ya, bwoy, Bryndis is ready ta put ya head on a pole… I always did like dat woman.”
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