by Paul Harry
“Check oout the rest of the hoose,” he instructed. “Close all the windows and draw the curtains ... and make sure you kill the lights!”
The two men nodded and disappeared.
The next stage of the plan was simple. Mickey flashed Daniel a quick, sick smile and moved toward the oven. It was an old beat up gas range well past its prime, just like everything else in the house, but it would serve its purpose. Setting his knife on the counter, Mickey stood in front of the stove like a conductor readying for a concert. In rapid succession, he removed the burner grates from the stove top and cast them to one side. He then ignited the burners, raising the flames to their highest level.
“Ya know laddie,” he rambled, staring into the flames, “aye wonce worked for a China-min and ‘e really taught me a lot … ‘e said if ye want tae really exact revenge, yah need tae set a fine example... ye show no mercy. Yah kill the entire family. That lets others know they’d better not fock with yah.”
Daniel was spent. He had no more energy to give. He could only watch in stone cold fear as Mickey grabbed a dishtowel from the sink. The mobster wet it under the faucet and wrung it out. Then using the wet towel as an oven mitt he pulled the burner caps from the stove. The flames atop the range were now unconstrained and free−they looked like miniature geysers shooting up a good six inches into the air. Bending his face low, Mickey blew on the flames, extinguishing each one. Propane gas hissed from the range top and into the air. It sounded like a rattlesnake making ready to strike. “Ya gotta love these oold stoves.” Mickey crowed, as he pried the control knobs off and put them in his pocket. He waved his hand over the burners, helping the gas to spread.
“Ya smell that laddie?” he asked. “Ya like that rotten stink? Aye do. Ya know why? Cuz it’s the smell of fockin’ death.”
Snickering, Mickey walked to the backdoor where he twisted the deadbolt and latched the chain. The window followed. He slammed it shut and drew the curtains. The room was shuttered. With a flip of his finger Mickey turned off the overhead light. The kitchen fell into a shadowed darkness, the stifling smell of propane gas permeating the room.
Daniel sweated in silence as the mobster made his way back toward him. He wanted to puke when Mickey stopped and stroked his hair. His touch made Daniel cringe, but he was helpless to do anything about it. He was at Mickey’s mercy and every fiber of his being was locked into the moment. To his surprise Mickey unexpectedly bent down and looked him in the eye. The mobster’s eyes were bloodshot and crazed, though his words were serene.
“Laddie, when ye get tae ‘eaven,” he said, giving the boy a pat on the cheek, “ye tell Jesus, yur Daddy shouldn’t ‘ave stiffed me and gotten yah involved in all of this.”
Tears streamed down Daniel’s face. He knew he was about to die and though he wanted to scream and fight, he couldn’t. Tied to the chair, he was helpless. He could only watch his death unfold−suddenly Mickey turned toward his father. The knife in the madman’s hand was poised and ready.
“Guid riddance, potata thief,” was all Daniel heard as Mickey plunged the knife into the stomach of his father. The knife thrust was followed by a sickening, raspy grunt as Mickey twisted the blade deep into his father’s chest. Screaming like a madman, Daniel cried out for mercy, but it was not to be. He began to jerk madly at the ropes that bound him while screaming profanities at Mickey.
“YOU MOTHER FUCKER!!! YOU DIRTY MOTHER FUCKER! I’M GOING TO KILL YOU! YOU DIRTY FUCKIN’ BASTARD. I SWEAR TO GOD, I’M GONNA KILL YOU!!!”
Luckily for Daniel, Mickey’s knife was still stuck deep inside his father’s chest. And instead of pulling it out and stabbing the boy as he had his father, Mickey reacted with a backhand to the boy’s face.
“Aye, guid luck with that, piss-ant,” he said, striking the boy senseless.
The deed done, Mickey wasted no more time. He pulled his knife from Steven Raye and wiped it off on the dying man’s pants.
“May the devil be bitin’ yur arse an ‘our ‘fore Jesus knows yur dead,” he cursed at the dying man as he sheathed his blade. He then walked from the kitchen, heading for the front door where Sid and Bruno were waiting.
“Gimmie a cigarette,” Mickey barked at the henchmen.
“Sure, Boss.” Bruno handed him a pack of Marlboro’s.
Mickey pulled a cigarette from the pack and surveyed the livingroom. It was hot and dark and beginning to reek of gas.
“Let’s go,” he said.
The three men exited the house.
Outside, Mickey ordered the two henchmen to get the car while he lit up. The smoke was hot and tasteless, giving little pleasure−Mickey was in a hurry anyway. Taking a long, hard drag Mickey glanced at the front door. He knew it wouldn’t be long before the gas filled the house. It was time to get the hell out of there.
Bruno arrived with the car with Sid riding shotgun. He gunned the engine, letting Mickey know he was ready.
Mickey took another quick drag and opened the door to the house. He flicked the cigarette with his finger, sending it flying across the room where it landed on the floor. It rolled across the linoleum toward the couch and a pile of newspapers next to a pizza box. Mickey watched for a second making sure it was still lit−it was. Smoke was curling up lazily from its end.
Slamming the door shut, Mickey bolted for the car. He opened the rear door and jumped into the backseat just as Bruno jammed the car into reverse. The engine squealed harshly as Bruno floored it, backing the car out into the desert. Inside, the three enforcers bounced like rubber balls as the vehicle careened wildly off the terrain. A second later they were in the open and clear−Bruno slammed the Chevy into drive and the three headed for the dirt road as a cloud of dust rolled up behind them. From the backseat Mickey looked back at Daniel’s home. He was anxious for the ensuing explosion to come.
Alone inside the kitchen, Daniel struggled with the ropes that bound him. Just a few feet away his father was bleeding to death, blood oozing from his stomach and puddling on the floor. The man’s breath was barely audible and becoming more labored with each passing second. Though there was no one to help, Daniel yelled frantically.
“DAD, WAKE UP. WAKE UP! HELP! Someone! Come on, we need help GOD DAMN IT! DAD... WAKE UP!”
The lack of response from his father made Daniel even more desperate. In a frenzied effort, he lifted the wooden chair he was bound in off the floor and slammed it down, but the oak legs held firm. There was no give. Over and over again he tried, lifting the chair and slamming it down−nothing. He tried twisting this way and that, throwing himself back and forth, hitting the wall and the cabinets, all with no success. He looked at the stove. It was his only hope−to somehow turn off the gas before he and his father died of asphyxiation. Whipping the chair around, he rammed it into the stove where he managed to cut himself on the metal studs where the control knobs used to be. There was no way to turn off the gas! Panic set in−there had to be a way to get out of there. There had to be! That’s when Daniel caught the first whiff of smoke−the foul, reeking stench of a burning cigarette.
Shit! was his first thought. He realized now what Mickey had planned. The gas, the cigarette−he was going to burn them alive. Fuck!
The realization sent Daniel into a blind fury. He went berserk throwing himself feverishly into the walls, the sink, the cabinets, and the floor−anything that could break the chair that held him. It took precious minutes and repeated effort, but finally his herculean effort paid off. One of the chair legs snapped, breaking in two, and it sent him crashing to the floor. He struck his head on the linoleum, knocking himself senseless. Dazed, he lay there struggling for awareness, his thoughts flashing on the burning cigarette that lay somewhere out there in the darkened living room. His mind ran wild. He pictured the smouldering, fiery red tip sucking up the propane gas and igniting−the flames burning him alive. It was only a matter of time. Could he free himself and find it before it happened?
Deep in his heart Daniel feared the worse. The air was becom
ing foul and it was getting harder to breath. If he was to survive he had to get out of there and soon. The thought of burning to death in a searing blaze of heat and flame was too much and he fought like a madman, giving into the beast that lurked within his soul. Rolling across the floor, he careened, jostled, and grappled with the chair and rope that held him captive. He exerted every fiber of his being into untangling himself.
Someway, somehow in the miracles of miracles Daniel’s prayers were answered. The back of the chair cracked, then broke apart under the weight of his attack. He felt the ropes loosen−he was almost free. Another minute of yanking and writhing about brought success. He pulled himself free and rose to his feet only to catch a lung full of gas. It was hot and stifling and the lack of oxygen sent him back to the floor hacking for air. For a second he thought it was the end−he was going to die right there, but something inside wouldn’t let him give up−not yet. He had to reach his father.
Crawling across the floor, Daniel kept his face glued to the linoleum, taking short labored breaths. He reached the chair and pulled himself up−his father was a horrible mess and the sight of him like this tore out Daniel’s heart. Nobody deserved a beating like this. With tears streaming down his face, Daniel grabbed the rope and began working the knots binding his father.
“It’ll be all right, Dad. I’ll get you out of here,” he promised in between painful sobs. He cursed the knots. They were hard, tight little fucking bastards, slick with blood, and his fingers kept slipping. He couldn’t untie them. Fuck! Now what?
Daniel sank to the floor sobbing. What the fuck was he going to do? Then it dawned on him−get a knife, stupid. Inching his way to the silverware drawer he yanked it open, spilling the knives, forks and spoons onto the floor. He grabbed a steak knife and went back to work, sawing on the rope, but the blade was dull and it didn’t go well. He couldn’t cut the nylon cord. Unexpectedly, a voice spoke to him. Perhaps it was an angel, his own conscious, or even his father−he wasn’t exactly sure−only that it was eerily serene. Whatever it was, it got his full attention. “Leave−Now,” it said firmly. “Get out of the house.”
It was all the impetus Daniel needed. He took a deep breath and held it as he rose to his feet. Grabbing the back of his father’s chair and using all the strength he could muster, Daniel started to drag his father to the backdoor and safety. It was a heroic effort though nearly impossible to complete. Steven Raye wasn’t a large man, but he was dead weight and the floor was slick with blood and covered by debris. It took precious minutes and an inordinate amount of strength just to reach the back door. Once there, Daniel clumsily pawed at the deadbolt and the chain, finally unlocking the door. His hand turned the knob and the door flew wide open, pushed in by a hot gust of wind. For a brief second Daniel had a glimmer of hope. It was bright outside−warm and open. Freedom called.
Unfortunately, the breeze was a catalyst for the gas. It pushed the propane deeper into the house while adding more oxygen to the mix. It hit the cigarette on the floor and ignited, and as Daniel turned to grab his father he was met by a solid wall of flaming propane headed his way. Instinctively, he ducked down behind his father, using him as a shield.
The house was old−a dilapidated old shack that should have been demolished thirty years earlier. When the gas ignited, the place exploded like a bomb−a fiery inferno that was heard and felt for miles around the Pahrump Valley.
Ironically, it was Steven Raye who saved his son’s life. His dying body protected Daniel from the main force of the blistering blast even though the explosion propelled Daniel back thirty feet into the desert. Amongst the tumbleweeds and sagebrush, the boy fell to the ground where he lay unconscious in the dirt, hovering on the verge of death. His hair, face and body were burned, every inch of his flesh peppered with splinters of glass, wood, and metal−his body crimped and crushed with half a dozen broken bones−not to mention internal wounds. Still, somehow he survived...
Chapter 2
Oblivion
The sun was hanging low on the horizon when Judy Salinski arrived at Daniel’s house, or what was left of it. She climbed out of her car and surveyed the chaos that surrounded her. The desert around the burned out home was a media frenzy, a five alarm circus with the police, neighbors, gawkers, the coroner’s office, paramedics, and press roaming everywhere, including the skies overhead. She noted the two helicopters buzzing about, one from KLAS, the other KVVU.
Crossing the police line, Judy flashed her FBI badge and walked to a group of suits who were standing near the home’s burnt out shell.
“Who’s in charge here?” she asked.
The group turned and looked in her direction. One of the men raised his hand and broke from the group. He approached Judy, giving her a warm smile.
“Judy, good to see you,” he said, extending his hand.
A good looking woman of thirty-six years, Judy was a dark-haired beauty of Polish Mexican decent. With coffee cream skin, she stood about 5 foot 9 with a physique that was both fit and trim. Her face had that angelic Hispanic look offset by deep green eyes that bordered on being luminescent. She was a woman who turned heads. Unfortunately, these were physical traits she despised and usually tried to hide by pulling her hair back and wearing sun glasses. She considered her beauty a handicap, especially in the FBI. Too many men, and even a few women, had come on to her, forcing her to fight for her place. Her saving grace was her cayenne pepper tongue, acidic temper, and a no nonsense approach to just about everything. So, when detective Chris Kant approached she made sure he understood. She did not return the offer of his hand, but remained steely in her demeanor and curt in her response. Who cared if they thought she was a bitch?
“Detective... you want to fill me in?”
Detective Chris Kant nodded and dropped his hand. Unfortunately, their one date had not gone well. He motioned to the house. “House fire, one dead, the other in critical condition. A high school kid. We EVAC’ed him to Rose De Lima about an hour ago.”
“Arson?”
“Definitely,” answered the detective. “But that’s not why we called you. Come on, take a look.”
Chris led Judy over to the burnt out house where forensics investigators were photographing what appeared to be the skeletal remains of a body. “There’s not a lot to see,” he warned her. “What’s left is badly burned−most of it ash.”
He pointed to the blackened pile.
“Our best guess is that these are the remains of Steven Raye. A small time gambler, no known criminal record. However, when we ran his name something popped up...”
Judy looked at Chris, thinking to herself, Come on, spit it out...
“... which is why we called you. It looks like Steven here may have been running numbers for Mickey, ‘the Spoon’.”
Judy whipped off her sunglasses, her luminescent eyes glinting in the sunlight. “Okay, you’ve got my attention,” she declared.
Chris smiled−for a split second he was lost in her eyes, but he quickly regained his composure. Squatting down, he pointed with his pen to the charred body.
“See that?... Charlie here...” He gestured to one of the men standing nearby. “I’ll introduce you later... believes our victim was dead before the fire got him. He found a number of fibrous strands on the victim indicating that he was tied up−probably to a chair. And that dark puddle at the edge of the body. It’s from blood seeping out into the sand. Probably from a knife wound−and we both know who loves to use a knife.”
Chris’ observation needed no answer. Judy mumbled under her breath, relishing the revelation. “This was a hit.”
Chris nodded, “Oh yeah, big time. Payback for something that didn’t go right.”
Judy was definitely piqued now. “So, who’s the survivor?” she asked.
“Guy’s son. Daniel−Daniel Raye.”
“And you think he witnessed the murder?”
“Oh yeah, the kid had rope burns on his arms. He was definitely tied up and I suspect he witnessed e
verything.”
“Was he stabbed too?”
“No, but whoever did this didn’t expect anyone to survive. The kid’s in really bad shape...”
“No doubt,” responded Judy, grimly.
She reached into her purse, pulled out her cell phone, and began dialing numbers while Chris continued to talk.
“Judy, I wouldn’t get my hopes up,” he said. “The kid took a pretty good beating. And the chances of him surviving are slim.”
Judy acknowledged Chris with a quick nod of her head as her call went through. Someone on the other end answered.
“David... Judy... Listen, I’ve got a possible witness in critical condition on his way to Rose de Lima. I want you and Mimi to get over there right away. The victim’s name is Daniel Ray. He needs to be placed in protective custody and I need you to get me all the intel you can on him and his father...” She snapped her fingers at Chris. “What’s the father’s name?”
“Steven Raye−with an ‘e’,” answered Chris.
Judy forwarded the information.
“...Steven Raye, with an ‘e’. Got it? Good. I’ll see you there.” She snapped her phone shut and dropped it in her purse, then looked at Chris.
“So, just out of curiosity... why are you out here, anyway? Aren’t you out of your jurisdiction?”
“Yeah,” he responded, “but when this turned into an arson slash homicide the Nye County Sheriff’s office called us in. We’ve got a joint task force agreement.”
“I see,” noted Judy. “Listen, I really appreciate you calling me. Thank you.”
To Chris’ surprise, she extended her hand to him. He shook it.
“Anytime,” he answered. “Come on; let me introduce you to some of the Nye County people. They’ve got a good team here.”
“Sure,” said Judy, following his lead. They walked past what was left of a burned out Volkswagen−party now to a crime scene that would take weeks to decipher.
