by Simon Wood
But could he get away with murder? He didn’t want to get carried away with the notion if it was going to cost him the opportunity of ever performing his hobby again.
He gave Rose a sideways glance. She was so unaware, too wrapped up in herself. She wouldn’t know what hit her. It was worth the risk.
Rose crossed her legs. Her dress did its best not to adhere to her movements.
For the first time, he realized that the polka dots didn’t cover the entire dress, only a fan around her neck.
What was it about that damn dress? It was really bugging him. The color and the unflattering shape were familiar but he couldn’t place where he had seen it before. No matter, if he kept thinking about it, he would never remember. Best to forget about it and let his subconscious leap out with the answer.
“I’m going as far as Carson City, how about you?”
“Carson City’s cool.”
That didn’t exactly answer his question.
“I’ll have to leave you there. You’ll have to pick up another ride. Okay?”
“I’ll get another ride.”
What the fuck was she going to do when they hit Carson? It had only just occurred, not only didn’t she have any shoes, she couldn’t have had any money. The polka dot dress didn’t have any pockets and she wasn’t carrying a purse. He hoped she wasn’t some freak.
“Did you break down or something?”
“How long before we get to Carson City?”
“Couple of hours. Why?”
“I wanna know how long before I can stop listening to you.”
“Hey, if you didn’t want the fucking ride, you shouldn’t have got in.”
“I want the ride but not the chat. Okay?”
He shook his head. Ungrateful bitch, he thought. He had a damn good mind to kick her out. But he needed her. The tingle needed her. So, she could stay. She’d signed her death warrant but she could stay. He hit the gas until the speedometer screamed eighty.
His anger boiled for miles but his fantasies brought the heat down to a pleasant simmer. He had his first kill to drool over. Rose would be special. Her death would be with him forever.
How would he do it?
She had a big mouth; he could make it bigger. He’d grind the blade into the corners of her mouth. Watch the flesh bunch up before the knife sliced through her cheeks. He imagined her smile. He would be able to see all her teeth. With a mouth that went from ear to ear, would she be able to scream louder? Only experimentation would tell.
That wouldn’t kill her though.
But gutting her like a fish would. He’d cut the dress off and stick with the knife at the base of her ribs. He’d work the blade up, bisecting her, until the knife lodged in her throat.
He hoped she wouldn’t keep her eyes closed. He hated when they did that. But it’s hard to blink when you don’t have eyelids.
A roadside message board flashed by. He really had allowed his imagination to wander. Time had flown. Carson City was only forty miles away. He eased the Camaro onto the dirt shoulder.
“Why we stopping?” Rose demanded.
“I’m getting a cold one out of the trunk. I’ve got an ice chest. You want one?”
She eyed him for a second then nodded.
He left the engine running while he retrieved cans from the cooler. Ice scrunched as his hand dived in to grab a six-pack. The shock of cold ran from his hand to his groin, chilling him but not the tingle.
Slipping back into his seat, he handed Rose a can. Ice water dripped onto her dress, staining the pink, red. She cracked the pop-top. He proposed a toast.
“To traveling strangers, may we be strangers for only a short time.”
They clanged cans. To be accurate, he clanged his can against hers. He took an untidy but grateful chug from the brew.
“Why aren’t you driving?”
“I might drink and drive, but I don’t drink while I drive.” He patted her thigh, making sure he touched flesh and not dress.
She stiffened at his boundary crossing.
“I would like to keep going.”
“What’s the hurry? You said you don’t have anybody waiting for you and I don’t have a clock to punch. We can take it easy.”
He patted her thigh again, but this time he let his hand rest there. He looked away at the setting sun to make it look innocent.
She shifted awkwardly in her seat and the dress brushed the back of his fingers. The material was odd. He had expected it to be rough and probably synthetic from the way it moved but it wasn’t. The fabric was smooth; it felt everyday, but not as a dress material.
“Can you move your hand?”
“Can I? Yes, I can. But the question is, do I want to? And more importantly, do you want me to?”
“All I know is, I want your damn paw off me.”
“Oh, don’t be like that. We could be friends. I did buy you a beer.”
He slid his hand a little further up her thigh, the bizarre dress fabric rubbing against his hand and forearm.
“Remove you hand. Now!”
“Hey, I’m being a nice guy. I gave you a ride and it would be nice if you gave me a little something in return. A ride for a ride, maybe.”
His hand had ridden as far as it was going to go. Her thighs came to end and his fingers brushed soft curls. She wasn’t wearing panties. He started to massage her sex.
He didn’t detect the sound at first. The Camaro’s sweet engine note masked it. Even if the engine was off, the sound was so high pitched that he would have had to wait for the frequency to fall within the realms of human hearing. And when he did hear the sound, it took a couple of seconds to realize what it was—a scream.
Rose was screaming. They locked eyes and her mouth opened, releasing the ferocity of her fear. His hand withered on her sex and his beer fell from his grasp.
But it wasn’t enough of a retraction. A hand leapt out and locked onto his throat. Manicured fingernails sank into flesh and cartilage. Hard and unforgiving, Rose’s sharpened nails punctured him like he was dough. Unlike the wailing banshee, his screams were killed before they had a chance to live.
In another second, she was upon him. Her agility scared him. The Camaro’s cabin was spacious but not enough for a person to move the way she did.
He sank in his chair and groped for his knife. She followed him down. Her other hand shot out, grabbing his arm and ending his last source of help. Razorblade fingernails bit into his flesh and blood poured freely.
His other arm was clamped, vice-like, between her shin and his knee. The unforgiving vice jaws drained the strength from his hand.
Her scream continued, relentless.
Rose bore down on him and the pink polka dot dress was in his face. He realized what her dress was made from; it was paper. The polka dots weren’t polka dots but blood spots and he had just made his contribution. Blood jetted from his throat and added to the polka dot pattern.
And the dress wasn’t a dress. The reflected image in the skewed rearview mirror confirmed it—a row of paper bows covered her naked back. It was a hospital Johnny and not from an ordinary hospital. Blythe Mental Facility fitted their patients with pink Johnnies.
He heard his windpipe crack and his breath die in his chest. He’d never heard a death rattle but he was hearing one now. It was his own.
SPECIAL DELIVERY
Terry Mack groaned when he bent to pick up the parcel tucked away under his porch. Retirement didn’t look good on him. It was making him old. He still hadn’t gotten used to it after ten years. What did they say about old dogs and new tricks? He only proved the point. He closed the door with the back of his heel.
Mack took the package into the kitchen, shaking it along the way. The eighteen-inch cube was well wrapped with tape and bulged on all sides with padding. He wasn’t expecting anything special. He plonked the parcel onto the kitchen table and retrieved a carving knife from a drawer.
He slit the tape and the box popped open, spewing shredded paper.
Pulling out the wadding, he found his present—a foot, severed an inch above the ankle, sealed in a plastic bag. Holding the bag by the corner, he examined his gift. Condensation clung to the inside of the clear plastic. The foot was cold to the touch. It hadn’t been long out of the deep freeze.
The average pensioner would have burst a lung in shock—not Terry Mack though. He was used to atypical situations. He was a spy and damned good at it. He was once a thorn buried deep in the Kremlin’s side.
Oh yes, he was a spy—heavy on the was. After the Soviet Union collapsed in the early nineties, so did his career. He was retired off early, a relic of his time. Military intelligence needed a different kind of operative.
And yes, he was used to the atypical, just not this atypical. He wasn’t shocked or disgusted—none of the conventional reactions. He was irritated. “Who” leapt to the forefront of his thoughts. Obviously, it was someone from the old days. But there were so many to choose from.
He did know one thing about the foot. It belonged to a man. It wasn’t dainty enough to be a woman’s and the coarse hair on top and on the toes confirmed his suspicion.
He checked the postmark. It was sent yesterday from his local sorting office. No surprises there. Professionals didn’t give away clues like that. He’d find them though. It was just a matter of when. It would probably take him longer than usual. He’d been out of the game too long. All his contacts were like him, propping up retirement communities around the country. But he’d get there—old dogs could learn new tricks as long as they liked the reward.
Mack placed the bagged foot inside a larger plastic bag to protect any forensic evidence. It was unlikely there was anything for forensics to find, but luck might be on the side of the angels for a change. He popped the bag in the freezer compartment above the fridge.
He needed information. He needed to know who else knew about this and how far it stretched.
To the Bat Phone, he thought. Just like Batman, Mack had a direct line to Gotham City. Except, commissioner Gordon wouldn’t be answering the call. His line was the dinosaur line. A crisis number for the nearly-deads to call in times of trouble, like when their marbles went missing or their colostomy bag needed changing. Today, MI6 would have something to do. Mack dialed.
“Yes,” a young man’s voice answered.
“It’s the Headmaster.”
“Oh, yes, Headmaster and what is today’s lesson?”
“History.”
“One moment, Headmaster.”
Mack listened to the rattle of a keyboard being worked.
“What can I do for you, Headmaster?”
“What’s going on?”
“I don’t know what you mean, Headmaster.”
Mack huffed. “Don’t play silly buggers. How far does it go? Who else has received a package?”
“We all receive packages, Headmaster. I’m sure it’s a lovely present. Is it your birthday, Headmaster? Many happy returns, sir.”
“Shut up, you idiot!” Mack took a moment. “I don’t need the bromide treatment. I’m not a dribbling imbecile. I have received a severed foot in the post. I want to know who and why. I want a sit down, before next post. I’ll be expecting your call.”
Mack slammed the phone down, not waiting for a reply. He hoped it was enough to light a fire under their backsides.
But he wasn’t about to sit on his arse until military intelligence came calling. He’d been sent a calling card. He doubted it was the last or that a personal visit was out of the question. If anyone arrived unexpectedly, he wasn’t about to be caught off guard. He couldn’t make his home a fortress, but he was going to have bloody good go.
He hid eggshells under the welcome mats at the front and back doors. Paper tabs were placed on the top of doorways, set to fall if a visitor came calling. He stuck a strip of tape across every window, set to break if opened. Thimbles filled with ink were tied to every interior door handle. Someone might second-guess some of his countermeasures but not all of them.
Mack was in the middle of checking a wall socket for a listening device when second post flopped through the letterbox. No packages. It was the usual jumble of junk mail and bills, except for one. It was a love letter in a fancy pink envelope. He knew without opening the envelope that there would be no note. The scent told him where his sit down was to occur. Chanel No. 5—Harrods’ food hall. The time was in the misspelling of his address. The seventh letter of the word Middlesex had been capitalized. His meeting was to take place at seven.
***
Mack wandered the food hall for twenty minutes not seeing anyone he recognized—friend or foe—until he spotted Ben Harker at the Sushi Bar. Harker was one of Mack’s protégés and a damned good operative. Mack was glad to have him as a case officer. He tapped his apprentice on the shoulder.
“Mack, good to see you,” he warbled through a mouthful of food. “Can I get you something?”
The sushi chef looked attentive.
Mack smiled politely. “No, I don’t think so. I like my food cooked.”
The chef frowned.
“Can we go?” Mack asked.
“Sure thing.” Harker pushed his food to one side and thanked the chef. He guided Mack onto the Knightsbridge streets. “I’ve got a car. Do you want to go anywhere in particular?”
“No. Drive around for a bit. You don’t get far in London traffic these days.”
Harker tore the parking ticket off his windscreen and examined it. He shook his head. “Have you seen the price of these things? I must fund the city of Westminster.”
“That’s why I don’t drive in London.”
Harker found a gap in the traffic and joined the creeping line of cars going nowhere.
“What can you tell me, Ben?”
“That’s what I was hoping you could tell me. I heard the tape recording from this morning. We’re not involved in anything to spark your surprise package. To be honest, I’d have thought you’d know. It’s got to have something to do with you.”
“If it does, I’ll be buggered if I know. Twenty-five years in the game, there isn’t anybody I haven’t pissed off.”
Harker sighed and thought for a minute. “You still got the foot?”
Mack nodded. “In my freezer.”
“Remind me not to come round for ice-cream.” Harker joined the A4. “I’ll send a courier in the morning to pick it up. Maybe Path can give us some clues.”
“So, there have been no moves to provoke this action?”
“No. Have you checked in with your émigré groups and alike?”
“No, not yet.”
“I would if I were you. See if anyone is missing. Can I drop you anywhere?”
Maybe Harker had a point. Mack should know why he was being targeted. And if he didn’t, his old comrades should. After leaving Harker, it was far too late to contact anyone in central Europe. The following morning, Mack spent hours contacting his defunct agents in Germany and the Czech Republic.
At least his people, the Headmaster’s pupils, were accessible. His groups weren’t made up of James Bond types but average Joes, doing average jobs. They had to be. Most of the time, they lived their cover as clerks and secretaries in various foreign government departments. They only turned into agents when they came across something of value. But in the last ten years they were, like him, surplus to requirements and essentially lived their normal lives.
The calls were all the same. His pupils were pleased to hear from the Headmaster and were well and intact. Whoever owned the foot in his freezer, it wasn’t anyone he knew. He was amazed how tired he felt after making all those pointless calls. He put the phone down, drained. It immediately rang again.
“Hello.”
“Mack. It’s Jack Davenport.”
Davenport was an old warhorse like him. Just by his tone, Mack knew it wasn’t a social call.
“Yes, Jack.”
“You’re not the only one.”
“What?”
“You weren’t
the only one to receive a package. So did I.”
“What did you receive?” Mack’s words were slow and deliberate.
“A foot, just like you.”
“Which one?”
“Left.”
“Damn it!”
“What?”
“So’s mine.”
“That means we have two guys hobbling.”
A figure loomed at Mack’s front door. The frosted glass only helped to obscure an already definitionless outline.
“Jack, I’ll call you back. Someone’s at the door.” He hung up on Davenport and waited for the doorbell to ring.
When it did, Mack rose, removing his old Beretta from the small of his back. The gun, like him, had been mothballed. He had dug it out from its hiding place in the attic the night before and cleaned it. He trusted that gun. Eleven men had been deep-sixed with it. He snicked off the safety and wondered if he was going to make it an even dozen.
He hid the automatic behind his back before opening the door. A leather-clad biker complete with black helmet and visor that shielded his eyes stood on the porch. The biker didn’t bother him that much, not enough to draw his weapon, but what the biker was holding did. In his gauntleted hands, the biker held a package, the same size as the one Mack had received the day before.
He had the drop on the biker. Both his hands were tied up with the package. There was no chance for him to reach for a weapon.
Mack snapped his arm out and aimed at the helmet. He saw his distorted image reflected in the biker’s visor, him small and alien-like and the Beretta, exaggerated, elongated and twice as lethal.
“Jesus!” the helmet mumbled.
“Not Jesus, Terry Mack. Now, let’s find out who the hell you are.” He yanked on the biker’s arm, dragging him into the hallway, and kicked the door shut. “In the kitchen. Go on.”
The biker walked stiff legged. More muffled words came from under the helmet.
