Painted Skins

by Matt Hilton

  Though he was cautious in concealing his identity from his slaves, there was never an attempt at covering his tracks in a manner that suggested he was forensically aware: he ignored the use of a condom, and was neglectful of forcing his victims to bathe. In fact, she was sure that – even discounting his seed – she was a festering Petri dish of his genetic soup because he’d licked her, spat on her, bitten her, and without doubt his blood was beneath her fingernails. She suspected strands of his hair had adhered to her sweat-pasted skin, and his pubic hair had become woven into her own, and the thought that she was plastered with so many of his identifying genetic markers both repulsed and terrified her. Being so blasé about covering his tracks meant a number of conflicting things: his reason for obscuring his identity was more personal, while everything else suggested he wasn’t fearful of ever being identified through trace evidence, because their bodies would never be discovered. What was his demented intention: to keep replenishing his stock of sex slaves as they became worn out, and doing away with his castoffs in a final and devastating manner?

  On one occasion before she’d been led to the private room where he conducted his filthy attacks she’d heard a distant noise from deeper in the labyrinth. At first she couldn’t make any sense of the rushing-roaring sound. It was similar to a storm-force gust pushing beneath the eaves of an ancient house, or floodwaters surging through straining pipes, but her mind conjured another image: blistering white-hot flames roaring up a chimney. Did he have a furnace stoked for the moment he had finished playing with his latest victim, where she would be forced to climb inside, all genetic evidence seared from her, even as her flesh was charred to the bone?

  Thoughts of the furnace added validity to the notion that she was in hell, or at least in an anteroom of Satan’s fiery domain. It was a thought she couldn’t shake. She’d formed an impression of her whispering captor based on the fanciful idea of being stuck in a supernatural realm, one where he was a flaming-eyed demon, whose forked tongue whickered over her skin, tasting her essence, checking if she was ready to be pitched into the bottomless pit, to be eternally consumed by immolating flame. Sometimes she wondered if she was already dead and this was her punishment for every wrong she’d ever done or for every sinful thought.

  No, she cautioned, he’s just a man – a brutal, deranged, cruel, sexual deviant, but a man all the same – and she was still alive.

  While she lived, there was a chance she could still be saved.

  Persevere, she told herself. Get through this.

  Do what you must do to survive.

  This isn’t hell; it’s a precursor to something else.

  Stay strong.

  She wept in the darkness, silently.

  She knew that things could grow infinitely worse before they got better.

  But what could be worse than hell?

  ELEVEN

  Maintaining good manners was important to John Trojak. He’d been raised to say please and thank you, and to offer his seat to pregnant ladies, to give way for the feeble or infirm. He called older women ma’am, and men sir, and if he wore a hat he would doff it in company. Without manners, modern society – a word wholly inappropriate in this case – would be uglier than it already was. He despised foul-mouthed people, but recognized that to most the use of course or abrasive language was from a lack of education, when they found erudite conversation difficult and resorted to four-letter words, simply for emphasis. Those who were ignorant he could forgive, with only a regretful shake of his head, but when he was subjected to a tirade of curses for no other reason than the speaker was being intentionally hurtful, then he took umbrage. At that point he’d politely ask the curser to refrain from using bad language in his presence. Sometimes his request was enough, sometimes it encouraged a renewed torrent of abuse; on those occasions he’d resort to a more pointed demand.

  Some stupid people misjudged his easy-going nature and politeness, thinking they were signs of weakness. Others thought him a target for their uncouth jokes. He showed them he was neither weak nor a laughing matter. Without, he was pleased to say, resorting to the sort of language they understood.

  His ease at dispensing violence when he was averse to swearing might seem odd, even humorous, to Daryl Bruin, but his cousin wasn’t averse to using Trojak’s double standards to his benefit. Trojak met first impressions during business deals, and when those deals went well he was remembered as a quiet, well-spoken gentleman, but when the deals went bad … he was recalled as something else entirely. Thankfully, his reputation preceded him and the times he’d had to resort to strong-arming a competitor or supplier were few, but that was because the initial messages he’d delivered had been so indelibly pressed home. He’d never killed any of Daryl’s competitors, but he’d come close, and the fear of the unknown was the most powerful of all.

  Because he disliked bad language and uncouth manners so much, his cousin Daryl asked why he stayed with Veronica, instead of finding another woman who matched his sense of decorum. Vero was his wife of twenty-two years. For twenty of their years in matrimony she’d been a loud-mouthed bitch – Daryl’s words not his – and in the latter ten years had gone from using her sharp tongue to throwing her fists to teach him exactly what she expected of him. But as well as good manners, and behaviour, Trojak also believed in the value of a promise, and when he’d made his vows, they’d been binding. For better or for worse. In sickness and in health. Veronica’s behaviour was through a chemically induced sickness of the mind and heart; what kind of a man would he be if he were to walk away in her time of need?

  He loved Veronica. He was sure she loved him equally, in her own way. If she didn’t then why would she care so much about what he did – or rather how she perceived what he did – to be wrong and try to set him on the right track? She wasn’t an educated woman. If he could forgive the ignorant, then he could forgive his wife. Right?

  But he couldn’t forgive the idiot who’d almost smashed the life out of him on the corner two blocks from Charley’s Autoshop. The fool had driven away so rapidly when Tess Grey and her man had come outside that he’d failed to see Trojak on the sidewalk. Taking the corner so recklessly, his Chrysler mounted the kerb, and Trojak had to flatten himself against a shop front to avoid being struck. The driver glanced at him, but instead of an apology had barked a curse, ‘Get the fuck outta the way!’

  Trojak’s car was parked just out of sight of the autoshop. Incensed by the crazy driver’s antics and foul shout, he jumped in his car and gave chase. His blood was up, his vision tunnelled, and his hearing resounded with all the vicious barbs and threats Veronica had slung at him for two decades. Lord help the man when Trojak caught up with him.

  Sense overtook him at some point. He eased off on the throttle, and fell back. He didn’t give up the chase, only lengthened it, because after his first flash of ignominy he realized that something more important was afoot than teaching an ignoramus a lesson. The driver wasn’t trying to escape him, but Tess Grey. Obviously he’d been spying on her and sped off when his cover was blown. Trojak could guess the reason. He was after information, and seeing as Tess was engaged in the hunt for Jasmine Reed, then the driver must also be seeking her. Daryl’s instructions had been clear. Nobody speaks with Jasmine until after me.

  The driver hadn’t noted Trojak’s pursuit, or if he had he hadn’t reacted. If anything, he’d slowed once he was out of sight of Tess Grey. He obviously did not want to be identified by her and especially not by law-enforcement officers. He had something to hide, and not only his interest in Jasmine Reed.

  Trojak had a wondering mind. Instead of pursuing, he followed. He ran his tongue along the back of his teeth, thoughtful as he kept the Chrysler’s taillights in sight. His mouth was gummy, and he was parched, in need of a drink. No, that wasn’t it. He was experiencing the after-effects of an adrenalin rush following his close call. When he thought about it, he could still sense the elevation of his pulse, even feel it through his fingertips on the steeri
ng wheel. He inhaled, exhaled slowly. Best approach things calmly.

  The Chrysler led him a merry chase, and it ended north of the city in a neighbourhood dominated by industrial units. The Chrysler pulled down a dirt track and into the lot of a deserted metal-fabrication workshop. Property realtors’ signs dotted the entrance. Trojak assumed the driver had chosen this place at random, because it appeared unused. He parked near the track, and went in on foot, moving through darkness, the light from the moon enough to negotiate the uneven ground. Wire fences on either side would make it difficult to hide should the car return, but Trojak wasn’t fearful of that happening.

  At the end of the track he reached a gate that stood open. Puddles left from the cloudbursts dotted a torn-up parking lot, and glistening streaks on the tarmac showed the Chrysler had gone round the side of a small complex of wooden buildings. He could hear running water from a creek, but it wasn’t loud enough to cover the sound of a car door opening and closing. He jogged across the lot, nimbly avoiding the puddles, and set his right shoulder against the corner of the first building. Bushes alongside it offered cover as he moved ahead, treading slower this time. At the back corner he again set his shoulder against the wall, and used the point of balance to lean out a fraction and peer into the darkness. He could make out a small copse of trees that crowded the nearest bank of the creek, and the sound of running water was louder now. Closer by it was a blot of darkness, the moonlight obscured by the building he hid alongside. Trojak allowed himself to settle, and for his vision to grow accustomed to the night. He began to pick out form and movement, and he was aided when the door of the car was opened again and the internal light came on. He watched the driver lean inside, rummage around and then pull something out that he wadded between his hands.

  The driver then opened the trunk and pulled out some sort of canister. Trojak knew exactly what he was up to, so it came as no surprise when the canister was upended and liquid was splashed over the car, and then inside. The empty gas can was thrown on to the back seat. The driver stepped back, and busied himself with wadding and twisting the material he’d dug out of the car. It was thrust into the neck of the gas tank.

  The driver stepped away, still in silhouette, but there was enough light for Trojak to note that he had cocked his ear. Trojak slipped back out of sight, and was positive he’d evaded discovery. His hand dipped in his pocket and he clasped the lock-knife he kept for moments such as these.

  A scratch, a grunt, and then a second scratch caught his attention, and he couldn’t resist peeking round the corner again. As he did yellow flame billowed for the heavens, and in reflex he screwed his eyelids tight, and ducked from the wash of heat gusting towards him. As he opened his eyes again, colours danced in his vision from the afterglow of the fire’s ignition, and he had to blink to see clearly. The fire reached for the heavens, oily smoke piling above it. Trojak glanced from the car to where he’d last seen the driver.

  There was no sign of him.

  The fire growled, and the car caught in its searing grip creaked and moaned, but distantly Trojak believed he could hear the crackling of breaking twigs. The driver had torched the car, then chosen an escape route down by the creek. If anyone noticed the fire and alerted the emergency services they’d arrive via the track, and the driver had no intention of being spotted leaving the scene.

  ‘Son of a gun,’ Trojak wheezed. If he didn’t get out quick, he’d be the one spotted leaving the site, and he’d have some tough questions to answer. He retraced his steps alongside the building. Behind him there was a whoosh as the fire flared, followed a moment later by a heavy thump as the gas tank blew. Trojak rounded his shoulders in reflex.

  As he reached the next corner and swung around it, readying for a dash across the puddle-strewn lot, his attention was on the entrance to the track. He caught a flicker of movement in his periphery a split-second too late, and he made a big mistake.

  Drawn by the movement, his head jerked towards the tyre iron swooping at his head – it was an instinctive reaction and one that meant he’d no hope of avoiding it. The metal slammed him, and a white flash of agony exploded inside his cranium.

  Sickened, Trojak went to one knee, as he pushed out against his assailant with an extended palm. He dug again for his knife with the other.

  The tyre iron came down again, this time against the side of Trojak’s skull.

  And despite all his misgivings about cursing, he had only one word for his predicament: ‘Fuck!’

  The harsh curse never left his lips. He fell face down on the gritty tarmac, even as a third slam of the bar snatched away his last spark of lucidity.

  TWELVE

  They had Emma Clancy’s office to themselves. It was late evening now, and Emma and her staff had left, but as a trusted employee, Tess carried keys to the building, as well as the alarm codes. She’d asked Po to accompany her to the office on Cumberland Avenue, so she could access programs unavailable on her computer.

  ‘With this weirdo on the loose, I’m not letting you out of my sight,’ he promised, though she knew he’d no love of sitting idle while she scrolled through data. It was only a short stroll from the office to her home, so he could easily take off if he wished, but Po wasn’t making idle promises: he was more concerned about the mystery man’s agenda than she was. He sat, ankles crossed, hands folded on his stomach, still and silent while she tapped and scrolled.

  ‘Damn it! This is a waste of time,’ she finally announced, and pushed back from the desk.

  Feeling like a loose wheel, Po squinted over at her, watching as she scrunched her fair hair between her fingers. She leaned back, head flung over the headrest of her office chair, and she let out a prolonged sigh as she rubbed her fingers over her features. Aware of his scrutiny, Tess turned to him, raising her eyebrows, her mouth hanging open. ‘The less I find out, the more it worries me,’ she said.

  ‘F’sure,’ Po replied.

  ‘If Jasmine was still alive, I’m certain we’d have got a ping on one of her credit cards or cell by now. Also, I’ve been watching the DMV reports for anything about her car turning up abandoned, or whatever, and there’s not a damn thing. There’s nothing on any law-enforcement databases about a body being found … none that matches Jasmine, at any rate. It’s as if she’s fallen off the face of the earth.’

  ‘Or she’s better at hiding her movements than we thought,’ Po offered.

  ‘But why hide?’

  ‘Why run away in the first place?’ he countered.

  ‘If we knew that, at least we’d have somewhere to start looking from.’ Tess stood, knuckling the small of her back.

  ‘I’m not trying to teach you to suck eggs, Tess, but have you checked the latest hospital admissions?’

  ‘I have. Nothing. But good thinking, anyway.’ She cupped her face in her hands again, and moaned wearily. ‘I’m kind of at a loss, Po.’

  ‘You look worn out,’ Po said. ‘Maybe you should call it a night. I’ll take you home …’

  ‘Uh-uh. I’m not ready to switch off yet. There’s something I’m missing, I just don’t know what it is.’ She looked at him for the answer, but it wasn’t forthcoming. He merely pinched his lips. ‘Is it too late to go and speak with Margaret Norris again? I want to hear about the assault on Jasmine, because that’s another thing troubling me: there’s no record of it on any police database.’

  Po stood, and that was all the answer she needed.

  ‘Just let me switch everything off and we’ll get going.’ Tess leaned back to the computer. Po sauntered over to the window, peeling open a slither in the blinds. It was dark out, but the streetlights made for decent visibility. He could see his Mustang parked on the opposite side of the road, but no other vehicles. Specifically he was looking for an aquamarine-coloured Chrysler. Regrettably there was no sign of it. He turned back to Tess.

  ‘Been thinking,’ he said.

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘The guy in the Chrysler,’ he said. ‘What if he isn’t her
e for you?’

  Tess eyed him, and he touched fingers to his chest.

  ‘The Chatards?’ she asked.

  ‘The bounty on my head still stands,’ he told her. ‘Who’s to say someone hasn’t come looking to cash it in?’

  ‘Sounds like a lot of trouble for someone to come all this way from Louisiana for a lousy two thousand bucks,’ she said.

  He shrugged. ‘Remind me to call Pinky, will ya? Who knows, maybe the price has gone up.’

  ‘I don’t see it,’ she said.

  ‘You do realize that sounds kind of insulting from over here?’ He smiled. ‘You saying I’m not worth more than a couple of grand?’

  ‘Don’t worry, Po,’ she said. ‘You’re priceless.’

  ‘At least you didn’t say worthless.’

  Tess pushed him out of the door in front of her, and when he wasn’t moving fast enough for her liking she nipped his butt.

  ‘Man, first I have to endure insults, now it’s sexual harassment,’ he quipped.

  ‘Get moving, or I won’t goose your butt next time, I’ll kick it.’ Tess bit down on her joke. After Po’s discomfort at speaking about domestic violence it sounded inappropriate. She held back, allowing him to leave under his own steam.

  Once she’d reset the alarm and locked up, she crossed the street to where Po had the Mustang rumbling. He didn’t watch her approach, too busy scanning the street for anyone lurking in hiding.

  The suggestion he was the target of the mystery man wasn’t too wild a notion. After his father was murdered, Po killed his slayer – a man called Jacques Chatard. While Po served time in Angola for it, a brother of Jacques tried to avenge him, and paid for his mistake with his life. The Chatard family was unforgiving, and on his release Po left Louisiana and settled in Maine. Blood feuds ran deep in the South, and he knew that sooner or later he’d have to end it, one way or another. They’d learned that the Chatards had placed a bounty on his life while seeking a witness in the case against Albert Sower, and that men were willing to cash in on the prize when two punks tried to capture him at gunpoint in the parking lot of a hotel in Baton Rouge. Tess’s intervention turned the bounty hunters’ attempted abduction into a resounding defeat. Perhaps after news reached their ears of the gunmen’s failure, the Chatards had raised the price in hope of enticing more capable hunters? It was a possibility. Tess was more high profile than her companion; it was a genuine worry that she’d been targeted in the hope that she’d lead the latest hunter to Po. But if that were the case, then why had the man taken off like a scalded cat when Po joined her on the sidewalk outside Charley’s Autoshop? She was confident that his scrutiny had nothing to do with Po, but that left her scratching her head for the actual reason he’d been spying on her. Before she climbed in the car, she too made a surreptitious check around.