The Beast of Boston

by JL Mac

  “My employee,” I announce thumbing at Abigail beside me.

  “One moment,” Arman’s longtime bodyguard, says in a nondescript tone with a matching facial expression. Empty.

  “He’s not creepy at all,” Abigail notes as I slip the window up, swatting gnats out the way they came.

  “Don’t be too hard on the guy. He’s normally much calmer,” I snort.

  “Is that your version of humor,” she says, fighting the smile I see tugging at her lips as she starts rummaging through her purse for something lost in the chaos that lies within.

  Those fucking lips...

  Before I have an opportunity to answer or think more on those lips of hers, Arman emerges from the arched front doorway of his cottage. He’s easy to spot. White hair, purple-blue eyes, skin without melanin. Arman is an albino and so is his twin sister. He walks with a cane now but I’m not so stupid as to think he’s a helpless old man. He’d kill a man deader than fuck if it became necessary. Just like Or. His hair is thinner than I remember… oh… three years ago? His eyes are deeply bracketed by the evidence of his career choice. I’m no professional on the matter but I imagine being The Salesman serving the world’s most ruthless, wealthy, and psychotic criminals must take a toll.

  “Friend,” he greets me in Russian. It’s an odd sounding word. D-r-o—o-g with the heaviest roll of the R.

  “Salesman,” I nod sagely, greeting him in his native Kazakh. The pronunciation is another odd one and I’m sure to a native Kazakh I butcher the word salesman but it amuses Arman. I don’t mind looking unsophisticated. I’m here to ask for a favor not make more enemies. He smiles wide, showing his coffee stained teeth. His broad grin is as inviting as ever and he waves for us to come in. “Let’s go,” I say to Abigail. She slides across the leather bench, placing her hand in the one I’ve held in her direction. I could let it go. I should let it go as we walk up the path behind Arman but for reasons I’d rather not examine at the moment, I’m holding her goddamn hand like it belongs to me. Her eyes are wide and observant, soaking in everything around us. This woman must really admire flowers and country manors.

  “Your... friend is Russian?” Abigail asks leaning close to my bicep.

  “Madame, I am Kazakh,” Arman corrects her from the bricked pathway, leading toward his front door. He’s old but he’s certainly not deaf. “I speak a number of languages though. Russian being one of them so your assumption is justifiable. Please, come,” he says waving us into his home.

  “Abigail, this is my friend Arman. Arman this is Abigail Tally, my employee.”

  “I see your employees are still quite pleasing to the eye. You always were a collector of pretty things,” he says warmly, in a non-asshole way. Still, as he enfolds Abigail’s small hand in his, holding her there like that for a long moment, a shot of possessiveness bolts through me and I’m reminded of how frustrating it is that Arman doesn’t employ the use of a phone. Giving him a call would make life simpler and allow me to keep Abigail under my thumb at Eden in Boston where she belongs.

  I dip my chin, catching Arman’s attention and he releases Abigail, knowing we will need privacy to discuss business matters.

  “Ms. Tally, Amina is in the garden picking berries. Would you mind helping her? I’m afraid she’s as ancient as I am.”

  Abigail looks back at me and I nod, shooing her away. The ticking muscle in her jaw tells me she’s plenty pissed about being dismissed like a puppy, but she can be mad all she wants. Makes no difference to me.

  Right?

  She sets her purse down on the side table as she exits the back door leading to the rear of the property. She swivels her head from left to right, checking things out as I check her out.

  “Now, tell me exactly why you have come all the way to Washington, Ferguson.”

  “As I’m sure you’re aware, certain transactions require a finesse that only comes with experience. You, Salesman have that finesse.”

  “I am retired. But of course you already know this.”

  “I do. I also know even retired people make a come back when the number of zeros on the paycheck hit the right mark,” I say with a suggestive lift of my brow.

  “I see,” Arman crosses one thin arm over his midsection and taps the pad of his index finger against his top lip. His indigo eyes peer out the bay windows in his living area and find Abigail talking to a small round woman with hair the same white-silver as his.

  “Your twin sister, Amina, I assume?”

  “Yes. Sorry you haven’t formally met,” he says insincerely. Who would want to introduce their innocent relative to a monster? “We are, in fact, twins,” he goes on. “… she never has been… normal whereas I am as normal as can be given our genetics.” I follow his eyes and watch his sister giving small nods in Abigail’s general direction. “She appears to approve of your companion,” he says motioning his chin toward them standing amongst tangles of bushes decorated with berries of some sort. My eyes focus on Abigail. She’s smiling warmly at the woman old enough to be her grandparent. She lifts her hand resting it against Amina’s slightly hunched back as she points at the bushes speaking animatedly, her eyes wide and expressive.

  She’s goddamn endearing like that and it pisses me off. Everything she does puzzles me and muddies the water. I turn my back on them and work my jaw side to side.

  “Tell me, what’s so delicate as to prompt you to seek my assistance? You’ve come a long way over the years. It must be tricky if you can’t muscle your way through it alone.”

  “What do you know about the Flower March?” I answer by asking the sixty thousand dollar question.

  “Ah,” he nods tightly, still tapping his finger against his thin top lip. “Yes, a little bird told me that the Flower March has been resurrected recently, ramped up even.”

  “I believe the broker may have a girl I’m seeking.”

  “You aren’t satisfied with the girls you have?” he asks, tilting his balding head toward Abigail.

  “As you said before, I am a collector of pretty things. I need you to broker an invitation to the auction.”

  “I can look into it, but it won’t be cheap, Ferguson.”

  “I know,” I say looking over my shoulder at the stranger I can’t seem to imagine getting rid of but will undoubtedly have to do just that.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Ena

  Ena, 14 years old...

  “What are you having, Ena,” Dad asks, looking at me over the top of his menu. This place is fancy but since we are on vacation, Lan got to pick one place to try out and she chose this place. For breakfast of all things.

  “Probably just bacon, eggs, and toast,” I say continuing to look at the big list of breakfast options on the menu, some of them I’m not even sure how to pronounce.

  “I’m gettin’ this!” Lan chirps beside me, stabbing her finger at her menu. “Eggs Bean—Eggs Bean—“ She struggles with the words, a frown forming on her determined face. I lean over scouting out what she’s trying to spit out.

  “Eggs Benedict,” I read it aloud for her. Mom hums her approval. Dad shakes his head and I do too. “You won’t like that, Lan.”

  “Yeah huh! Look! It says it has Holland—ouse?”

  “Hollandaise. Two perfectly poached free-range eggs on a split, toasted English muffin, accompanied by your choice of either smoked wild salmon or hickory cured ham. Add blanched asparagus spears for an additional six dollars.” I read the description aloud and slap the menu shut, staring her down like she’s being a dumb little toddler. She is a lot of the time, to be fair. “Six bucks for nasty asparagus, Lan? You don’t even eat green beans. No way you’ll eat asparagus. Just get something you know you like.” I roll my eyes at how much of a spoiled big baby she’s being.

  “No. I want it. It’s fancy like something Belle would pick.” It’s annoying how much she loves Beauty and The Beast. Belle is her idol and she makes sure her world revolves around everything Disney and Belle. Such a baby.

 
; “Belle was practical,” I shoot back. “That breakfast costs a ton,” I whisper-yell at her. I know coming to Disney World was something Mom and Dad have been planning, and they saved a bunch of money for it including their tax return this year. Dad wanted to update the garage with the extra money, not spend it on twenty-two dollar eggs. I’d heard him talking to Mom about it but she told him we could use the money for our trip on Spring Break so he agreed to wait on updating the garage. A stupid expensive breakfast is a waste.

  “Now, girls, knock it off. Ena, if Lan wants to try something new we should encourage that. Lan, if you order twenty-two dollar eggs benedict and you don’t like them, you’re going hungry until lunch,” she warns with bugged eyes. Twenty-two bucks for some gross, slimy eggs? My sister is going to be crying in an hour about how hungry she is.

  “You heard Mom,” Dad mumbles around a big bite of the fancy honey crescents on the table.

  “I’m gettin’ it,” Lan says again, sure of herself.

  Certain moments in life always stand out in your memory. They jump out at you and remain there for the rest of your life. I have a few of those under my belt. The day I first laid eyes on what would become my home. The day they came to let us know Dad had been killed in the line of duty. The day Lan went missing. The day I first saw Beast in person, the way he’d held my wrist like a human shackle, and now… seeing Lan.

  Her body. There, on the screen, pale, thinner than she was. Her tattoo is an easy identifier. She’d gotten the fucking thing on a whim on her eighteenth birthday. A butterfly. So original, I thought sarcastically when she’d first showed it to me, grinning proudly at the proof of her new status symbol proving she’d become an adult. It was lame and goofy and a predictable tattoo for an eighteen-year-old girl to get and still, it was one hundred percent Lan. It suited her, much to mom’s chagrin. I close my eyes, willing my heart to slow down… or speed up… or stop fluttering wildly because spots are forming at the edge of my vision. My breath feels hung up in my throat somewhere. Nausea rolls like a ball bearing in a metal drum. I pull my ear buds from my ears, close my laptop and lace my fingers in front of me.

  I can feel his eyes on me, but he makes no move to touch me. I take deep breaths in through my nose, out through my mouth, trying to focus on the hum of the engines propelling us through the air, back to Boston. “Sorry,” I say … to whom? Him? Me? Lan? The fucking universe? I unfasten my seatbelt and make my way through the cabin toward the bathroom. Once inside, I engage the lock and lean against the wall, my head falling back. An odd feeling of vertigo takes over and my stomach roils forcing me to my knees. I hug the basin of the toilet as my stomach empties violently. Despite my resolve to keep my shit together, tears, fat, hot and unwelcome pool in my eyes, slipping one by one down my cheeks.

  “Goddamn eggs benedict, and butterfly tattoos, and stupid girls,” I croak in a whisper. “Lan, what did you do,” I breathe into the crook of my elbow, attempting to wipe my tear streaked face.

  Did High Knoll do this?

  I get to my feet and use my hands to blot water on my face then fan my skin with my hands to cool off and dry my eyes. I sniffle, and smooth my clothes, wipe away smudges of makeup, pretending I didn’t just get sick and have an emotional melt down. The file Hack sent me with the images of Lan in some kind of lineup like a dog at a shelter was shocking to see. It took a couple hours to return from Seattle from Arman’s house in the sticks. The moment I had cell signal, I sent Hack a message with my request. Hours later, in the air no less, a file arrived via one of those ghostly text messages with all the zeroes. I opened the text message on my cell phone and under a paperclip image I read “Download Me”.

  Thoughts of Alice In Wonderland came to mind as I clicked the icon, and waited for it to load. The parallels were there. I’ve most certainly stumbled into a foreign world full of mystery and intrigue. I was smiling thinking of how Beast keeps asking me who I am. His head atop a fat caterpillar had my lips turned upward but they quickly fell when I saw what Hack sent my way.

  Something in me fractured at that moment and with everything else that has been happening, I gave in. I cried. For her. For me. For mom. For the sinking feeling in my gut that tells me that the odds of me saving her are slim to none. She may already be dead. I don’t know Russian and I don’t know a thing about this seedy world. Though… I know someone who obviously does.

  Beast.

  I wish it were that easy to just ask him to explain the file Hack sent to me. It did, after all come from Beast’s server. Hack broke in and forwarded it to me. If I hadn’t left my cell phone voice recorder app running when he sent me outside the garden I would have thought he was the one auctioning off girls. But the moment we got into the car to return to Seattle, I pretended to be listening to music, and ignoring the dominating presence across from me. In truth, I had been listening to the audio file on my cellphone. I’d heard the conversation he had with the man he called The Salesman. It was plain to see Beast isn’t the one selling women but he’d shown interest in buying one. Buying women? For himself? What is the difference in a person selling girls and the person buying them? Nothing. Not a damn thing. They’re equally guilty, vile, and repugnant. He really is a monster. I feel filthy knowing his mouth was on my most private, sensitive parts. He’d kissed me, licked me, smelled me, bitten me, marked me. He was right about the bruising. Vicious purple bruises have bloomed on the inside of each of my thighs, evidence of the lust and violence connecting us. It’s a dangerous line I’m walking. I don’t know if there is a way out for me, or for Lan.

  Gathering myself, inhaling deeply and exhaling the turmoil locked inside, I slide the lock on the bathroom door and open it just to find a glaring pair of stormy eyes. His expression doesn’t change aside from the slight squinting at the edges of his eyes, narrowing them at me as though just looking at me will peel back the veneer on top to reveal whatever is inside, my secrets, my fears, my desires.

  I keep my expression blank and move past him getting back to my seat. I sit down and clasp my seatbelt and wonder what if anything is next. I know a few things. 1. Lan is being sold. 2. Beast isn’t at the center of it but he does want to buy a girl from the advertisement, if that’s what it is. 3. I don’t know where this auction is going to be held or if it’s a phone thing or maybe it’s a first come first serve basis. 4. The Salesman, Arman is some sort of third party guy who services criminals like Beast in negotiating certain dealings.

  Does Kevin know any of this? Is Lan being held in Toronto with other women and the guy she was seen with? Is she still there?

  I ponder that for a moment wondering if I should give him the information I’ve just acquired.

  “Arman said his sister liked you. What did you talk to her about?”

  “Hmm?” I say looking up at Beast in the plush leather seat across from me.

  “Amina, Arman’s sister.”

  “Oh, yeah. She didn’t make much eye contact but she did say a few things to me about her garden,” I note thinking about the older woman who reminded me so much of Joe from the diner. A small sad feeling smile tilts up my lips and I look down at my hands in my lap wondering how Joe is. Jeanie too. I miss my routine before this nightmare consumed my life. “She has a condition?”

  “Not sure. Something wrong with her?”

  “I think maybe she’s autistic. Seems high functioning though,” I add.

  “You experienced with that sort of thing?” He eyes me closely.

  “I knew a guy once who I think is autistic but he’s not as… capable as Amina I don’t think. Joe has a helper and doesn’t say much or make eye contact. He has to have a routine and things like that,” I explain.

  I glance up to Beast realizing I gave him yet another morsel of truth. I can almost see his brain filing it away. I’m not worried about it much. I keep reminding myself that bits of truth are essential if you are attempting to maintain a web of lies but… truth or not, keeping my brain clutter free is becoming more difficult with each
passing minute in Beast’s world. His eyes darken as they rake over me. I’m not very attractive at the moment, pink-rimmed eyes from crying. Some of my makeup is wiped away. I feel more exposed than I normally would. Somehow it seems to have delighted Beast to see me this way, hurting and emotional.

  “Do your thighs hurt?”

  “Yes,” I whisper trying and failing to not look up at him.

  “Good,” he says with an arrogant gleam in his eye.

  The landing gear bumps against the runway and the pilot breaks smoothly, delivering us back to Beast’s dominion and for the first time since I decided to immerse myself in this world, I am at a loss for where things go from here.

  Waiting nearby is Beast’s car. He loads our things into the back and folds his large frame into the driver’s seat. I’m lost in thought, desperate for a plan or a good idea of what I should do next when he parks behind my car, which is right in front of my rental. I get out of the car and walk up to the door, unlocking it to let us in. Beast drops my things by the door and prowls toward me, walking me backward so I’m against the door. Without touching me at all, merely hovering over me my skin pricks at the proximity of him. I should feel sick to my stomach. He’s bad. He’s rotten. I feel gross knowing he’s the kind of man that buys kidnapped women and yet… a little voice inside sneers, telling me I know I want him because I’m just as rotten as he is in a lot of ways.

  “You don’t have to come to the club tomorrow,” he breathes over me then leaves me standing, shaking and suddenly cold in the doorway to my shitty, lonely little den of lies.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Beast

  “She's not a cop,” I reassure him, looking up to see one of Murph’s brows raised like I’ve just told him pigs fly.