by Jeff Orton
I followed it around and was shocked by what I found. I couldn’t fuckin’ believe it.
There was a boy and two girls locked in a cell of black iron bars. The older of the two girls appeared to be about fifteen. The other two kids were both about fourteen, possibly thirteen. It was so damn hard to tell when the only light you had to see by was constantly dancing around, throwing undulating shadows about.
The boy looked up at me and began to inhale a large breath as he staggered backwards away from the bars, eyes focused on the gun in my hand. Thinking on my feet, I put a finger to my lips in an attempt to still the shriek building in his throat and whispered, “I’m a police officer. We’ve raided this place. I’m here to get you outta here. I won’t hurt you. I promise.” As I said this, I slid the duffel bag off my back, partially unzipped it and tucked the gun away.
The hope I felt radiating from them at that moment was overwhelming. It was like staring into an eclipse just as the sun peeks out to blind you.
“Do you have the key?” the older girl asked.
“No. Who locked you in here?”
“Some man,” she replied, “Kinda old, with a beard.”
Troll’s face was clean shaven.
“He said he’d come back for us soon, but it’s been hours,” the boy said.
“What did the key look like?” I asked.
The girls shrugged, but the boy answered, “Kinda long and black, like a key to a castle.”
Thinking that maybe whoever locked them in here had handed the key to Troll, I told the kids to wait a few seconds while I tried to find it. I went back to find my third murder victim lying face down in a puddle of his own blood. I rolled him over with the heel of my shoe and felt disgusted when I saw how much blood was still coming out of him, his upper body was drenched with it.
“My third killing, my third victim,” I whispered, feeling only a small trace of remorse.
I didn’t really want to touch him, but I knew I had to find that key. I patted the pocketed areas of his jeans and jacket, careful not to touch any blood. No luck. My gut was telling me that Troll never had the key in the first place. Whoever locked up those kids had kept it.
I rolled the body over, peeled his jacket off and stretched it sideways over his face and chest, like a makeshift shroud.
“Okay, what did this guy look like?” I asked, “The one who had the key. Is there anything else you can tell me?”
I wasn’t listening to what they were saying so much as I was peering into their minds to get a clearer picture of him. As soon as they began to collectively focus on their memories, I knew exactly who it was. Milton. No real surprise there. He was apparently wearing an oldie-style Count Dracula costume (painfully unoriginal, yet super-detailed) with his hair slicked back. He didn’t seem to think it important enough to complete the costume’s effect by shaving off his neatly trimmed beard.
“Alright, look, I have to go find the man who locked you in here to get you out. But I promise I’ll do everything I can to come back to you as soon as possible.”
“Sir?” the little girl spoke up for the first time, “Please don’t leave us here.”
Man, it broke my heart just to hear her say that, but when I felt the hopeless sincerity with which she uttered her plea, I damn near wept. My eyes actually got misty. My brain was absorbing visions of her past. Everyone who had ever claimed to care about her had either abandoned her or exploited her.
I had to leave. Now. My heart couldn’t take this. I wanted so badly to put some bullets into at least some of the people who had hurt these children. I didn’t see a door that connected this dungeon to the house, and, as if he was picking up my thoughts, the boy nodded towards the torch.
“The guy pulled on that thing and a secret door opened up over there,” he said, pointing to the wall that came to a dead end behind their cell.
Before I attempted anything, I stepped close to the wall in question and scanned for anyone who might be on the other side. All clear. All the men in the house were now convening in the theater. Common sense told me someone would be down for them shortly, probably in a matter of minutes.
I walked to the torch and grasped the black wrought iron holder and pulled it down towards me. The firelight seemed to dance more lavishly, as if in protest.
What the kids had failed to inform me was that there would be a series of loud noises created by the gears that slid the stone wall upwards, which left me trying to dislodge my heart from my throat. When the din finally stopped, I prayed that no one else besides the four of us had heard it. I nodded towards them and said, “See you in a bit.”
“Wait,” the oldest girl whispered, “There’s another girl that was with us. They took her somewhere else.”
“Ah, shit,” I cursed under my breath. This complicated things considerably.
“Her name’s Tessa,” the girl added. My mind’s eye absorbed the mental projection of a girl of about twelve with soft blonde curls that fell just past her shoulders.
I sighed and took off into the gaping hole in the wall. It turned out to be a staircase that spiraled up. More torches lit the stairwell, spaced approximately every twelve steps or so. The walls were still of ye olde gothic castle style.
It ended at about thirty or forty steps, and the doorway at the top looked as though it was made of glass. The room beyond appeared to be a study, probably more like a library judging by all the tall wooden shelves neatly stocked with thick books.
A woman in a black and white French maid’s uniform appeared in front of me. Her eyes seemed to lock with mine. I think if I hadn’t been young and in decent shape I would have suffered a cardiac arrest at some point that night.
The cowardice I’d been fighting now somersaulted to the forefront, demanding that I haul my ass back down the stairs and get the fuck out of this place without even sparing a glance at the imprisoned children on my way out.
That was until I observed the maid stick her face close to the glass and finger a mole on the side of her chin. She thought about how much she would really like to have that removed. She was pretty sure it had gotten bigger over the past few years and she was beginning to think it might be pre-cancerous, like her mother’s was.
I was on the safe side of a two-way mirror.
She’d been forced to stay up late to serve this party and was anxious to get to bed. She was only checking the library to make sure none of the guests had left their coats in here. In the cool-to-lukewarm weather of Texas autumns, it was easy to bring a coat and then forget about it when you left.
The maid began to walk away, thinking about all those men headed to the underground theater, probably on their way have an orgy with all those whores Mr. Milton gets every year. Mr. Milton didn’t think she knew what went on after his annual Halloween parties, but she knew alright. She wasn’t supposed to know about his extensive porn collection either. She even knew how to get into that secret theater Mr. Milton had taken such pains to keep hidden. When you’ve worked for someone for ten years, you can learn a lot about them just by accident.
She’d been dusting a shelf in the den a few years ago, taking every item off every shelf to be thorough. On the very bottom rung of a thick blood-red mahogany shelf to the left of Mr. Milton’s formidable entertainment center stood a small bust of William Shakespeare, probably not more than a foot in height.
The maid (the name Barbara came floating up from the void) was at first surprised, then irritated, when the bust refused to move. It seemed not only stuck, but bolted down, as if permanently attached. She couldn’t even get it to wiggle. While messing around with it, she had pushed forward on its head, which slid back slightly on its shoulders. Barbara then heard a click from behind the shelf...
That was it! Something that guy at Dan & Bruno’s had said came back to me...
got all those secret chambers like he’s Batman or something
Childhood memories of the old sixties Batman TV show swarmed into my head. Adam West had always pulle
d back the head of a similar bust to reveal a concealed switch when it was time for him and Burt Ward to slide down the poles to the Bat Cave.
The woman turned and left—I was grateful she at least didn’t know about this secret passageway. I waited a moment and slowly slid the glass door open and closed it behind me, looking over my shoulder and confirming that it was indeed a two-way mirror.
I hung out in the room for a minute, mentally following Barbara down the hall as she proceeded to her servant’s quarters, really nothing more than a loft above Milton’s four-car garage. I exited the library and found myself on what looked to be the first floor in a short hallway. I pulled the printed floor plan from my pocket and unfolded it. The den was only a short distance away.
My steps were light and slow. I became more than a little unnerved when I discovered the living room between the hallway and the den was decorated from wall to wall with mirrors. My reflection was already being cast from one to the next, making me wonder just how many tunnels, passageways and two-way mirrors this place had.
If it wasn’t for my special senses, if I had no idea when someone I couldn’t see was within close proximity, I probably would have been too paranoid to complete the mission. I didn’t feel anyone watching me, but to be safe, I reached out with another broad scan, and nearly fell over from the dizziness that followed.
I crept through the front foyer area of the mansion and ducked inside the den, slipping the duffel bag off my shoulder. I took out the UZI and examined it, making sure it was ready to go. Safety off, clip secure. I held the handgun with the silencer in my left hand and threw the bag back over my shoulder. I laid the UZI on the floor and tightened the strap of the bag. I wanted to keep it with me, but didn’t need if flopping around on me at the wrong moment.
The Shakespeare bust was easy enough to find. I placed one boot on top of its head and raised both guns towards where I knew the door would appear. I took several deep breaths, doing my best to prepare myself, to psyche myself up.
These men deserve what’s about to happen to them, I told myself.
After some more heavy breathing (while battling self-doubt) I forced my foot to push back the head of the Bard and produce that same click Barbara had heard all those years ago.
The bookcase directly behind Milton’s desk popped out a few inches, at least one corner of it did. After tucking Troll’s gun into the crook of my arm, I pulled the bookshelf even further away from the wall without even a squeak from whatever hidden hinges lay on the other side of the case.
Another dark downward stairwell lay before me. As I carefully took the first step down, I sensed another man only a few flights down and on his way up. This was the sole member of Milton’s hired security. I knew he was armed. I also knew he had the key.
I stood absolutely still, not one little twitch, breathing slowly through my mouth. He was alone. His footsteps grew closer. Not much time. Any second, he’d be on me.
I put my back against the wall on my right and switched Troll’s small silencer-equipped gun to my right hand, my left now holding the UZI in a tight death-grip.
The man was wearing hard-soled shoes which clumped on the concrete steps with every footfall. We were in the dark with no lights (I guessed Milton must have saved all his torches for the dungeon) but this man was sure to notice the light seeping in from the doorway I’d opened.
The footsteps stopped
“Hey, Troll, is that you?” the man asked.
“Anyone there?” he called out again, “This isn’t funny. You know you’re supposed to stay with the goods till I come get you.”
He began climbing the stairs again.
I kept my back to the wall and waited, hand outstretched, aiming the gun. The man (either his first name was David or his last name was Davis) was drawing his own pistol out from beneath the lapel of his blazer. This was freaking him the hell out (his own words.) He’d worked these special parties of Milton’s before and had always felt justifiably paranoid until they were over.
My trepidation soared as I learned the man was now standing still, just around the corner, only about ten feet or so away. The gun was quivering in my hand, though I willed my arm to make it stop. A request it flatly ignored.
The man poked his head out from around the corner and looked straight at me. My finger squeezed the trigger out of nothing more than simple reflex.
And I fuckin’ missed. Bastard was only a few steps down from me and I fuckin’ missed! It seemed my nerves were bound to get me killed tonight.
All David/Davis saw was a faint silhouette, an empty shadow partially blocking out the light of Milton’s den. But when he heard the bullet ricochet from the wall behind him then felt the graze on the back of his calf, he took off back down the stairs like a startled gazelle.
His lungs felt as if all the air had been vacuumed out of them. He was fighting to take in a breath of air so he could yell for help, tell everyone that Troll was trying to kill him.
In a state of utter panic, I ran down the steps after him, nearly tripped over my own feet as I descended the stairs. I didn’t even pause to think that if I went around the next blind corner, the man might turn and take a shot at me.
“What the fuck!” I heard him yelp.
I came around and found him pointing the gun not at me, but at something further down the stairwell, where I couldn’t see. My mind’s eye saw someone at the bottom of the stairs, blocking his entrance to the theater, although I couldn’t discern any facial features, the image being so dreamlike.
“Get outta my way,” David/Davis wheezed, “Get outta my way or I’ll shoot right now!”
I raised my gun and observed with great surprise that it was the hand holding the UZI. Silently cursing my stupidity, I lifted up the other gun and aimed for the man’s head.
But then the son of a bitch doubled over as if sucker-punched. He was clutching his neck and gagging; his gun clattering on the stone floor. He collapsed against the wall behind him and slid down to a sitting position, muttering, “Help... help…”
His legs gave out as he slowly died. His upper body stayed upright for a bit as his butt touched the floor, but then he slumped to his left and fell over, his head tucked into a corner of the stairwell.
My knees felt as substantial as jelly-filled donuts. I couldn’t move. What the fuck had this guy run into? I wanted to go back upstairs, into the den, and find my way out of this place. Just cut my losses and turn chicken. I could call it a ‘tactical retreat’ whenever I looked back on this night in shame.
But with both guns in front of me, I eased down the stairs, watching very anxiously for whoever would be around the corner. But then I realized I couldn’t feel anything coming off of whoever was there. There was just a blank.
“Fuckin’ hell, you gotta be kidding me,” I whispered.
As I expected, there was no one on the other side, but I had no doubt David/Davis had seen someone, probably a someone who preferred to wear all black.
I peered down at the man who had almost become my fourth victim. His throat had been torn open and was still gushing blood into the corner of the stairway platform. His neck looked not only cut into, but gnawed on, as though by a large animal.
I looked away and considered the steel door that lay at the bottom of the staircase. I walked down to it and scanned the room beyond. They were all there. They were waiting. Most were anticipating, eager for the show.
This was it. I’d arrived.
I placed my gloved hand upon the knob and wondered if the apparition would help me out anymore tonight. I pulled the door open and walked into a less substantial, but still moderate, darkness. A heavy red theater curtain hung on my right, shielding me from the eyes of the audience, stretching up to the ceiling about thirty feet up.
Holy shit, I thought to myself as I realized I was on the stage just before the show was scheduled to begin. The men were murmuring on the other side. Apparently, they had heard my entrance backstage, for they all quieted in unison
.
“Mr. Da Vinci?” a voice called out. (ah, another code name) Yes, it was Milton. “Are our players ready?”
I took a moment to look around and absorb my surroundings before answering on behalf of the recently deceased Mr. Da Vinci. Another door stood at the other end of the backstage area. Someone was waiting behind it, a man listening for his cue. This was the sickfuck who would perform the unspeakable acts upon the children. I ascertained with a nauseating level of disgust that this guy was Milton’s son.
All my fear and self-doubt was washed away then. At that moment I knew only rage. I walked to center stage and placed my arms behind my back to hide the guns; UZI in my right hand, pistol in my left. I stared straight ahead and said, “Ready.”
The dual curtains whispered as they were drawn to each side, and I soaked up the surprise felt by all. Milton stood up, front row center, and demanded, “What THE HELL is this? Who are you?”
And, you know, the beard really did look ridiculous with that old-timey Dracula costume. My eyes surveyed the nine other men seated in the audience. It was a small theater, seven rows with ten chairs each.
My gaze locked with Milton’s and I smiled. I know that I was about to say something clever, something to the effect of I hope you have enjoyed the last day of your lives, but in truth, I can’t really remember what little quip of a one-liner was rising to the forefront of my mind because we were interrupted.
“Hello my pretty pretty babies!” Milton’s son exclaimed as he entered stage left, wearing nothing but a black leather mask and matching leather boots. He was armed with a cat-o-nine-tails in one hand and a dildo in the other, between which stood his slightly curved hard-on.
When the only baby he saw on stage was equally as tall as himself, he just stood there baffled, looking back and forth from me to his dad and then back again, his mouth working as though he wanted to say something but was afraid to. But then he saw what was behind my back.
