Castle of Sorrows

by Jonathan Janz

  “Can you hear me?” Christina asked.

  Forgetting for a moment his inability to sound like anything other than a retarded person, Troy attempted to answer her. When he could only generate a feeble-sounding moan, he settled for a nod. But even this drove a hot spike of pain into the base of his skull. Son of a bitch, Shadeland had done a number on him. It was like a thousand savage hangovers rolled into one.

  The soggy bag of ice was removed, so at least Troy was able to see her through the narrow slits of his swollen eyelids.

  She nodded. “Agent Gary gave you some sort of injection. You’ve been out for a while. How’s your pain?”

  How was his pain? What kind of a stupid question was that? He hadn’t looked in a mirror yet, but if his pain was any indication, he probably looked like the goddamned Elephant Man.

  When at last he was able to open his eyes again, no one was staring down at him. He didn’t know if that meant Christina had left the room, but the notion that he wasn’t being gawked at provided a modicum of relief.

  He couldn’t believe Shadeland had done it. Troy had been involved in quite a few skirmishes in his life, most of them on the wrestling mat. Those were the ones he felt the best about, the ones that made sense to him. Senior year in high school he’d gotten state runner-up. Senior year in college, he’d been one win away from becoming national champion. Winning runner-up was a great honor, he knew, but it still galled him. Hell, he hadn’t even been Big Ten Conference champion because the heavy bastard who would eventually beat him at nationals also happened to wrestle in the same conference. The bastard had wrestled for Michigan, and while he despised Michigan and especially the heavy bastard who’d beaten him twice his senior year, he could at least respect the guy because he’d played fair.

  Ben Shadeland hadn’t played fair.

  Troy realized he was grinding his teeth and that this was making his pain even worse, so he gave off the teeth gnashing and contented himself with clenching and unclenching his fists. They didn’t hurt the way his head did.

  Of course they don’t, a hectoring voice said. You didn’t use them.

  Not yet, he thought. But I will. The moment I get out of this bed I will.

  You can try, but it’ll be the same thing. Ben Shadeland will whip your ass. And you’ll come in second place.

  No, Troy thought.

  Oh yes. Just like high school. Just like college.

  Shut up, Troy ordered.

  You can’t take a hit.

  Shut up!

  That’s why you wrestled instead of playing football. You could use your strength and quickness and leverage on the mat. You could get comfortable because there wasn’t the danger of being blindsided by someone running at top speed. You’re plenty tough when you don’t have to worry about being hit.

  God…DAMMIT, he thought. And despite the way the floodgates opened and doused him with monstrous, splitting pain, he got up off the bed and shambled to the dresser, where the huge old mirror revealed to him just how badly he’d been beaten. My God, it looked like Shadeland had taken a Louisville Slugger to his face. Never in all his life had Troy wanted to kill somebody worse than he wanted to kill Ben Shadeland now. Not the kid who’d trounced him at state. Not the blue whale from Michigan whose lardass had prevented him from winning nationals.

  Troy staggered away from the dresser, having seen more than enough of his ravaged face. Wincing, he collapsed on the edge of the bed and began wiggling on his sneakers. After an eternity, he got them on, though they were still untied. Screw it, he thought. He could walk around with unlaced sneakers for a while.

  Troy had gotten to the door when he heard the knob turn and found himself gazing down at the hot little Russian girl, the one who claimed she talked to ghosts. She was gaping at him in surprise, and though he considered her a total fraud—anyone who claimed to have experience with the so-called paranormal was a goddamned liar, in Troy’s opinion—he had to concede he’d like to nail her sweet little ass to the wall.

  “Why are you out of bed?” she asked.

  “You wanna get in with me?”

  But something was wrong, he realized. He was favoring her with his patented lopsided grin, the one chicks—especially foreign chicks—found irresistible. But rather than mirroring his good-natured expression, she was watching him with a combination of bemusement and disgust.

  Then Troy remembered that his patented lopsided grin was now a literal lopsided grin, his face something out of a carnival freak show thanks to Ben Shadeland. It would cost Troy a good time with this gorgeous Russian. Troy had no doubt she would have gone to bed with him otherwise, but now there was no chance.

  His fury toward Shadeland grew.

  “You don’t need my help,” Elena said, turning.

  “Sure I do.”

  She kept walking. Shit, look at her. Like he was a leper now.

  He took a step into the hallway. “Where’s Agent Gary?”

  Elena turned, but she kept backpedaling away. “The ground floor. We can’t find our guard.”

  “Wayne?” Castillo said. “Where the hell is he?”

  “Don’t know. Maybe he ran away.” She turned, continued walking.

  “Ran away? Where the hell’s he gonna go?”

  Elena merely shrugged. A few seconds later, she was gone.

  Troy balled his fists. You believe that? he thought. Girl treated him like he was nothing now, just because he was a little banged up. But that’s how women were. Only interested in how a guy looked. For Troy’s money, they were even shallower than men.

  Okay, Troy thought. Deal with her later. For now, get your gun.

  Go find Marvin.

  Chapter Six

  When Elena came in, Christina didn’t turn, but she could sense Elena’s agitation just the same.

  Without turning her eyes away from the leaden grey dawn, Christina said, “What’s wrong?”

  A pause. “How do you know something’s wrong?”

  Christina laughed softly. “You’re not the only one with intuition, you know.”

  “Agent Castillo left his room,” Elena said.

  Christina wasn’t surprised. She shifted her grip on the thing she held in her fingertips. She didn’t want to smudge it.

  “Is that what you think I do?” Elena asked. “Use my intuition?”

  Christina turned to her, gave what she hoped was a reassuring smile. “Of course not. Why else would I have brought you here?”

  Elena didn’t budge from the doorway. “I don’t know. I don’t know much of anything now.”

  “Come here,” Christina said. “I need you to see something.”

  Elena tarried in the doorway a moment longer.

  “Please close the door,” Christina said.

  Real wariness in Elena’s eyes now, the Russian girl nevertheless did as she was bidden.

  When Elena was beside her, Christina showed her the picture she held. “This was Chris at his fourteenth birthday party. We brought him to the island.”

  “He looks like you.”

  Something deep in Christina tightened, making it suddenly difficult to breathe. The breeze from the storm still soughed through the window, but it did little to take away the febrile sweat dampening her hairline and making her shirt stick to the middle of her back. She badly needed a shower.

  She eyed the picture fondly. “Chris was a fun kid. He was a trifle out of control sometimes, but part of that was our fault. I should’ve told him no more often.” Her expression darkened. “And Stephen wasn’t a very involved father.”

  “May I hold the picture?”

  Christina glanced sharply at the younger woman, unaccountably fearful of what Elena might learn. But wasn’t that why she’d employed the woman and brought her all the way to this accursed place? And furthermore, did she truly believe Elena could unravel he
r deepest, darkest secrets merely by grasping an old photograph?

  Still, handing the picture over took an effort. Elena stared at the photo a moment before closing her eyes and heaving out a long breath. At first, nothing happened at all. Elena’s respiration was soft and even. In the scant light of early morning, the medium’s face was beatific.

  Then, Elena’s forehead creased, a deep furrow forming between her eyebrows.

  “What is it?” Christina asked.

  Rather than answering, Elena’s eyes began rolling under her closed lids, her fingers tightening on the photograph.

  “Elena?” she asked. “What do you see?”

  Elena’s fingers began to whiten from the pressure, the picture crumpling where she gripped it. Christina reached for it, but then Elena’s eyes flew open. She relinquished her hold on the photograph, took several backward steps. The eyes fixed on Christina were huge and frightened.

  “What is it?”

  “I saw her.”

  The tightness in Christina’s chest increased. “Saw who?”

  “Rosa.”

  Fear misted along the base of her spine, but she worked to keep her voice steady. “Rosa’s been dead a long time.”

  “I saw her with you.”

  The chill gripped her harder.

  “What did she…” Christina licked her lips, tried to breathe. “What was she—”

  “She was more than your cook.”

  Christina’s lips moved but no sound escaped them. She shook her head, took a step toward Elena.

  “Don’t,” Elena warned.

  “Elena, please—”

  “You haven’t been truthful with me,” Elena said. She rubbed her arm where she’d been wounded. “I told you I needed one thing from you—honesty. Yet you haven’t given me that.”

  The medium had retreated nearly to the door.

  “Please,” Christina said. “I’ll tell you everything from now on. It’s just…what happened is so terrible.”

  “What happened to Rosa?”

  Christina chewed her bottom lip. “She…she died here.”

  “Everyone dies here.”

  Christina shook her head. “No, not like the others. Not like…”

  “Rosa was murdered,” Elena said.

  Christina’s throat seemed to close off. The way the medium said it, it wasn’t a question. “Did you…” she said in a small, choked voice. “Did you see her die?”

  “It was hazy,” Elena said. “Diffuse. I saw a man reaching out for me, clutching me by my shoulders. He was making love to me, only it wasn’t gentle. He was…it was like he was trying to hurt me.”

  Christina averted her eyes. “Stephen…” She glanced up at the medium. “Wait a minute. You mean you saw this from Rosa’s point of view?”

  “It’s often that way,” Elena said. “Sometimes I witness events from above…like a sparrow perched on a branch. Other times I see from the victim’s perspective.” She massaged her bandaged arm. “I’ve even viewed death through the eyes of the killer. Those are the worst. To feel that malice boiling inside me…”

  Christina stared down at her interlaced fingers. “My husband…”

  Elena nodded at the casement window in the corner. “He pushed her.”

  Christina didn’t answer.

  Elena said, “You were watching.”

  Christina couldn’t meet the medium’s gaze.

  “You didn’t stop him,” Elena persisted.

  Christina’s eyes began to sting. At length, she said, “I was over on the bed.”

  “When he pushed her to her death.”

  “Yes.”

  “You feel responsible?”

  Christina glared at her. “Of course I do.”

  “You loved her.”

  Christina stared at the medium gape-mouthed. “I…”

  Elena moved toward her. “If you promise to tell me everything, I’ll contact Rosa.”

  Christina swallowed. “You can do that?”

  “Perhaps we will learn what happened to your son as well.”

  Christina nodded. But somewhere deep inside her, she was no longer sure she wanted to know.

  Troy was having a difficult time seeing, Shadeland’s fists having pummeled his face so badly. Man, he couldn’t wait to kill that bastard. That’s what the guy was, too. An unctuous, artificial piece of dog shit. Troy didn’t buy that devoted father crap, either. Sure, a dad could love his kids, but to act like the whole world had come to an end because his daughter turned up missing? Come on. The guy was milking it, probably to impress the women.

  Troy made his faltering way through a thicket of trees and down to the beach. He had no doubt it was all a show. Shadeland didn’t advertise his attraction to Jessie overtly. But that was part of the guy’s game. He acted like he wasn’t interested in her, but he put out this subtle vibe that she evidently found irresistible. Troy had no idea why. Shadeland was nearly old enough to be Jessie’s father, or her uncle at least. What she ever saw in Shadeland when Troy was right there in front of her he would never understand. Maybe she had some sort of weird kink about older men.

  Yeah, Troy thought, ambling along the thick, moist sand. That actually made a bizarre kind of sense. Her dad had been killed when she was still in high school, her mother and sister gang-raped and murdered. Maybe that had messed with Jessie’s wiring, caused her to seek out a father figure when she really should’ve been seeking out a husband or at least a good lay. But those daddy feelings had gotten mixed up with her womanly urges, and the result was terrible taste in men. She ignored the good ones and sought out ones who reminded her of her deceased father. Troy chuckled. Her dad had certainly seemed like an asshole.

  Troy still remembered the way the guy begged them to leave, the way he pleaded with Troy to put down the gun, as if Troy was going to stop in his tracks, clap an embarrassed hand over the mouth hole of his ski mask, and say, Oh, you don’t want a home invasion tonight? Our mistake! Sorry for bothering you, Mr. Gary, and have a pleasant evening.

  The guy blubbering about his wife and daughters. Man, it had been pathetic. And then the mom had started in, the woman almost as bad as her husband. Troy hadn’t been the one to kill her—that had been David Rasmussen, Troy’s best friend—but Troy had been first to rape Jessie’s sister.

  And the one who killed Jessie’s dad.

  It was why Troy had left Santa Barbara to take the full ride Iowa offered him for wrestling. Not because of guilt over what he’d done but fear of being discovered. Troy had never been questioned about the crimes, probably owing to the fact that he had no direct connection to Jessie Gary or her family. The one with the connection had been David Rasmussen.

  Funny how things unfolded…

  David had gone through the drive-thru where Jessie worked. Some barbecued chicken place. David told Troy he’d never seen a chick so hot. Red hair, green eyes, killer body. So they returned the night after as a trio—David, John Farrell and Troy—and despite his compromised vantage point from the backseat, Troy had decided David’s assessment of Jessie Gary was spot-on.

  David’s idea was to wait for her until after work, but that was too direct for Troy. After all, what was in it for him? The satisfaction of knowing he’d helped David score with a gorgeous chick? To hell with that noise.

  “Naw, let’s do her like the others,” Troy had said around his barbecued chicken leg.

  Both David and John had stopped in mid-bite, neither one making eye contact, but neither one protesting either. David and John had both sworn they’d never do it again, but Troy knew better. Once you had the taste, you had to keep going back for more, kind of like an alcoholic, only instead of drinking whiskey you killed people and, even more excitingly, raped them.

  Troy raped his first girl at age fifteen. She was two years older, and he’d felt she should
put out. She’d asked him out, hadn’t she? So he made sure he took what he deserved from her and afterward, as if he’d rehearsed the script in his head, he told her if she ever said a word about it he’d strangle her.

  She never said a word. Neither did the next one, a girl his own age during the summer before his junior year in high school. But she had gone to the same school as him, and that had made his junior year very nerve-racking. He’d sweat seeing her in the halls, try to change his schedule if they shared a class. Even avoided going to social events he knew she’d be attending.

  It was a real bummer.

  He’d needed a release. So one night he and David and John had been driving downtown and had seen a woman in what looked like a pink halter top and shiny pink spandex. The Bubble Gum Girl, they’d called her.

  David pulling up to the median on which she stood. Hey, Bubble Gum Girl, you wanna party with us?

  Smiling around a wad of—what else?—pink bubble gum, she’d said, Sure honey, what you got in mind?

  Shit, Troy remembered thinking, just like a colored girl.

  Troy leaning out the back window. Why don’t you get in, talk it over with us?

  Sure, sugar, she said, her curly black hair and deeply tanned skin in striking contrast to the fluorescent pink outfit. But first we gotta set some ground rules.

  Ground rules? John Farrell had asked.

  She means price, Troy said loudly enough for Bubble Gum Girl to hear. She didn’t protest, which told him all he needed to know.

  Minutes later she was heading to the coast with them, the woman taking nips from the Jack Daniels bottle Troy offered her. Less than half an hour later the three of them were skinny-dipping in the ocean, the headlights of David’s white Escalade illuminating her tan-all-over body, her sweet narrow stripe of black pubic hair. Only ten minutes after that Troy was banging her on the shore, David and John taking turns soon after. And approximately ninety minutes after they’d picked her up in downtown Santa Barbara, Bubble Gum Girl was dead.

  It hadn’t started off that way, of course. They had the money to pay her. David’s family was rich enough to pay the salaries of every hooker in Santa Barbara County for a year.