Looking back, Troy decided, it was the girl’s compliance that had set him off. She’d let Troy shoot his load in her and then hadn’t even closed her legs before David climbed on. Man, that disgusted Troy. And then she’d repeated the same ritual again with John Farrell.
He remembered sitting on the sand that night, the dregs of the whiskey boiling in his throat, the now-empty bottle clutched too tightly in his hand. He was watching John Farrell’s big ass cheeks flex as the boy took his sloppy thirds from Bubble Gum Girl. And she simply lay there the entire time. Not because she had a voracious sexual appetite but rather as though she didn’t really give a shit. Boys will be boys, he could almost hear her think. Let them have their fun. Then John Farrell tightened up, his body ramrod straight and the jeans around his ankles quivering like was being electrocuted. Then John, all two hundred and ninety pounds of him, slumped over on top of Bubble Gum Girl. She merely lay there, languid and content, under John’s enormous bulk. Eventually he climbed off and, white butt cheeks agleam in the moonlight, leapt into the water like a humpback whale.
But Bubble Gum Girl just laid there, her knees apart and her snatch shining. The sight of it turned Troy’s stomach, all those folds and flaps. It reminded him of spoiled roast beef.
But still Bubble Gum Girl just…laid there. Man, didn’t she have any shame? Any fucking modesty? And as the Jack Daniels took hold and fanned the flames of Troy’s edginess into something much more dangerous—something lethal—that contempt for Bubble Gum Girl seemed to condense into a throbbing, pounding knot of hatred, a hatred that narrowed Troy’s vision and directed every cell of his being toward that glistening snatch of hers. That dirty, ugly, roast-beef-looking stinkhole. God, he wanted to rid the world of it. And still it refused to go away, only hung there suspended between those dark underthighs of hers, taunting him, expelling its filth at him. He fancied he could see the tracks of John Farrell’s spent wad on the bottoms of her buttocks, like snail tracks. It was all he could do not to retch. It was the thought of all that semen inside her that finally got him moving, got him weaving across the beach toward where Bubble Gum Girl lay. When he stood over her she didn’t even seem to notice him, only stared up stupidly at the blaze of stars overhead.
Hey, he said.
No answer. Just a stupid, trout-like grin.
Hey, he said, louder this time.
Mm? she asked, still not making eye contact.
Look at me, he said.
Why?
The lethal heat in him rose another notch, that throbbing orb of hatred now expanding and contracting in a red, nearly audible beat.
Because I told you to, he said.
Of all the things she could have said at that moment, Troy would later muse, there might not have been anything that would have saved her life. But of all the things she might have said to him, nothing could have made him angrier than the words she uttered.
Finally shifting her stupid doe’s gaze up to his, she said, Why? You ready to tear yourself off another one?
Troy’s eyes flew wide. A noise escaped him that was part gagging sound, part outraged roar. Falling, he brought the thick bottom of the bottle down as hard as he could on her nose. The sound she made was enough to startle him out of his rage, a choking rattle that reminded him of television static turned up full blast, and to make matters even more macabre there were her outstretched arms, fingers scrabbling in the air as if she were fighting a downward skid on a gravelly mountainside. Blood bubbled up like a red pond in the mashed reservoir that had once been her nose, and the runoff from the blood poured into her mouth, which turned the static into a gurgle, and then a choking, convulsive cough. And still the hands and fingers stretched heavenward, blood spraying, the eyes huge and glazed. Bubble Gum Girl looked like she was an extra in a George Romero flick, only instead of shambling after human brains she simply lay there imploring the sky to drop some brains into her open mouth. The thought actually made Troy giggle.
What the hell you laughin’ at? David Rasmussen demanded, but he was grinning in spite of himself, and that made Troy laugh harder, and soon they were doubled over together right there in the surf, where John Farrell found them. John, a serious D1 football prospect on the offensive line, was at first a Nervous Nellie, begging them to stop laughing and blubbering about how his future was ruined. But when Troy had staved in Bubble Gum Girl’s skull to stop her weird choking noises and then explained to John how easy it would be to let the tide take her body out to sea, John had relaxed pretty quickly.
Troy had not killed again until his senior year in high school, and that time had been the best.
Jessie’s family.
Troy sighed, becoming aware again of the stinging rain, of the windswept island. He’d been so wrapped up in his memories he’d totally neglected to pay attention to what he was doing. Which was why he didn’t hear the man sneak up behind him.
“Put your hands up, you don’t wanna die,” a raspy voice said.
Troy did as he was bidden.
“Now move your ass,” Ray Rubio said.
Without turning, Troy muttered, “You wanna frisk me, you can, but you better not take my gun.”
“I’ll take what I wanna take,” Rubio said. But the Glock remained in Troy’s ankle holster. “Move,” the voice commanded, and something hard and pointed nudged Troy in the middle of the back.
“I said move,” Rubio commanded.
Troy took his time about it, the fine needling rain actually sort of pleasing on his upturned face. It helped the swelling, reminded Troy he’d return to normal soon. They walked for several minutes. Troy was about to ask where he was being taken, but at about that time he spied a series of black caves eating into the rocks up the shore to the right. There were several of them, but one in particular seemed to call to him. He headed in that direction and when the voice behind him said, “Lucky guess,” Troy said he had a knack for finding the right way.
“Then why are you so bad at picking football games?” Rubio said.
Troy didn’t have an answer for that. When they reached the cave entrance he saw how it was right away. Marvin had his blood up, was itching to do battle.
“You’re lucky to be alive,” Marvin said. The small man was a bit pale and there were purplish half-moons under his eyes, but other than those things—and the way his shirt puffed out due to the bandages—Marvin Irvin looked the way he always did. Mean and ready to make people pay.
“You’re lucky too,” Troy said.
“Don’t tell me what I am.”
“Which one shot you?”
Marvin gave him a look. “Who gives a shit?”
“The red-haired bitch got him the worst,” Rubio said. His upper lip rose in a snarl as he took in Troy with his hooded gaze. “Your buddy.”
“She’s not my buddy,” Troy said. And she wasn’t. He didn’t know what Jessie was. An obsession? Sure, she was that. An object of fascination and mind-searing frustration? Yeah, that too. But what she was most of all was a loose end. Unfinished business. He wanted nothing more than to tie that loose end up, and quick. Her and Shadeland.
“She’s the one killed Nicky,” Marvin said. He had what looked like a .44 Magnum Smith & Wesson revolver out and was eyeing the chambers. “She killed my boy and I want her preserved till after we’re done with the Blackwood lady.”
Troy felt a queasy tremor of excitement in the pit of his belly. “Preserved? You’re not gonna kill her?”
Marvin finished with the .44, pocketed it. He sat down heavily on a broad hump of dark-colored stone. “Oh, eventually, sure she’ll be killed. I’m gonna do the honors myself. But that’s after I make her sorry for what she did.”
Troy glanced from Marvin to Rubio and felt the advent of a serious issue. Rubio was a psychopath who got his rocks off torturing people. He’d want in on whatever they were going to do to Jessie. Marvin had a vendetta ag
ainst her, and he would certainly want to be the one dishing out the punishment.
So where did that leave Troy?
It left him holding his dick. That’s where it left him.
Unless…
Troy said, “Somebody want to let me in on the logistics of the plan?”
Marvin grunted, exchanged a wry glance with Rubio. “Plan? The plan, Mr. Corrupt Federal Agent, is to storm that fucking castle and kill everything in there that breathes.”
“Seems like you tried that last time and it didn’t turn out too well.”
Rubio’s snarl reappeared. “Tell that to your buddy from the Bureau, ask him how good our plan worked.”
“You’re down to three,” Troy said. “They’ve still got plenty of healthy bodies.”
“We may be down to two,” Rubio said.
“It’s three,” Marvin muttered.
“What happened to Griffin?” Troy asked.
Rubio said, “He’s acting crazy.”
You’re one to talk, Troy thought. “Crazy how?”
“He’ll be fine,” Marvin said.
Rubio became animated, obviously glad to have an audience to whom he could unburden his concerns. “He comes drifting in here a little while ago—this was after bein’ gone half the night, mind you—and he says to us in this robot voice, ‘The other bodyguard is dead.’”
“Chad Wayne?” Troy asked. “Big, strong guy, not too bright?”
“That’s the one,” Rubio said. “I says to Griffin, I says, ‘How’d you do it? You shoot him?’ Griffin looks at me like he doesn’t know me, his eyes like black glass. He says, ‘I didn’t shoot him. But I wounded him with the daisy grubber.’”
Marvin was sitting still now, listening carefully. Trying to make sense of what he’d seen, Troy realized. Wanting to convince himself there was really nothing wrong with Griffin’s behavior.
“What’s a daisy grubber?” Troy asked.
“Who the hell knows?” Rubio said. “I looked at him a long time, waiting for his explanation, but he didn’t give me none. So I says, ‘If you didn’t kill him, who did?’”
Rubio had a hand in the pocket of his sweatpants, gesturing with his other hand like some kind of seedy nightclub comedian. “Guess what he says to me. He says, ‘The spirits took care of him.’ You fucking believe that? ‘The spirits took care of him’?”
“He’s all right,” Marvin said, though he spoke with little conviction.
“He’s losin’ it,” Rubio answered.
Marvin looked up, tapped his chest vigorously with an index finger. “He saved my goddamned life, Raymond. And I say he’s fine.”
“He’s a fruitcake’s what he is.”
Before Troy could blink the revolver was out and leveled at Ray Rubio. The barrel of the .44 quivered with rage, or maybe it was just the unsteadiness brought on by Marvin’s injuries. Whatever the case, he was glowering at Rubio as though nothing would be more satisfying than to shoot him right in the nose.
A baffled expression had overtaken Rubio’s pitted face. His hands were up as though Marvin were robbing him in some back alley. “What’s the matter with you, boss?”
The barrel quivered. “You don’t know when to shut up, Raymond. That’s always been the problem with you.”
“Hey, don’t get all riled.”
But Marvin didn’t lower the revolver. “I’ll decide what I wanna be.”
Rubio nodded, his expression saying Marvin had responded in a perfectly reasonable manner.
Troy cleared his throat. “What I was saying, Marvin, I was wondering if maybe we shouldn’t do this another way.”
Marvin finally let the revolver ease off Rubio’s face, but he did it reluctantly, like killing his chief henchman was still very much on the table.
Maybe that’s a good thing, Troy thought.
He frowned. Or maybe not. Because this was a chess game Troy had to play exactly right. If he didn’t it would mean death or prison, which came to the same thing. A guy like him in jail, hell, that was a death sentence. No matter where they sent him, once the other guys caught wind of what he’d been before, they’d kill him on principle.
If Marvin did shoot Rubio, that could be helpful. Rubio was one sadistic son of a bitch. In the years Troy had been with the Bureau he’d heard about a goodly number of fiendish individuals, but if the rumors about Rubio were true, none of the other scumbags held a candle to him for sheer viciousness and soul-shattering depravity. Marvin killing Rubio meant that Troy wouldn’t have to, so in that respect it would be a boon. But would Troy and Marvin be enough to take out their adversaries?
There was Shadeland, Teddy Brooks and Jessie. He didn’t count the other women. They were as helpless as lambs. And Professor Grant? That effete windbag would be easier to kill than the ladies. That is, if he was still alive. Brooks? A bit of a wild card. He was small, but he’d once been a cop, and from what Troy had seen, Brooks could handle himself all right.
Which left Ben Shadeland. Troy decided not to think of Ben Shadeland right now. If he did, his thinking would become clouded. Dominated by homicidal urges. And for now that wasn’t what he needed. He needed to be a strategist.
Marvin had gone back to inspecting his revolver. Rubio just looked relieved to not have it pointing at him.
Troy said, “How about this, Marvin? How about I go back and make sure Agent Gary is occupied?”
Marvin stopped inspecting his revolver, his gaze riveting on Troy. “Occupied how?”
“I tell her I know where you guys are, I get her away from the group to work out a plan.”
“She gonna listen to you?”
“Of course she will.”
“I figured you’d had a falling out with your friends.”
Troy pursed his lips, regarded the cave wall. “Naw, nothing like that.”
“Then why’s your face look like the Dodgers used it for batting practice?”
Troy waved that off. “Shadeland sucker-punched me. I’ll take care of it.”
So Troy told them his plan, which was utter bullshit. But he needed Marvin and Rubio to think they would be the ones in control. He even promised Rubio he could have Elena Pedachenko to himself.
Rubio licked his lips. “Holy shit, you mean it?”
Sure, Troy thought. I’ll let you have some fun with Elena. But the moment you turn your head, I’m going to kill you, you insane motherfucker. And by that time, Marvin will be dead too. And the only one left will be Jessie Gary. I missed out on her thirteen years ago, and I’m sure as hell not missing out on her again.
Grinning savagely, Troy accompanied the other two killers into the rain.
Chapter Seven
The two women sat across from each other, cross-legged.
“I need you to breathe deeply,” Elena said, “and not just like you do at the doctor’s office.”
Christina arched an eyebrow. “What other kind of deep breathing is there?”
Elena scooted forward. “Here, take my hands. Breathe in through your nose. Now out through your mouth.”
“Feels like yoga.”
It did too. Nestled here between the bed and the windows, the thick, luxurious rug beneath her, it was almost possible for Christina to forget that only a few hours ago there had been four deaths in the castle—five if you figured in Peter, who had vanished.
“Deeper,” Elena said.
Christina drew in air, but it felt like a concrete wall had formed behind her lungs, prohibiting a truly satisfying breath.
“You’re not trying,” Elena said.
“I am.”
“Look at the way you’re sitting. No wonder you can’t breathe.”
“But—”
“Hold on,” Elena said, crawling beside her. The woman’s hands were on the small of Christina’s back, her belly. “Sit up st
raight. You’re hunched over like a bell ringer.”
Elena pushed her erect, the younger woman’s strength surprising. “How can you expect to get the emotional part of it when you can’t even master the physical part?”
Christina grinned wryly. “The emotional part of what? Breathing?”
“In a manner of speaking,” Elena said. She placed a hand between Christina’s shoulder blades, pushed. Christina felt her breasts stretching the material of her tank top. She’d not bothered putting on a bra earlier, and now she felt a blush of self-consciousness at how hard her nipples had become. It was the chill in the air, she told herself. Not the pressure of Elena’s fingertips. Outside, the winds continued to whip, the storm charging the air that skittered through the open casement windows.
She drew in another breath and found the improved posture did help.
“Keep your back straight,” Elena reminded. “Now, when you think your lungs have filled, I want you to raise your shoulders, as though a giant balloon were inflating within your chest cavity.” Though Elena spoke flawless English, her accent seemed to have grown more pronounced; her Ys had begun to sound like the Z in azure, and her vowels had become subtly clipped. “Breathe in…shoulders higher…breathe out. Feel the difference?”
Christina nodded. Her lungs did feel fuller. More malleable. The hand on her back described soothing circles, the fingerpads tracing her spine, the top of her buttocks. The hand on her belly had relaxed so that the fingertips rested lightly against the black fabric covering her navel, the younger woman’s delicate wrist lying on Christina’s thigh. A kind of drowsy complacency began to take hold of her. She was suddenly grateful for the sultry air, the intermittent rain spray the open windows permitted.
“Breathe,” Elena said. “Breathe in…inflate…higher…then out…”
“That’s nice,” Christina said.
“It’s only part of it.”
Christina glanced over at her.
“Eyes closed,” Elena said, scowling with good humor. Laughing softly, Christina faced forward again and complied. “Keep breathing this way until you no longer think about doing it. It must become habit before we continue.”
Castle of Sorrows Page 27
