Because we needed some help, and Derek Thomas already knew the details, we asked him if he wanted in. Of course, he did. He said he would be glad to skin Guido and burn a hex or two into his bones. Well, that gave us some specific ideas on the nature of our vengeance. A witch's vengeance.
Guido was still looking for Jennifer, so we needed some bait, just as attractive as Jennifer. But we needed more. We wanted to lure out Guido's bosses as well. We decided to plant a story, using the FBI to communicate our stories to the bad guys. In Westcott's estimation, the FBI provided the most reliable conduit to transmit our story to Guido's bosses. I called up the local FBI agent who had left me his card months before.
“Yes, I'm calling for Agent Wilson. Is that you?”
“Yeah. I'm Wilson.”
“This is Christopher Lowenstein. You left me your card some a time ago. We talked about the Stiles murder in Centralia.”
“Yes,” Wilson said, with some enthusiasm in his voice. “How can I help you?”
“A hit man came to see me. At least, he said he was a hit man. He said he shot Stiles. And he wanted to know more about Jennifer Seriano and her sister Abby.” Silence.
“Of course, I couldn't tell him anything, because I didn't know anything then. I have more information now.”
Wilson, a bit angry, “Why didn't you call me right away? Didn't you think I would be interested in a hit man?”
“I was scared,” I lied as best I could, “I didn't want to put myself into more danger.”
“OK, I understand that. But, I could help protect you, if you just let me know what's going on. So, what is going on? What else have you learned?”
“I believe the hit man also killed Frederick Hansen, and that U.S. District Attorney, Melbourne, Jason Melbourne.”
Wilson was dead silent for a few moments.
“Where did you get this information?”
“I cannot tell you that. Again, I am trying to protect myself. I will tell you what my source told me, but I will not give you any names.”
“Look, Lowenstein, I can't help you if you aren't going to be straight with me. I am glad to listen to what you have to say, but how do I know your source is credible?”
“I stake my life on it. That's how you know. Do you have a pen handy? I want to give you some details.”
“Yeah. I'm ready.”
“Jennifer Seriano witnessed the murder of Jason Melbourne. Stiles and Hansen were protecting her, but she ended up dead just the same. I don't think she was murdered, it sounds like there was some accident. Stiles and Hansen were killed because they would not say where Jennifer was. They kept insisting on their witchcraft story... that Jennifer had died from a bee sting, and Stiles and Hansen reincarnated her with a ritual, cleaning her bones and decorating them with occult symbols. As you remember, that is exactly what Stiles told me before he was shot.”
“Yes. Go on.”
“My source tells me, Hansen and Stiles really did do the ritual and Jennifer Seriano really is dead. But, she wasn't the only witness. The boy she was hiking with also saw the murder. The hit man never saw him, and apparently did not know about the boy.”
“Are you going to give me his name?”
“No. And don't go pestering her parents. They did not know this young man.”
“OK. If you say so... Is there anything else you want to tell me?”
“I want to give the boy an opportunity to meet with you, if that's what he wants to do. I need to tell him the details of how you will protect him, and where and when you can meet him. He does not want direct contact with the FBI or anybody else until I assure him it's safe.”
“Do you want me to set something up, and get back to you?”
“Yes. That will be good. After I talk to the boy, I will let you know if he agrees to meet you.”
“OK. I will set it up. Thank you, Mr. Lowenstein.”
***
We hoped our fresh piece of bait would bring Guido back to Bainbridge, looking for me. He would want to get to the boy, the fictitious boy. At the local bars, I spent some time talking up my new novel, saying in a loud voice, “This one is the big one. I am going up to Denson's Cove for a month to finish it.” I spread it around I had rented a specific cabin to write my masterpiece. Westcott and I made some special preparations up there. We picked the specific cabin, because the only walking access was up a narrow set of stairs between two high boulders.
Coming up from any other direction would require expert rock-climbing skills, skills we knew Guido lacked. Just in case Guido had skilled friends, we armed ourselves, and set remote sensors around the rocky perimeter. In Vietnam, Westcott had been particularly good at securing defensive positions. He also had a fine stock of automatic weapons. He doubted we would need these, but just in case....
Guido did not disappoint us. Three days after my talk with Agent Wilson, Guido showed up at 2am, stealthily climbing the narrow stairs. Well, that made it just so easy, a fish in a barrel. With one shot Westcott nailed Guido with a strong tranquilizer dart, enough to stop a bull moose. We hauled the limp hit man up to the cabin, and put cuffs on his hands and ankles.
We gave him his own room, with a nice view of Mount Rainier. And a big pot to piss in. When Guido woke up, I said hello and thanked him for coming. I offered to make him a roast beef sandwich. He just grunted.
“Well, let's get to know each other. Tell me your name.”
Guido said nothing. I think he was sulking.
“Oh, come on, what does it matter now? I am not going to let you go until we have a good talk. I am not going to give you up to the FBI or anyone else. I want to know your name so I can tell your bosses where you are, and they can come collect you... for the right price.
Guido, clearly, had had quite enough of this. He yelled, “You stupid fucking, cocksucking assholes! You shitheads are already dead, don't you know that!?”
“There is no need to be rude,” I said, ” I will be glad to let you sit in that chair for a week or two until you are ready to cooperate. I hoped we could come to some arrangement, and have you back with your pals in a day or so.”
“My name is Benny Whitman, mother-fucker.”
“There, that wasn't so hard. And, who should I call to come get you? What's the number?” In a calmer voice, Whitman said, “ I think you should talk to me first before you call anyone.”
“OK,” I said, “What do you want to say?”
“I promise I not to kill either of you, if you let me go right now.”
“That's never gonna happen. And, of course, you would kill both of us. It would be stupid not to. I am afraid I cannot take your word on that.”
Whitman smiled bitterly. “Yeah. You are correct. What do you want with my bosses? Money? I got plenty of money. How much you want?”
“We don't want your money Mr. Whitman. We want to meet your bosses and make a deal. “ I paused. “They can collect you, but not the boy-- not the witness they want. We don't want to make trouble for them, we just want to come to an understanding. Westcott never liked that District Attorney much. It don't matter to us if you killed him or not. If your bosses don't come get you, we will give you to the FBI, and you can make some deal with them if you want.”
“I don't like either option. You still haven't said what kind of 'understanding' you are looking for. What do you want?”
“I want a boat-load of cash from your bosses, and I want your bosses signatures on a confession. I will keep that confession safely hidden, only to be delivered to the FBI if I disappear or get killed. It's my insurance that your bosses will back off, and not kill anybody else or harm any one else to cover-up the violent demise of the Mr. Jason Melbourne, and those two witches.”
“You have no idea how dangerous my bosses are. A confession won't mean shit. You and Wescott are already dead.”
“Perhaps not, but that is my deal. I can tell you the boy is scared shitless, and he's not going to talk to anyone-- that is, if your bosses agree to my deal. And t
he cash-- I want 2.5 million deposited in my account in the Caymans.”
“You got balls, I'll give you that. Call 732-845-7940. Ask for Mick. Tell him Benny wants to talk. I will tell them about your deal.”
“That isn't the way it's gonna happen. You are going to tell me something only you and Mick would know. Then, I am going to a pay phone in downtown Seattle.”
“If they agree to collect you, we will make plans. If not, we deliver you to Agent Wilson.”
“Whatever. Just do what you want. Hey, I gotta pee. Can you take these cuffs off.”
“No. I will just take your dick out and you can piss in that pot. Do you have germs? Should I wear gloves?”
Whitman, for the first time showed a sense of humor, he laughed, truly laughed. “Man, you got great room service around here! Can you get some pretty girl up here to help me pee?”
“Sorry. You will only get handjobs from me.”
***
I spoke with Mick, and he said he was willing to meet and sign a confession. He told me not to exaggerate. If the confession was accurate, he would sign it, saying he hired Whitman for the three hits. I told him, after I had the documents, I would let him know where Whitman was. Mick agreed to meet me at the Seattle Symphony. I told him I bought seats, front row center, looking right up the conductor's ass. He could collect his ticket at Will Call. The featured soloist was cellist, Yo-Yo Ma. Mick cursed in a very colorful and creative way, and then hung up.
My plan went very well. Mick transferred money to my Cayman Islands account, and was already in his seat when I arrived. He was impeccably dressed and very polite. I offered him a leather binder with the confession inside. He read it carefully and signed it. I gave him directions to pick up Whitman just as Yo-Yo Ma arrived on stage. Mick listened attentively to the Cello Concerto by Sir Edward Elgar. He clapped enthusiastically and left at intermission.
There was an abandoned 1904 gunnery bunker on Bainbridge Island, thick cement walls with a few interior rooms and a whole lot of graffiti. This was where I told Mick to find Whitman. I gave him a detailed drawing to show the room Whitman was in. Mick arrived there with a Heckler & Koch MP5 submachine gun, and two big friends, who also carried guns. Mick was no longer wearing his three-piece suit. Westcott was hidden in the thick bushes some distance away. Moments after Mick and the other two men entered the bunker, Westcott pushed a button on remote transmitter.
A door slammed and two gas canisters exploded. The door was no longer the original 1904 design. Wescott had replaced the old door with a solid steel plate bolted deep into the concrete. He reattached the old door on top of the steel as a disguise. An explosive charge had blown the door shut, and automatic clamps sealed it tight.
Within thirty seconds, Whitman, Mick and his friends were unconscious. They were still very much alive, just somewhat inoperative. Westcott put on his gas mask, and trotted down to the bunker. Inside he chained the whole gang together and duct-taped their mouths shut. Not that they would be yelling for help. Westcott just didn't want to listen to their cussing. I showed up around midnight and helped Westcott load the semi-conscious, surly bunch into a van. We drove from Bainbridge to Port Townsend and caught the ferry to Whidbey Island.
From Whidbey we drove to Anacortes and took a ferry up to Orcas Island. Near an old cabin, on isolated beach we had made arrangements. I brought up two good friends from Hollywood, a special effects make-up guy, Martin, who specialized in really creepy monsters, and an actress, Vickie, who specialized in playing the part of really creepy monsters.
Derek Thomas and Martin set up a witch's altar in the woods near the beach. The top of the altar was a eight-foot slab of black basalt, set on a four-foot wide cedar stump, which Derek had flattened with a chainsaw. He bolted four small iron hoops to the stump, and prepared a large fire-pit in front of the stump. With Vickie's help Martin made various other preparations, and helped Vickie into her costume. I had found two strong young men from Stiles' Coven of Aleutian Seals, who had a serious taste for vengeance, and invited them to join us. Along with Derek Thomas, the two coven witches did the heavy lifting for Martin, and helped him test his rigging.
When we arrived, we pulled our groggy mobsters out of the van and led them over near the fire-pit. I tore off their clothes and sat them down in the sand, chaining their arms behind their backs, attaching them to a massive driftwood log. They sat facing the altar as they became fully awake. For the moment, I decided to keep the duct-tape on their mouths to avoid the inevitable cussing.
What the they saw was an altar, surrounded by dense cedar trees, and lit with two three-foot tall red candles. Between the candles was a large, dark bronze sculpture of some hideous scaly creature. It had a woman's face and torso, with large sagging breasts. The face was surrounded by slimy hair, like seaweed, and her skin was pocked and scarred. Below the belly the creature was all fish, she was some hideous mermaid. Her mouth was open, and even at a distance the men could see her sharp fangs, and jagged teeth. She held a human head in her hands, which had been severed at the neck. The neck was frayed and torn, as if she had bitten off the head.
Also on the altar was a small black cauldron, with burning incense, the fragrance of seared flesh and smoke, like a gangrene-mangy dog tossed onto barbeque of burning tires. This aroma filled our nostrils. About then, I ripped off the duct-tape and let our guests cuss and cuss. Their angry voices echoed in the silent forest, drowning out the sound of the small waves lapping the beach.
It was about 2am, and the moon was full, as thick clouds moved slowly across the menacing sky, sometimes obscuring the moon for a two or three minutes. The surrounding ---- pines were black silhouettes against the moon. Some coyotes started howling some distance off in the forest. The four or five howling voices were relentless, and continued for ten to fifteen minutes.
Derek approached the from the darkness to the left of the altar, and moved forward to light the fire-pit. He threw one match, and the flames burst high, as if Martin had soaked the big logs with gasoline. Derek wore a hooded blood-red witches robe, we could not see his face until the fire-pit was fully ablaze. His face was horrible, with muddy streaks of black soot, and what looked like dried blood. The mobster grew quiet, as this scene captured their imaginations.
Derek moved behind the altar and raised his right hand high, holding a long, curved silver-steel kinfe. In the most gruesome voice I had ever heard, he said, “Satan, we invite you to join us! Satan we praise you! Satan we offer to you four evil men. We will scrifice them to your glory! All Praise to Lord Satan!” The two coven men now joined Derek and the shouted: “All Praise to Lord Satan!” They were dressed like Derek, except in black robes, with face make-up as horrid as Derek's. Derek made a small cut in his forearm, and let the blood drip into the incense cauldron. The mobsters were so quiet now, I could hear Derek's blood hiss as it hit the burning incense.
Derek threw back his hood, and raised both arms above his head, “Satan, send us your daughter, the sea-witch, the blood-thirsty hag, Sycorax! Sycorax, come claim your reward!”
Derek slammed his knife flat on the stone altar, as the two witches took hold of the thick candles and carried them toward the mobsters. The mobsters truly did not know what to think of all this. The witches planted the candles in the sand near the mobsters, as I unchained Mick, and put my snub of my revolver against the back of his head. The witches grabbed him by his arms and led him to the altar. I followed, keeping my gun firmly to the back of his head.
We removed the cauldron and the statue of Sycorax and lay Mick down, nude on the altar, tying his hands and feet with nylon ropes, then pulling the ropes tight through the iron hoops below the altar. Mick lay on his back with his arms and legs spread, unable to move. The witches retrieved the candles and placed them back on the altar, one near Mick's face and one between his legs.
An quiet, eerie growling began, sounding at times like a huge whining dog and at times like a deranged and hungry tiger. The sound came from the beach, and seeme
d to be moving closer. The two witched moved away from the altar and stood on either side of the fire-pit. Derek took of his robe, and stood nude in the red glow of the altar candles and the blaze of the fire-pit. His whole body was covered in the same hideous blood and charcoal streaks as his face. He climbed up on a nearby boulder and pissed on Mick's chest, which caused the mob-boss to shout the most colorful obscenities I had ever heard.
Derek stepped back down and raised his arms high, looking up at the evil moon. “Lord Satan, I give this evil man to your foul daughter, Sycorax, in your Holy Name, I offer my urine and I offer his blood! Let Sycorax suck every drop of blood from this man's body!” Derek made a shallow cut across Mick's chest, and we could see the blood streak slowly down onto the altar. The eerie howling was now very close, and almost as loud as Mick's screaming.
Suddenly, Sycorax burst through the cedar boughs behind the altar. She was an eight-foot high horror, dripping with sea weed, slimy and putrid. She looked just like her statue. She opened her mouth and let fly a blood-curdling feminine scream.
Seeing the sea-witch, Mick had stopped his angry screaming, and was now truly terrified. Sycorax slithered on her wide tail and went straight for Derek. She grabbed Derek's waist in her thorny, sharp claws and sunk her long teeth into Derek's throat. Stage blood spurt dramatically, splashing on Mick's face and chest. Derek screaming and fainted, with Sycorax falling on top of him, chewing his neck.
Unseen, behind the altar, Martin raised up one hand, and stuck a syringe needle into Mick's ass, a tranquilizer. To Whitman and the other mobsters it looked like Mick had fainted. The two witches now blind-folded all three mobsters, as Sycorax kept howling and screaming. After the blindfolds were secure, Martin did some quick special-effect magic on the unconscious Mick, adding about two inches of synthetic flesh to Mick's chest and stomach. He painted the prosthetic to look like the bloody chest the mobster's had seen earlier.
After slapping Whitman and the other two hard in the face, the witches removed the blindfolds, let the mobster watch what a sea-witch, a daughter of Satan, can do when she's in top form. Sycorax sprang up from behind the altar, her mouth dripping with stage blood, blood matting her slimy black hair, blood streaking her hideous, pocked face. She sank her awful teeth into Mick's belly, and blood squirted high. The mobsters watched Sycorax's vicious mouth tear the flesh from Mick's belly. The sea-witch sank her whole face into Mick's belly, and rose up, looking directly at the mobsters, with her face covered in Mick's blood. Mick's blood dripped from her chin.
The Bainbridge Affair Page 6
