by Arno Joubert
He kicked out his shoes and shuffled over the shiny parquet floor to his modern kitchen, busying himself with making a sandwich and some strong coffee, humming as he worked. After he ate, he cleaned up, washed his plates and cutlery and vacuumed up the crumbs.
He showered, got dressed in a pair of black pants and a black T-shirt, removed a black cassock from a plastic bag; he had had it laundered the previous day. He swung it over his arm.
Next, he opened a cupboard and removed a small cool box. He filled it with ice and removed a silicon ice mold from the freezer, gently scrunched it into the ice and tossed more ice on top, humming the Gaude Maria Virgo as he worked.
He checked himself in the mirror, nodded, picked up the cool box and exited his apartment with a buoyant bounce in his step.
He loved his job.
Retribution was such uplifting work.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Father Timothy Casanellas mounted his bicycle and set off for his afternoon ride, as was his daily ritual. He greeted the red-faced guard at the Bronze Gate, said a silent prayer to his health and headed into the city. “Lay off on the red wine for a while, Alfonzo,” he called over his shoulder. The man smiled and waved.
Father Watson had been staying at the Four Seasons Plaza hotel and Casanellas typed the number into his cell phone. It was answered after two rings. “Father Ed Watson please, room five-oh-two.”
The efficient receptionist transferred him. “Hello?” Watson answered, slightly out of breath. Casanellas disconnected the call and glided to a stop, then chained the bike to a lamp pole. He removed the SIM card from his phone and tossed it into a dustbin. He pulled out the silicone mold from the cool box, wiped it dry and dumped the cool box and the cloth in the trash as well. The mold he put into a plastic bag and tucked it into his jacket pocket.
He sauntered to the hotel, took the elevator to the fifth floor and marched to the front of the second door to his right. Humming, he removed a pair of latex gloves from his pocket, slipped them on and then knocked on the door.
Father Watson opened, Bible in his hand, an expression of concern on his face. “Father Casanellas, what a surprise, what are you doing here?”
“I have a couple of details I need to iron out with you. Mind if I come in?” Casanellas asked pushing past the man and closing the door behind him.
“No, off course not,” Watson said, turned around and plodded into the hotel room, his shoulders slumped. He flopped into a sofa, clutching the Bible to his chest.
Casanellas cleared his throat. “Look, Father. I know you were convicted of child abuse twelve years ago.”
Watson’s features tensed. “What do you mean?”
“I have access to all your records.”
The man sighed, looked down as he straightened the pleat on his pants. “That was a long time ago,” he whispered.
“And you were forgiven your sins. Apparently rehabilitated,” he said, sitting down beside the older man.
Watson snorted.
“You are trying to cover up your latest transgressions by making it look like a demon is abusing the kids,” Casanellas said, folding his leg over his knee and leaning back in the chair.
The man’s jowls flapped like a bulldog’s. “I’m not, it’s the truth. An evil spirit is wreaking havoc—“
“Would you like to change your story, Watson?” Casanellas interrupted him.
“What?”
“I’m giving you an opportunity to change your bullshit story,” he spat, poking the Father on the shoulder.
The man’s mouth opened as if he wanted to speak, then clamped shut again.
“So be it,” Casanellas said and stood up. “Stand up, please, Father.”
The man protested, but Casanellas yanked him to his feet by his arm.
“Please place the Bible down on the table, Father.”
“What? Why?”
Casanellas sighed impatiently. “Place the Bible down on the table, Father Watson.”
Watson did as he was told, looked up, suspicion straining his features.
“Now repeat after me,” Casanellas said, removing the mold from his jacket pocket. “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.”
Watson swallowed, lowered his eyes to the ground. “Bless me Father, for I have sinned,” he whispered.
Casanellas flipped a frozen piece of ice, shaped like a knife, out of the mold. Without looking at him, he stabbed Watson in the gut, three times.
Watson gripped Casanellas’s arms, stumbled, looking down at the wound in his stomach, back up at Casanellas in astonishment. “What the—“
Casanellas jabbed the frozen weapon in a sideways arc and lodged it in the man’s neck, held it there. Watson grabbed his arm, red froth dribbling from his lips. Casanellas turned the knife first one way, then the other and heard it crack. Father Ed Watson dropped to his knees and fell forward, hitting the floor face-first.
Casanellas sauntered to the bathroom and dumped the shaft of the broken weapon in the basin, opened the tap and washed what remained of the weapon down the basin. He removed the gloves and slipped them into his pocket.
He scanned the room, put on his cassock and opened the door with the sleeve of his shirt.
He checked back once more. The plush cream-colored carpet beneath Father Watson was stained a crimson red. “You disgust me,” he hissed before nodding curtly and whispering, “Amen,” and pulling the door closed behind him.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Jack The Knife O’ Kieff peered around the corner of the alleyway at the twenty-four-hour diner where the man and the woman were having their dinner. It was late, the place was deserted except for Maggie and Joe, the waitress and cook, and their two patrons.
He slipped the ski-mask over his head and glanced back at Tony and Pete. “Ready?”
They both nodded. They wore masks resembling a skeletal face. Grotesque.
“Let’s go,” he said and jogged to the entrance, slipping the karambit fighting knife from his pocket. He yanked open the door and barged into the diner, Pete and Tony piling inside behind him.
The bulky guy looked up from his burger, tossed it back on his plate and stood up. “How may I help you, girls?”
Jack glanced over his shoulder. Pete and Tony sniggered. He turned to face the big boy. “We’re here to escort you back to Valhalla, Thor.”
The man smiled. “You’ve been watching too many movies, girls,” he said. “Sure you don’t want to leave now and go get some backup? This is going to be an unfair fight.”
Jack chuckled, twirling the karambit around on his forefinger. “Nah, we’re fine. We’ve been handling the likes of you since we were kids.”
The guy’s attitude bothered Jack. The man simply stood in the aisle, impassively, his arms hanging casually to his sides. Jack guessed he didn’t know what damage he could do to the man’s face with his vicious weapon. Peel the skin off his stubbly cheeks, that’s what he would do.
The chick stood up behind big boy. “Don’t kill them, Neil,” she said, touching his arm. “They could have been witnesses to the murder.”
The man glanced to her and nodded, looked back at Jack. Smug grin on his face.
She was a sizzler. He turned back to his accomplices. “Her tits are mine, boys. I’m going to hang them on my—“
Pete and Tony’s eyes widened and he barely had time to look back when big boy was on top of him. It felt like he had been assaulted by a steam train. They guy did some sort of weird kung-fu shit and had hit him with both fists simultaneously, the one fist exploding into his chest and the other cracking into his jaw.
He went down on all fours and big boy stepped on his hand clutching the knife, cracking his knuckles. He looked back at his posse, but they had already turned around and were making a beeline towards the exit.
The chick bounded over the dining room tables and jumped into Tony’s back with her knee. He went down in a sprawl of arms and legs, and she grabbed Pete by the collar, yanking him off his feet.
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The big guy had his knee in his back and was tying his hands with zip ties, then pulled off his ski-mask. “You recognize this guy?” he asked Maggie who was looking down at him, her arms folded and her hand on her throat.
She shook her head. Yeah, she better not say anything if she knew what was good for her children. Jack shook his head groggily, trying to focus his blurry vision. Shit, that had never happened before. It had probably taken less than fifteen seconds to take down all three of them.
The big guy shrugged and brought down his boot with a crack and the world went dark.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
And then the world went a bright white again. He was in a small room he recognized all too well. The holding area in the Clark County detention centre.
Jack The Knife O’ Kieff groaned as he moved his jaw and the bones cracked in his ears. He had a throbbing headache, his own damned heartbeat pounding in his temples. He jerked his head up as someone grabbed his hand and started squeezing.
He shrieked as the pain exploded through his arm and drilled into his throbbing skull. “Ow, what the hell?”
His vision blurred and he struggled to focus. It was the chick, smiling sweetly at him. She let go of his hand. “Pleased to meet you, Jack,” she said, fluttering her cute eyelids at him.
“Same here,” he said, shaking his throbbing hand. Was his career over if he couldn’t hold a knife again? He tenderly touched his jaw. “What do you want?”
She picked up a Styrofoam cup from the table and leaned back in her chair. “We want to know why you murdered Mika Wattana.”
He frowned. “Mika who?”
She glanced sideways at the big guy who simply shrugged.
The foxy chick leaned forward. “The girl we found off the alleyway on Lake Mead.”
He shook his head. He didn’t have a clue what she was talking about.
She folded her fingers into his broken ones, then smiled and started applying pressure. He couldn’t help it and started whimpering as the searing pain shot through his arm again.
Shit, she had such a beautiful smile for such a sick bitch. “Who sent you?” she asked.
“Danny,” he whimpered, his voice much too high, like the kids he used to bully at school. “Danny Gonzales.”
“How can we get hold of Danny?”
He sucked in another breath. Tears spilled over his eyelids and rolled down his cheeks. He sniveled as he patted his pockets with his healthy hand. “His number’s on my phone, lady. Please just stop.”
She grinned at him as she retrieved the phone from his pocket.
How embarrassing.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Neil broke to a hard stop in front of a nondescript seven-story apartment block. The sides of the road were lined with ranks of similar-looking buildings, brick-faced monoliths with glass doors at the entrance and rows of small windows offering a view over more rows of windows from the tiny apartments inside. Graffiti artists had made an attempt at decorating the lower outside walls, and trash cans lay scattered on the sidewalks, their contents attracting a variety of buzzing insects.
Jack O’ Kieff didn’t know where the Danny guy lived, he said he had always received his orders via the phone and the money was paid directly into Jack’s bank account. The cellphone company said the phone number was registered to a Mr. D. Gonzales, but he had given a fictitious address. They finally managed to track Gonzales via Jack’s bank records, tracing the depositor’s address to East Vegas.
Neil turned to Alexa. “Sure this is the place?”
She checked the coordinates on her tablet. “That’s what it says.”
Neil swung open the door and climbed out, scanning the road. A heady waft of decomposing food and the stink of piss assaulted his nostrils. “Don’t they collect trash anymore?”
Alexa pulled her face. “Sheriff says it’s too dangerous. Gangs have taken over the streets, they’ll hijack anything that has wheels on it.”
“The place looks deserted.”
Alexa slammed the door and walked towards the entrance of the building. “Better lock the doors,” she said, glancing over her shoulder.
They entered through the grimy glass doors, kicking away scraps of paper, cans and beer bottles that littered the entrance hall. A blackboard with small, stick-on white lettering was affixed to a wall, the jumble of incomplete surnames and apartment numbers having lost their informational purpose a long time ago.
Further down the foyer, two lifts on either side of the passage stood with their doors ajar. Neil pushed the buttons but nothing happened.
They passed a dark stairwell that led down to a basement, probably a communal laundry facility. They moved further down the hallway and found a metal door leading to a flight of stairs. “Which floor did you say it was?” Neil asked.
“The top one.”
He bounded up the stairs, taking them four at a time, Alexa following close behind. They walked past a stoned guy, sleeping on the third level, the needle still stuck in a vein in his arm.
Neil cautiously opened the door leading to the seventh floor and peered into the passageway. It was clear. They strode to a door numbered 714 and Neil rapped on it.
They heard someone shuffle inside and the peep hole darkened. “What?” a nasally voice grunted.
Neil flicked open his badge and held it up to the peephole. “Agents Allen and Guerra, Interpol. We have a couple of questions we’d like to ask you.”
They heard a shuffle and something crashed to the floor. They glanced at each other and slipped their Glocks from their shoulder holsters. Alexa nodded. Neil stood back and kicked the door, an inch below the handle, and the locking mechanism ripped from the frame, sending the door crashing against the inside wall. Alexa bound inside, her gun held ready, pointing it from side to side as she checked the rooms. “Clear!”
What looked like a living and dining area led onto an open window and Neil jogged forward and stuck his head out. Someone was clanging up the fire escape stairs.
He turned to Alexa. “I’ll follow him. Try and cut him off from the street if he gets past me.”
She nodded and rushed out of the apartment.
Neil bound up the fire escape and ducked as a bullet whined and slammed into the wall a couple of inches above his head. “Shit.”
A big guy wearing only a pair of boxers and a vest hauled himself over the wall and onto the roof, stopped and took aim. Nothing happened, he had probably wasted his last bullet. He threw the gun down the stairs at Neil.
Neil leapt up the stairs and inched his head over the low wall leading to the roof. A large man with frizzy black hair and a beard was fiddling with a lock on the door of the rooftop hutch, tugging at the door and glancing nervously over his shoulder.
Neil vaulted over the wall and pointed his gun at the man. “Hold it right there.”
The guy turned around slowly, lifting his hands. He was big, six-four and three hundred pounds, a floppy belly sticking out from between his vest and the boxer shorts. He wasn’t wearing any shoes, black socks pulled up high on slender pale legs.
“Danny Gonzalez?” Neil asked.
The man shrugged.
Neil ambled closer, his gun pointed at the man’s chest, then turned sideways as urgent footsteps approached from his left. He twisted around as a teenaged kid with crazy eyes sprinted his way across the asphalt, a broken bottle raised above his head. “Stop or I’ll shoot!”
The kid wasn’t going to break any Olympic records, but he was approaching steadily with his long, loping gait.
Neil shrugged and he shot the kid in the thigh. The teenager went down, clutching his leg.
Two pairs of hands appeared on the lip of the low wall, followed by the heads of two Mexican guys. Neil fired a warning shot into the coping stones that covered the wall and the heads ducked back down. “Stay out of this,” he shouted. He walked to the wall, skipping past the kid who was squirming on the ground and peered over the side, pointing his gun.
Shi
t.
The stairwell was filled with men bearing various arms, from machetes to baseball bats. “Stay where you are,” he ordered, pointing his gun.
He turned around as he heard Gonzales charge towards him. He ran in an uncomfortable lope, his gut bouncing up and down as he ran. The injured kid could have been his son.
Neil lowered his weapon as Gonzales stumbled and fell to the ground and started rolling around, shrieking, clutching his foot. Gonzales had stepped in the kid’s broken glass bottle, and the blood was pouring from between his clenching fingers. Neil turned back to the fire escape and fired four warning shots at the men below. “Back off!”
Most of the men ducked into windows. He turned to Gonzales and pulled him to his feet. He dragged him, hobbling, towards the rooftop hutch’s door. “Where does this go?”
“The elevator,” the big man whimpered, balancing on one leg.
“They don’t work,” Neil said, scanning the roof and firing another shot as a head poked over the wall.
“I flipped the power switch.”
Neil turned the key in the lock and yanked the door open. A short entrance led to the lift shaft beyond. “Where?”
The man pointed to an electrical distribution board with his chin, an accusing scowl on his face. “You better get me to a hospital, man.”
Neil shook his head, exasperated, and flipped on all the switches. A light on a button with an arrow pointing down lit up. Neil punched the button a couple of times with his thumb and the metal cables whirred into life. The open box of the lift slowed to a halt in front of them and stopped twenty inches below the entrance, a boinging bell announcing its arrival.
Neil shoved the man inside and pushed the button to the ground floor. The elevator vibrated and lurched, then made its way down, the entrances to the various floors flashing by as the lift shuddered its way toward the ground floor.
