Lindsay Bellowes eyed Edwin with suspicion while she reached for the paper. Edwin grabbed her arm, spun her around, and then forced her onto the car’s front seat. He raised the tire iron above his head and brought it down hard—but not too hard—onto the back of the girl’s head. Years of experience taught Edwin the difference between a blow to stun and a killing blow to a beast. He pulled the iron back again in case he needed to repeat it.
The other girl screamed. Edwin looked over the car roof. Joshua ran up behind the blonde girl and clamped the rag over her mouth. Her legs kicked at the air as Joshua picked her up. One arm, having escaped Joshua’s bear hug, flailed about in every direction. He carried the girl back to the truck as she struggled in his ironclad hold.
A groan came from the front car seat. The girl stirred. Edwin reached under her face, forcing his hand over her mouth. He raised the iron for another blow. A sharp stinging sensation tore through his hand. A bite. He lowered the iron down on her head, this time harder. She slipped into unconsciousness. A purse sat on the front seat, another on the passenger side floor, just where Edwin wanted them. He took a cleansing breath and looked to see how Joshua was faring.
Joshua lay on the pavement by the truck, cradling his manhood. Ten feet away, the girl raced to the nearest neighbor’s house, screaming like a banshee.
“Get your ass up and get her, now,” Edwin screamed. Joshua shook off his pain and sprang to his feet. Joshua nearly caught up to the girl before she reached the door. Edwin turned back to the chore at hand.
Edwin grabbed Miss Lindsay Bellowes around the waist. A small, yet spreading, bloodstain mottled her brown hair. Her arms dangled down as he dragged her toward the back of the truck. Efficiently pulling the tarp back with one hand, he pitched her into the pickup like a bale of hay. Leaning against the truckbed, he caught his breath and wiped his brow.
Edwin looked for Joshua and the blonde tramp. Nowhere in sight.
Lindsay gasped then dipped out of sight.
Shannon stood still, unable to comprehend what she saw. Something in her brain clicked, a wake-up warning, hot and urgent. The wiry old man had pushed Lindsay back into her car. Shannon screamed. A muscular arm encircled her waist and lifted her. Shannon kicked her feet. She pulled at the rag at her mouth, but the man’s grip held strong. Repeatedly hammering back with her fists, one solid blow landed to her assailant’s crotch.
With a groan, Shannon’s attacker dropped her. She whirled around to confront him. A hideous, giant of a man lay curled up in the street. His long, matted hair cracked like a whip as his head snapped back and forth. Shannon looked into what passed for his eyes, one dead, the other rolling. Less than human, something out of a nightmare.
Shannon looked at the old man, hunkered over Lindsay in the car. Relief swelled in her when she saw Lindsay’s hands flailing at the air. Shannon had to act fast, but she couldn’t do it alone.
She raced past the howling behemoth to the sidewalk, staying out of arm’s reach. Ahead of her, the front door of the house jumped and shook in her vision. Almost there.
She heard the old man yell, “Get your ass up and go get her, now!” She banged up against the front door, pounding on it. The doorknob didn’t turn. She risked a quick glance behind her. The man was up and loping toward her like a wounded bear. For his size, he moved fast.
Shannon abandoned the door and bolted through the front yard. The man-beast lunged at her, his fingertips grazing her shirt. Momentum took him to the ground with a thud. Hurtling down the street, shrieking, Shannon prayed to gain someone’s attention.
Anyone…please, God…
Heavy breathing and footfalls plodded along behind her. Growing louder, gaining…
Shannon turned between two houses. A chain link fence barred her path. Without slowing, she leapt. Her hands came down upon the top of the fence as her legs followed. She hit the ground running, repeated the vault at the back fence. Looking over her shoulder, she saw the man struggling to mount the fence.
Shannon froze in the middle of the next street over. She pirouetted, hoping to spot someone. She wanted to scream but kept her trembling lips closed. It would do no good. The neighborhood appeared dead.
She pressed her knotted-up fists against her hipbones to steady them. Took several deep breaths. Down the street, a garage door stood open. Civilization.
From a distance, a fence rattled. Then a grunt, deep and beastly. He had cleared the fence, coming for her.
She stormed toward the open garage, her tennis shoes falling silently, impotently upon the street.
Breathless, Shannon entered the garage. She dropped behind a recycling bin. The stench of rotten fruit and meat smell made her gag. To avoid retching, she clamped a hand over her mouth. She peeked around the bin. The man pounded down the street, heavy feet sending reverberating echoes through the empty neighborhood. He passed her, head swiveling in all directions.
She waited, finally daring to breathe. If she closed the garage door, he would hear it. She tried the door to the house. Locked. She rapped on the door lightly, probably not weighty enough. No answer. The soft mewling sound she mistook for a kitten came from deep within her chest. Some horrible sound poised between sobbing and quiet hysteria.
She studied her surroundings. A hammer hung on the wall beside a pile of snow shovels and leaf rakes. She gripped it with shaking hands, holding it firmly. Against the back wall, a refrigerator sat wedged into the corner. If she could edge it out, she could squeeze behind it. She peered out the door. The man stood in the street directly in front of the garage, but looking away.
Carefully, she shimmied the heavy refrigerator forward, bit by bit. Just enough room to slide behind it. The hot coils on the back burned her chest. Shaking uncontrollably, she nearly dropped the hammer. Sweat slid off her forehead.
Footsteps shuffled across the driveway. Closer. They stopped. A quiet hiss, building. Sniffing? Then a snort, huge and phlegm-filled. Rhythmic, high-pitched grunts. My God, is he laughing?
A thought tore through Shannon’s mind, a horrifying notion. He’s playing with me. Mouse to his cat.
She heard him enter the garage. His feet swept lazily across the floor. A small snap of a fallen leaf stepped upon. Then silence.
The refrigerator snapped on, hummed. A locomotive raced through Shannon’s heart. She squeezed the hammer, her grip tenuous at best in her sweaty palm.
With frightening speed, the refrigerator wrenched away. The horrible man stood, looming in front of her, a ghastly smile across his bearded face. He beat his chest, bellowing in victory.
Shannon slammed the hammer into the beast’s face. He stumbled back, but just a step. Wiping the blood away, he licked his hand, smiled again. Shannon screamed, her only possible response.
The man snapped a thick hand over her mouth. With his other hand, he pinched her wrists together and carried her out of the garage. An old pick-up truck pulled to a screeching halt in front of them.
“Goddammit, boy!” The old man hopped down from the driver’s seat. He pulled a tarp flap off the back of the truck. The large man tossed Shannon into the truck bed. Her cheek bit metal, a hollow, hopeless thump. The older man quickly secured her mouth with tape and tied her hands behind her back. Something nudged against her, something warm. Shannon turned and saw Lindsay, unconscious. A bloody rag encircled her head. The tarp rolled over them. Shannon sobbed as the last sliver of daylight vanished.
Yesterday, Peter had received the call he’d been waiting for. He checked the caller identification. Unknown. Still he didn’t want to get his hopes up.
“Peter Brookes.”
“It’s time.” The craggy voice sounded like it gave birth from the middle of a windstorm. “You wanted two day’s warning, here it is. You’d best leave now.”
“I’ll be there the day after tomorrow.”
At long last, the day is here.
Peter had already put half of the twenty-four-hour drive behind him. Originally, he had planned on two twelve-hour s
tretches. But he felt so invigorated that he pushed himself into the night. Looking out at the endless plains and flatlands, he felt a blistering contempt. He hadn’t been back to the Midwest in a long time. Sure as hell didn’t miss it, either. He never did understand why anyone would actually choose to live here. Nothing but hicks, rednecks, and dirt.
Peter turned up the stereo to distract himself from the surrounding Midwest misery. Show-tunes, his music of choice. Actually, caffeine and show-tunes had been his only sustenance since he left New York. He realized if his business competition ever discovered his fondness for show-tunes, they’d ridicule him mercilessly. Maybe even see it as a weakness. Well, so what? Everyone was allowed their vices, no need for embarrassment. Besides, it was the only thing he’d held onto from his childhood. Everything else he had been more than happy to jettison.
With an excruciatingly long haul ahead, Peter had nothing but time to reflect on how this exciting opportunity originated. “Unexpected” didn’t do it justice.
Less than a month ago, he had received the first phone call.
“Peter Brookes.”
“Is this the famous high finance wizard, Peter Brookes?” Peter’s throat dried up at the sound of the voice, a voice he thought he’d never hear again. He leaned back in his chair and exhaled slowly.
“Yes, it is. Who’s this?” Although he already knew.
“The rich and mighty Peter Brookes? But it’s really Peter Quail, ain’t it?”
“Hello, Father,” said Peter quietly. His heart sank lower than his self-esteem. The old bastard had a knack for doing that to him. “How’d you find me?”
Edwin Quail burst out laughing, ratcheting it up into a coughing fit. “Well, I saw your picture in a magazine. Didn’t take much to track you down after that.”
“What do you want?”
“Well, how is that for a fine how-do-you-do to your father after all these years? You left home when you were just a boy without as much as a thank you very much, and you don’t think you can show me a little respect now?”
“What do you want?”
“Well, if that’s the way it’s gotta’ be, then fine. I want money.”
“That’s too bad. You’re not getting anything from me.” Fury incensed Peter. The son-of-a-bitch felt entitled to what Peter had made on his own after sharing nothing with him but beatings and humiliation.
“I brought you into this world. I gave you everything. You wouldn’t be where you are now if it weren’t for me!”
The sheer outrageousness of his statement floored Peter. “All you ever gave me were beatings and barely enough food to survive. I’m finished here.” Peter hated losing control of his emotions. Hadn’t done it for years. Funny how “family” can bring bad habits back.
“Wait,” yelled Edwin. “How about if I give you something? Something you’d like?”
“What could you possibly give me?” Morbid curiosity settled in, gnawing at Peter’s bones.
“I read that you like to hunt.”
“Yes…”
“I’ll supply you with the best hunt you could ever imagine.” His father’s voice turned quiet, cagey.
“I’m listening.”
“I’ll give you a human hunt,” said Edwin.
Peter considered the words carefully. He thought about the ramifications. It sounded too good to be true.
“Call me back on my cell phone.” Peter quickly rattled off the numbers and hung up. He made a mental note to fire his assistant since she allowed the call to go through. His hands shook. Not out of fear or anxiety. From excitement.
Fate can be a funny arbiter at doling out fortune. But Peter certainly put more faith in “fate” than he did God—the absent deity Edwin used to rail on about. Absolutely, Peter’s golden opportunity arose from that phone call. But honestly, hadn’t fate planted the seeds years ago? When “Peter Brookes” was born from the loins of fate and his own nurturing wiles?
His career hadn’t started in New York City. First stop had been Los Angeles, when he still went by Peter Quail. As he stepped off the bus, the urgency of the people and the pace of the city immediately enthralled him. A thriving, living entity, a long way from Godwin, Kansas. Utilizing the last of his meager savings, Peter checked into a cheap motel. Then he hailed a taxi to a better part of town and bought a suit. With no immediate plans in place, he knew he needed to look the part.
On a whim, he joined a line of people standing in front of a nightclub. An hour and a half later, he pushed his way through the throng of scantily clad women and suited men toward the bar.
“Scotch.” Peter never tasted scotch before. Just read about “the sophisticated man’s drink.”
The bartender nodded. “Ten dollars.”
“What?” Over the loud bass-line of the throbbing music, he thought he misunderstood the bartender.
The bartender repeated the cost. Peter stood up, shaking his head. He plucked one of the remaining large bills from his wallet and tossed it onto the counter. Laughter rang out next to him.
A man sat at the bar, possibly in his mid-twenties. Even though loud, boorish, and beet-red, his bearing emanated wealth. Elegantly dressed in a three-piece suit, he continued tossing money onto the bar like Halloween candy. A whorish looking blonde woman, tight dress barely covering her crotch, clung to his shoulders. He gestured for Peter to come over.
“Just get off the bus, kid?” The man couldn’t have been much older than Peter was.
“Actually, yes.” The man roared again, this time the slut joining him. Peter smiled, trying not to appear overwhelmed like the fresh-faced, country yokel circumstance had made him.
“Have a seat.” He jabbed his finger toward where another woman sat. The woman huffed and left. “Name’s Peter Brookes.” He shook Peter’s hand with startling strength.
“My name’s Peter, too.” When Peter sat down, another scotch was already waiting for him. “I can’t afford this.”
Brookes sighed. “Stick with me, kid. We’ve got a long night ahead of us.”
They sat at the bar for hours, an endless parade of women and men dropping by for introductions and free drinks. Brookes was a stockbroker, very profitable by his own telling. After making a name for himself in Los Angeles, Brookes recently accepted a job in New York City. The company hired him sight unseen, due to his accomplishments. Once Brookes finished boasting, the topic of Peter’s career surfaced. Peter lied, told him he had gone to Harvard, studying to become a stockbroker. Brookes stared at Peter dumbfounded before lapsing into laughter. His way of handling everything.
Brookes took him home that night to his apartment. More like a mansion. Sleek, glistening furniture looked like something out of a European’s wet dream. Open, airy rooms vaulted to a twelve-foot high ceiling. Art and statues of a decidedly erotic nature demanded appreciation.
They partied into the night. People came, drank, snorted lines of cocaine, then left. Peter soon found out they were everyday party sycophants.
Several of the partygoers caught Peter’s eye. Quiet, intimidating, and black, Peter thought these men didn’t fit in with the rest of L.A.’s beautiful people. Money and drugs exchanged hands. Peter’s first crash course in fast and dangerous living, Los Angeles style.
Brookes took Peter in as a temporary houseguest. Peter never really understood why, either. Maybe fate had intervened for the first time—and it was about damn time, too.
In two weeks, Brookes was set to leave for New York, prepared for financial domination. He quit his current job, but left plenty of time to party.
Peter’s education continued. Nights filled with debauchery, days occupied by finance and business knowledge. Brookes seemed only too happy to share his shark-like experience.
“Rule Number One: Most of stock broking is cutthroat ruthlessness,” Brookes bellowed, his face hovering over several lines of cocaine.
After a week and a half, the party stopped. So did Brookes’s heart. One morning Peter found Brookes slumped over on his sof
a, his sunglasses dangling from one ear.
Peter pushed Brookes’s body over, sat down next to him. He thought of his options. Of course, the smart thing to do would be to call the police. But with the amount of drugs around, he could easily be implicated in Brookes’s death. Besides, Brookes wasn’t married, was an only child, both parents deceased, no true friends to speak of. He wouldn’t be missed.
Peter had a better idea.
Finding the number in Brookes’s cell phone, Peter dialed. “Hi, this is…Peter. Peter Brookes’s friend? I have a problem…”
As expected, Brookes’s drug dealer knew a guy. Several guys, in fact. The dealer told Peter it would cost him. Big time. Peter reassured him money wouldn’t be an issue. He knew where Brookes kept his paper fortune. Brookes couldn’t use it now anyway.
Several hours later, a “clean-up” man arrived. Not at all what Peter expected. Short, bald, quiet, pushing fifty or older; the perfect cliché of an accountant. He dragged Brookes into the bathtub and tended to business. Saws buzzed. Grunts drifted out from the bathroom. Peter tackled the scotch. The man didn’t say a word until he left, struggling with two large suitcases. “The papers will be ready in two days,” were his parting words.
Peter didn’t know how they did it. He didn’t want to know. But they supplied him with a driver’s license and other essential papers. Apparently, fingerprints weren’t a problem either. Peter gathered up the rest of Brookes’s certification, licensing documents, and the remainder of cash. He boarded the airplane to New York as Peter Brookes. No one mourned the death of Peter Quail. Frankly, no one knew about it.
Until now…
Peter adjusted the stereo and pumped caffeine into his system. A motel’s lights flashed ahead. He slowed his Lincoln Town Car, but then quickly discarded the notion. He sped onto his destination, singing, happier than he’d been in some time.
Jason stood in front of Matt, his eyes wide with worry.
“What’s wrong?” Matt set his wine glass down, prepared for the worst. Nothing ever bothered Jay.
Godland Page 6
