by Ethan Cross
Steeling his heart, he thought about his father’s words. Even if this was hell, that was a person in need of help, and he couldn’t walk away even if he had the option.
He reached out, grabbed the first rung of the ladder, and descended to the lowest level. Once on the bottom floor, he saw a vague light ahead, and it called to him like a flame to the moth. After a moment of nearly blind stumbling, he found himself inside a concrete panic room. There was a massive steel door that could seal off the entrance to the secret passages. He guessed that this was the real reason for the so-called Mad King deciding to build his home with hidden passages behind the walls: as a secret means of defense and escape.
The room reminded Marcus of a bomb shelter, but bigger. Rows of canned food and provisions lined one wall. The opposite wall was covered with guns, like the back half of a sporting goods store.
Marcus knew about guns. His father had showed him how to use them, and they had always been around the house. But not guns like these. These were weapons of war.
He approached cautiously. He wanted to pick them up, but he didn’t. He stood transfixed before them, considering the implications. His father had said that Eddie’s dad and the people he worked for were bad men. But how bad did you have to be to need this many guns and a fortress to keep them in?
A massive steel door, like that of a bank vault, stood in front of him. Beyond it, he heard the screaming.
Looking back to the wall of guns, his fear of what monster waited in the darkness convinced him to choose a weapon. He tested a few of the big black guns and finally found one that was small enough for him to handle. He didn’t bother to load it. He had no intention of shooting anyone. He didn’t even like to kill insects. But he was also relatively certain that he could bluff his way past any man. A crazy child with a machine gun could be pretty frightening, or so he imagined. Still, he wondered: What if the thing beyond the door was no man, but some sort of demon? If that were the case, there would be no reasoning with it, no bluffing his way past. He would be dead.
This time, he heard Eddie’s voice saying, Don’t be stupid, freak.
With the gun in his right hand, he reached out with his left to spin the door’s release. On the other side, he found a series of concrete tunnels. The corridors were lit by bare bulbs hanging from unfinished ceilings. He came first to some storage spaces filled with boxes and old filing cabinets.
But it didn’t take him long to find the source of the screaming. He peered around the corner and saw a large man with no neck and gray hair wearing a simple black suit. The big man stood beside another steel door and was mumbling to himself about the B-word driving him crazy.
Marcus listened for a moment and waited. He jumped as the big man slapped the door twice and yelled, “Shut up. Or I’ll give you something to cry about!”
There was no doubt in Marcus’s young mind that whoever was in pain beyond that metal door would not live to see another day unless he did something about it. It might’ve been stupid to think that he could take on a behemoth of an adult like the man in the black suit, but he also knew that, even though it was stupid, it was the right thing to do.
52
Francis Ackerman Jr. stepped from the vehicle and sucked in the cool night air. The infamous serial murderer had once doubted he would ever taste free air again, and he had especially never expected to be working for the federal government the next time he did.
The wind picked up dry gravel and swirled it around them. The air carried a strange, sweet scent. To Ackerman, it smelled like a crematorium. He knew the smell well. He had burned many people alive during the dark days of another life.
But now, he had found purpose. A use for his unique talents. Not to mention that he felt propelled by divine purpose to show the demons of society that redemption was within reach. If not in body, certainly in spirit.
Emily Morgan, his counselor and babysitter, said, “Remember, you’re not allowed to touch him.”
“That doesn’t sound like much fun. No touching. It’s like an Amish courtship.”
“I’m serious. You cross the line, and you’ll be back in a cell by the end of the day. Or they may just decide to explode that chip in your neck.”
Ackerman rubbed the base of his skull at the thought.
He was relatively certain that he could find a way around the machinations of the Department of Justice and the CIA, who had supplied the technology. There wasn’t a security system in the world that couldn’t be bypassed by a determined mind. And his mind had always served him well. Still, he was in custody because he chose to be, because this was where he belonged. For now, at least.
“Fine,” he said, “I’ll play nice. But what if he tries to get frisky? I would be honor bound to protect you.”
“I can protect myself. Stick close to me. And since when do you have any honor? What is it you always say? ‘Losing is just an excuse for not cheating hard enough?’”
Ackerman laughed. “Yes, but my father also told me to always keep my word. I promised to protect you, no matter what, and I promised my brother not to kill anyone without permission.”
“Who made you promise to protect me?”
“No one made me. It was just a promise I required of myself. And I’ve always felt that promises you make with yourself are the worst kind to break.”
Once upon a time, Ackerman had tortured and killed Emily’s husband and endangered the lives of herself and her child. Emily even carried a scar across her forehead from the encounter, which she covered with her hair as best she could. That seemed like a lifetime ago now. Another life in another world. At the time, he had been wandering with no purpose through a darkness without borders. But the light had found him, and the journey had changed him.
It had changed Emily as well. She wasn’t the same woman he had held captive and forced to play one of his games. Although, he wasn’t sure if her changes had been for the better. It seemed that she had grown harder over time. He had once thought her to be fragile, something he would never accuse her of now.
Emily added, “Sometimes I can’t decide if you’re actually starting to think like a person or if you’re only trying to manipulate me. Make no mistake, Frank, I’ll kill you before they can ever activate that implant if you step out of line. I don’t want to, but if I have to choose between your life and the life of some innocent person, I’m going to save the someone else every time.”
“Fair enough. But you should know that if it comes down to my life over yours, I will choose your life, every time.”
She was quiet a moment, and he wondered if he had done something wrong. Finally, with tears forming in her eyes, she said, “Well, let’s just try to make it so we never have to face either circumstance.”
Willoughby’s Exotic Gunsmithing and Firing Range sat at the end of a long, dead-end lane with mountains in the background, nothing but dry dirt surrounding it, no wind breaks. The main building was made of corrugated metal, weather beaten and worn. The paint had long since faded and chipped, and the proprietor hadn’t bothered with repairs. Ackerman imagined that, like many small businesses these days, the majority of the man’s sales were done online, which didn’t facilitate the need for a beautiful storefront.
Emily said, “So what’s your plan?”
“I was thinking a simple knock and kick.”
“What’s that?”
“It’s where you knock, and when they answer the door, you kick it in on them.”
“This guy is the owner of a gun shop and firing range, and you want to just kick his door down?”
“Shortest distance between two points is always a straight line.”
“Let’s at least try the diplomatic approach. And I told you not to touch anyone. Kicking a door into someone’s face would classify as physical contact.”
“Fine. You can kick the door in.”
“That’s not what I’m saying. Listen, I’ll get us inside and then you do your thing with him to send a message. Just make sure th
at whatever you do at that point is all bark and no bite.”
53
Emily repeatedly rang the bell at the delivery entrance. Hearing movement inside, Ackerman stepped to the side of the door and turned his head away. She gave him a look of confusion, and he said, “I’ll bet you a dog that he comes to the door with a shotgun.”
“He has a camera. You’re probably making him think that we’re bandits from the way you’re acting.”
“Bandits? I kind of like the sound of that. I’m Bonnie, and you’re Clyde.”
“I think you mean that I would be Bonnie and you would be Clyde,” Emily said.
“If you prefer. I was just trying to mix things up a bit.”
The door flew open, and someone yelled, “Don’t move!” A man Ackerman presumed to be the business’s proprietor stood a few feet inside the doorway with a sawed-off, double-barrel shotgun in one hand, and a small remote control in the other. He was a short man with stubby arms and a face that reminded Ackerman of a species of small monkey known as the common marmoset. Like the small primate, Willoughby was flat nosed and wide faced, with tufts of unkempt hair sticking out each side of his head.
The man said, “There’s a shaped charge of C4 beneath your feet, and this shotgun is loaded with the latest in home security shells. If one doesn’t get you, the other will. Now, you better have a damn good reason for waking me up.”
Emily looked down at the shotgun and hesitated. “Uh … We’re …”
Ackerman said, “We’re part of Mr. King’s crew. He said you were the man to see about getting some clean and effective long-ranged weaponry.”
The marmoset narrowed his eyes and said, “I have no idea what you’re talking about. Are you two cops? I’ve told you guys before—”
“Do I look like a cop?” Ackerman said, giving him a predator’s stare. “I assume you’re Mr. Willoughby?”
“That’s right. You make any sudden movements and your tombstone will read, ‘Shot to Death by Mr. Willoughby.’”
Ackerman replied, “We were told that you run guns from King to the cartels. And that you have recently received a shipment of products that would be perfectly suited for a particular task we need to accomplish.”
“What shipment are you talking about? What are you looking for?”
“Let’s step into your office and discuss the details like gentlemen.”
“And you say you heard this from Mr. King?”
“No, I said we work for King. Oban told us about you. Nobody sees Mr. King.”
Eyes narrowed, Willoughby said, “Come inside, but keep your hands up and no funny stuff. No sudden movements.”
As he stepped inside, Ackerman saw that the owner had left only a token amount of ammo on the shelves. The gun wall behind the register and display case, however, was fully stocked with all manner of rifles and pistols, ranging from the mediocrity of the Glock to the exotic enticement of the 8-mm Nambu.
“So what are you after?” the stubby man said. “You said it’s part of a shipment of guns I’m supposedly smuggling from King to the cartels?”
“Can we cut the bravado? Do you sell guns or not?”
“Oh, I sell guns. But I don’t sell guns for King.”
“Whatever, friend,” Emily said, hands raised and voice trembling. “If you’re not our guy, we’ll head on down the road.”
“No, you see, you misunderstand me. I do run a smuggling operation for Mr. King. But just because I run a gun shop doesn’t mean that I smuggle guns. I know nobody would have sent you here for a gun. I have a strict policy of keeping my legitimate business, this shop, which my father founded in 1971, separate from my other dealings. That tells me that this doesn’t have a squirt of piss to do with Mr. King. So why are you really here?”
“I’m looking for a hunting knife,” Ackerman said. Emily shot him a scathing glance, but he ignored her.
Willoughby said, “Get down on your knees.”
Ackerman saw a display of cheap pocket knives on a shelf within arm’s reach. He said, “I’m getting very tired of people telling me what to do. May I share a secret with you, Mr. Willoughby?”
“Talk.”
“I don’t wish to purchase your wares. I’m here for two reasons, actually. One, I need information. And two, I need to send a message.”
“The only thing you need to do, pal, is shut your hole. I’m calling King’s real guys. They’ll deal with the two of you.”
Ackerman said, “Look into my eyes. Do you honestly think I would allow you to reach a phone?”
“I’m the one with the shotgun.”
“I don’t see your point. May I show you something. I think you’ll find it very interesting. I’m just going to pick up one of these little pocket knives.”
“You aren’t picking up a damn thing. I told you—”
With a flash of calculated and non-threatening movements, Ackerman snatched up one of the blades, flipped it open, and sliced through his shirt and across his massively scarred forearm. The blood burst forth and trickled down onto the concrete floor.
Willoughby raised the shotgun and said, “What the hell!”
The shop owner was a good ten feet away, but Ackerman had no doubt he could kill the man with the small pocket knife at this distance, shotgun or not.
“Just look into my eyes,” Ackerman said as he ran another bloody slice across his forearm. He pulled up his left sleeve to expose the wounds and show the shop owner his scars, his small smile never wavering. In fact, the pain was a welcome distraction. He sliced another gash across his forearm, just for the fun of it.
Willoughby’s sunken eyes were wide with shock.
Ackerman slashed another line of blood. “I enjoy pain, Mr. Willoughby. I only feel truly alive when I’m inflicting or experiencing it. But, I have to admit, I prefer the administration of suffering. The fear and agony in the recipient’s eyes is indescribably glorious.”
“Is that supposed to scare me? You have a little pocket knife, and I have a shotgun.”
Ackerman’s smile widened, and he gave Willoughby a wink. “Once upon a time—in my opinion, how every good story should begin—I extracted information from this ghastly pedophile by placing him naked atop a wooden structure that came to a sharp point. I then added weights to his feet, and the pressure slowly eviscerated him, starting at the groin.”
Willoughby didn’t respond. He was statue still. Ackerman hadn’t even noticed the man breathe.
He said, “I love that story. But I also feel that if you want the story to be a good one, you need to tell it yourself, in the moment. So, with that in mind, I’d love to try something with you, Wallaby, that I’ve been dreaming about.”
He very slowly ran another slice across his forearm and licked the blood from the knife. Willoughby scowled defiantly, but even the little man’s facial movements had become increasingly erratic.
Ackerman continued, “In another life, I think that I was likely a member of a barbarian horde. Perhaps riding alongside Genghis Khan or someone like Cyrus the Great, the first emperor of Persia. You see, it is the Persians who devised the method of torture I would like to inflict upon you this evening, Mr. Marmoset.”
Willoughby cocked his head to the side and whispered, “You’re batshit crazy, mister. I tell you what … If you leave now, I won’t call anyone. I’ll forget this ever happened.”
Ackerman chuckled as he stuck the knife into his arm again. “Are you familiar with the concept of ‘scaphism,’ my dear Mr. Marmoset?”
The stubby man said nothing, but took a cautious step backward.
Ackerman said, “The ancient Persians developed a most insidious method of torture, which they deemed ‘scaphism.’ The way it commonly worked was to have the victim tied down in a small boat and force-fed milk and honey, with a portion of the honey spread across the victim’s naked body. The excessive ingestion of milk and honey caused the poor soul to defecate furiously into the boat. All the while, insects of many varieties, drawn by both the
sweet and putrid, feasted upon the victim’s honey-and-feces-covered flesh. There’s a small lake just up the road. I saw some john boats tied up by the water as we drove past.”
Fear and sweat covered the stubby man’s features like a burial shroud, but he remained defiant. He said, “This is your last chance—”
“It wouldn’t take long before you were assaulted by several different species. Arachnids, bees and hornets, carrion beetles, flies of every kind. They would burrow inside you and lay their eggs in your flesh. And every day, I would return to shove more milk and honey down your gullet.”
Ackerman could see the doubt slowly creeping over Willoughby’s face as the man with the shotgun tried to understand why the man with the pocket knife was unafraid.
“Some historical records indicate that certain individuals of a strong constitution would survive up to three weeks. Although, I wouldn’t let that number trouble you. I’m sure the onset of delirium mercifully came within a week. The smell of your own rotting feces and gangrenous limbs would be quite overwhelming. But, to me, smells aren’t good or bad, they are just … intriguing. And some of the most fascinating smells overwhelm the senses in a way that I can only describe as pleasure. I would kill a thousand of you just to experience that smell once.”
“If you move another muscle, I will—”
“You will what? You honestly haven’t figured this out yet, have you?”
“Figured out what?”
“Ask yourself this question … If we were professionals, perhaps sent here by a competitor looking for information on Mr. King, would we knock on your door in the middle of the night?”
Willoughby’s grip tightened around the wood of the double-barreled shotgun, but he said nothing.
“Think about it. If we were going to use some kind of ruse, would we come in the middle of the night—putting you on guard and coming to the door with a shotgun—or would we come during business hours, where we could walk right up to the counter and have you at a disadvantage? Obviously, we would come during the day.”
