by Hal Bodner
The toughest part for Jake was the thought of what he was doing. The actual cutting was old hat; the dagger pierced Mark’s flesh and parted the pectoral underneath as easily as slicing through a tender steak. Jake had performed a similar operation countless times before and was eminently familiar with the technique. This time, however, he had to continually swallow to keep his gorge from rising as his subject struggled to get away and wailed while he worked.
He’s already dead, he had to keep reminding himself. He can’t be allowed to continue hurting people, abusing them.
“Sweet, Jesus!” Mark screamed while he writhed. “It hurts! God, it hurts! Please, stop!”
Jake bit down so hard on his own lip, he thought he’d probably caused his mouth to bleed again. But it was hard to tell if the tangy, salt taste was his own blood or Hartner’s. Every time Mark thrashed, drops of blood and sweat splashed across Jake’s face and chest and, finally, he had to pause in his gruesome work to wipe the dripping fluids from his eyes.
“You’re killing meeeeeeee!” Mark wailed. He strained against the hands that held him in place, every muscle of his body taut with tension and agony. When he saw Jake was implacable, he tried a last ditch effort to get him to stop.
“How can you...” he gasped “...do this...” His face twisted in agony as the sharp blade of the knife probed deeper. “...to another human being?”
Jake paused his grisly work and closed his eyes, taking a deep breath to steel himself. When he opened them, he saw the ragged, gash marring the perfection of Mark’s chest, the rivulets of blood seeping down his torso and collecting in the hollows of his ridged washboard stomach, the lines of pain etching caverns of torment around the eyes and mouth of the beautiful face that even the angels would envy. Suddenly, aghast and horrified by what he was doing, he started to jerk the knife out of Mark’s chest cavity, but a slim hand covered his own bloody one. He looked up and met emerald green eyes, encouraging and comforting, urging him to finish what he’d started, what he’d been drawn into doing by powers that were far beyond his own paltry human needs and abilities.
“The heart,” Daniel told him, his face showing his sympathy for what he knew Jake was feeling. Jake resumed his carving into Mark’s flesh.
“Fuck you.” Hartner’s eyes were glazed with pain. His lids fluttered but he still managed to recognize Daniel. “I should have fucked you again while you were dying. Jerked off on your miserable fucking corpse. Wish I could have killed you again. Made it even worse and as for you!”
He turned venomously to look directly at Jake.
“I shouldn’t have stopped with the big, beefy blond. I never did handle rejection very well. And if I had known a spineless worm like you was lurking in the background...”
Jake could not help but look at Mark Hartner with pity. The pain as Jake carved through flesh and sinew must be incredible and, evidently, had reduced him to raving. But the fiend’s next words brought him up short and seemed to freeze the knife in his hand.
“Devin. That was his name, wasn’t it?” Through pain ravaged eyes, Hartner was still able to muster enough strength for a gloating sneer. “You should have seen the mess he made underneath my car. I had to wash it several times to clean off the blood.”
Devin? Jake could not fully process what he was hearing.
Hartner nodded with wicked satisfaction. “You mean you didn’t know?” He pretended to be astonished at Jake’s ignorance. Or perhaps it wasn’t pretense at all as, the next moment, he burst out laughing. “Oh, this is rich!” he guffawed. “You didn’t know the connection? To me?” His laughter died out into burbling chuckles. “Poor, stupid Jake. You thought you were chosen because you were special?” he spat. “Because you were pure of heart or noble of purpose or some other idiotic reason? You sad, dumb hunk of mindless muscle.”
He leaned forward as far as the ghostly arms restraining him would allow.
“Deauxfines had no choice but to pick you. His stupid gods needed just the right tool to get to me. Someone whose life I’d ruined. Someone who had reason to hate me. He was banking on the possibility that you might also have the capacity to...” Hartner practically choked on the last word, as if it was anathema for him to even suggest the possibility. “...forgive.”
He turned his angelic face upwards and glared at the invisible gods somewhere high in the sky above them, gathered saliva in his mouth and spit up into the air.
“I only wish,” he muttered, “I could have kept your stupid boyfriend alive while I was dragging him under my car.”
A faint smile at the prospect played at the corners of Mark’s mouth when suddenly Hartner’s body stiffened, his eyes bulging from their sockets. Without any malice, without much thought at all as he was still numb from Hartner’s revelation, Jake had slipped the knife in, probing and twisting, until he’d removed what he needed. Hartner went limp, slumping against the board and sliding into a crumpled heap on the floor when the four dead men released him.
Jake stared numbly down at the bloody lump of tissue in his hand, both relieved that the task was complete and disgusted by what he held. He felt reassuring hands pat him once on his shoulder, then on his back as the bald man and the hairy blond filed past. The gymnast reached out, seeming to want to touch him, but didn’t; the little surfer boy grasped his upper arm tightly for an instant, giving it a supportive squeeze before joining the others. Then Jake watched the outlines of their bodies grow dim as they slowly grew translucent and faded from view. He saw their expressions become peaceful and calm and, just before they vanished, he thought the little surfer might have winked and waved at him.
After a few minutes, only Jake and Daniel were left standing above Mark Hartner’s corpse. Dizzy and weak from the intense emotion of his ordeal, Jake turned to look for a stool or someplace to sit, preferably as far away from Hartner’s remains as possible. His mind reeled. Hartner had killed Devin; he had taken from Jake the only man he had ever loved. If only Jake had known sooner. If only Jake had been there to stop the car. He didn’t know what he would have done –probably something foolishly heroic like leaping onto the vehicle and trying to wrest the steering wheel from Mark’s grasp – but he would have done something.
But it was too late for that now. He hadn’t known and, even if he had, there was nothing he could do. Devin was gone – dead, like the ghosts who had just left the barn. He was like all those beautiful young men brought into the mortuary in chilled body bags, the men who Jake might have saved if he had only known them in life. Who knew how many of them Jake could have potentially loved the way he’d loved Devin? Was he always to be doomed to mourning missed opportunities and never to have the chance to find—?
Tears spilled over with grief for all the lost ones, and as they ran down his cheeks, his vision cleared. Perhaps he was not quite so doomed by the past, not quite so fixated on the dead, as he had always believed he was.
“Mario!” he cried.
He clambered up the side of the hearse, cursing the wood as it gave way under his greater weight. When he reached Mario’s side, he hesitated only for a second. He wanted to proceed gently but he didn’t know how. Given the nature of the torment Hartner had chosen, Jake figured the internal damage was just about as bad as it could get. Carefully, he got his arms around Mario’s senseless body and lifted him off the spike. He was equally careful to avoid looking at whether fiendish thing Hartner had found to affix to the end of the stake; he didn’t think he could bear the sight of it. He averted his eyes and was only aware that it was metal, sharp, and covered with his lover’s blood.
The roof finally gave way between their combined weight, and all thoughts of tenderly carrying Mario to the ground were moot. Jake stumbled, almost lost his grip and, fighting for balance, barely managed not to fall crashing to the barn floor. When he was sure he was stable, he hopped down to the ground and laid Mario out on the dirt, wincing when he saw how deeply the thin lashing had bitten into the tanned skin of Mario’s wrists and arms. Qui
ckly, he used the ceremonial knife to sever them, shocked at how badly the boy’s hands had swelled and thankful he had passed out and would be spared the agony of the blood rushing back into the oxygen starved tissue. Jake made short work of the leather bindings around Mario’s ankles, then, not quite able to bring himself to examine the boy’s rear end just yet, he turned his attention to his ravaged genitals.
The balls were hugely swollen. The skin, where it was not either bloody from the cord slicing into it, or white from lack of blood flow, was so dark it was almost purple. Knowing how tender the area must be, Jake carefully worked the very tip of the knife between the abused flesh and the bindings until, with a short tug, he was able to slice through. Before his eyes, Mario’s testicles seemed to double in size and their color darkened.
Cringing at the sight, and since he knew of nothing more he could do to treat the groin injury, he rolled him over onto his stomach with some idea of staunching the blood. There was a lot of it and, at first, Jake feared he was too late. But when his thoughts slowed from their racing panic, he realized Hartner would not have immediately killed his victim. No, the monster would have wanted him in agony, but still alive long enough to prolong the show. He’d have made sure the impalement delivered the maximum amount of hurt but would have delayed the moment of death for as long as possible. Jake might not have known Mark Hartner for very long, but his experiences had shown him far too clearly how the man’s depraved mind worked.
He made Mario as comfortable as he knew how, then snatched up his own discarded shirt. Gathering as much saliva as he could muster, he moistened one corner and used it to try to wipe away the worst of the blood from the boy’s ass and thighs. It was far from sterile but he figured his own spit held much less of a risk of infection than the filth-encrusted sharp edges of whatever Mark had used on the stake. Besides, a good dose of antibiotics and a tetanus shot should clear up almost anything.
Still unconscious, the boy moaned and Jake looked to Daniel, praying the otherworldly young man could do something to alleviate the damage to Mario’s body and his own despair and helplessness. How terrible and ironic could Fate or Tyler’s dark gods be to take this man from him now when at last he thought he might finally be prepared to launch into the passion and uncertainty of a relationship which was not simply melancholy fantasy?
Mario was alive and Jake now realized how desperately, desperately, he wanted the chance to share life with him.
“I cannot cure him,” Daniel said. “Not completely. But he will live if...”
“If?” Jake asked, desperate.
“If you undertake one final...”
Furious, Jake interrupted. “I’ve done enough for you people already! How dare you try and blackmail...”
Daniel held out his hand to forestall the stream of venom Jake was about to let loose. “I’m sorry. That came out wrong. I meant that I can continue to bolster the spark of life within him, but I am no doctor.”
He crossed back to where Mark Hartner was lying and, stooping, effortlessly slung the corpse over one shoulder.
“You could have told me,” Jake said quietly. “About Devin.”
Daniel shrugged, not unkindly. “Devin is not one of us. Though he was one of Mark Hartner’s victims, he did not die as we did. He did not die...unloved. He is lucky enough to be at peace.”
There was unutterable sorrow in the blond’s face for but a brief moment, then the sweet smile appeared again.
“You must take them both, your lover and the heart, to the one who put this all in motion. Take them to Tyler Deauxfines. Perhaps he will help you. While you are doing that...”
For the first time, Jake saw an expression on Daniel’s face that was something other than kind, supportive and understanding. He couldn’t find words to describe it; the impression was definitely dark, vindictive and triumphant as well, but there was nothing truly evil or malicious about it. Whatever the look meant, it caused Jake to shudder and he hoped he would never see it on anyone’s face ever again.
“Goodbye, Jake Marshall.” Daniel’s figure wavered as if Jake were viewing him through the sheen of a wave of heat. “Thank you. And remember, for all of the rest of your days – for the rest of both your days...” He inclined his head to indicate Mario. “The Dead will never stop loving you.”
A moment later, a door of black glowing light seemed to open behind him. Daniel turned and carried Mark Hartner’s body over the luminescent threshold. Just before the lighted doorway vanished, Jake thought he saw Hartner raise his head and glare back at him. He shook his head at his own foolishness. Hartner was finally dead, once and for all. Jake could no more have seen him move than he could have seen the several hands reaching out to take the body from Daniel’s shoulders, the long slender fingers tipped with wickedly sharp nails like the talons of a raptor. The vision was nothing but the result of an imagination taxed and stressed by the emotions of what he’d just been through. Jake was certain of it.
Pushing thoughts of Hartner and Daniel and the rest firmly to the back of his mind, he tenderly gathered Mario into his arms and staggered out of the barn. He carried him into the cottage where he skinned into a pair of jeans and covered Mario’s nudity with a pair of sweat pants before wrapping his lover’s bare torso with a blanket. Driving to Tyler’s in the buff, with another naked unconscious man in the car with him was not something he could easily explain to the police if he were stopped.
With disgust, he’d dropped the heart into an empty box of cereal he retrieved from the kitchen trash. There was something ironically poetic about dumping the last vestiges of Mark Hartner into a container salvaged from the garbage.
Carefully, he carried Mario to his car and set him into the passenger seat. His memory of the route to Tyler’s home was foggy at best. Nevertheless, he knew something would guide him unerringly to his destination.
What was it Daniel had said? Deauxfines might help Mario? Jake snorted with determination. Tyler would help the Greek boy. Jake would accept no excuses. He had already killed a man today – even if that man was already dead – and he had learned something about himself, that he was capable of more extreme action than he realized so long as the goal was important enough. He glanced down at Mario’s sweet, beautiful face and steeled his resolve. The priest would help Mario if Jake had to threaten to cut his heart out to make him do it.
After all, as Jake figured it, Tyler Deauxfines owed him – big time.
CHAPTER 8
Jake stood before the iron-banded door with Mario cradled in his arms like a baby. Without a free hand to knock, and seeing no bell, he kicked at the door, wincing in anticipation of his bare foot making contact with the dark painted wood. To his surprise, it swung open easily.
This time he spared not so much as a glance at the strange decor of the living room but moved immediately into the corridor leading to the basement door. Turning, he edged it open with his back and carefully made his way down the stairs.
“Tyler!” he called, but there was no answer.
When he reached the bottom, he saw no sign of Tyler Deauxfines. The fire in the fireplace was banked, the still-glowing coals casting only dim light across the rest of the room. Jake could see, but only well enough to keep from tripping; he could make out no specific details. In Tyler’s absence, and not knowing what else to do, he gently laid Mario down atop the alter. Then, with some silly idea that he might chance upon a bottle labeled CURE or HEALING POTION, he rummaged through the various unguents and salves on the shelf above the fireplace and, predictably, found nothing useful.
He checked on Mario. The boy’s breathing seemed steady but shallow. He groaned in his stupor, and in spite of the lingering heat in the basement and the feverish beads of sweat on his brow, he shivered and Jake tucked the blanket closer around his shoulders. He thrashed weakly and when Jake kissed his forehead, he felt heat against his lip. The youth had developed a high fever and Jake was instantly terrified that infection had already set in to his testicles or innard
s.
He debated about removing the sweatpants but decided against it. Though it was completely irrational, he had a fear that the pants, however loose, were the only thing keeping Mario’s entrails inside of his body. And while the priest might know which mysterious concoction could be spread on Mario’s genitals to help heal them, or what he might drink to repair the internal injuries, Jake had no idea. For the moment, it was better to leave things as they were. But, if Tyler didn’t make his appearance soon, given the deep lines of pain etched in Mario’s otherwise smooth face, Jake would have no choice but to choose a few vials and start experimenting.
The minutes dragged on. Occasionally, Mario moaned and thrashed weakly. Jake stood by, watching him with tears in his eyes, feeling powerless and silently damning Tyler Deauxfines for not being around when he was needed. Mario’s condition grew worse. He sweated profusely, and though Jake searched, he could find no water to give him. He wanted to go upstairs and fetch a glass from the kitchen but hesitated to leave even for an instant, fearing he would return to find Mario dead or, an even more frightening prospect, vanished away, kidnapped by Tyler’s mysterious gods. He knew he was being stupid; he should have taken the boy to the hospital right away. But something kept him from acting according to what his brain told him to do. He was already in the basement waiting, and a confident voice in his soul told him that was exactly where he needed to be.
Mario’s body stiffened. His teeth slammed down with an audible clack and he started to shake in seizure. Almost without thinking, Jake grabbed a small wooden statue from the mantel and, with great effort, pried Mario’s jaws open and shoved the thing into his mouth. He had only the vaguest notion of what that was supposed to accomplish—keep him from swallowing or biting through his tongue, he supposed—but he’d seen enough EMTs work to know it was the right thing to do.
