The Sacrifice

by Sandy J Hartwick

  The dread and horror that filled Weasel’s stomach spread through his chest and into his brain. He could not pass out or look away or scream. He was frozen, watching that which could not be—the worst part being that he did not know if it was real. There was that grinding, chewing, juicy sound that filled his ears and the whole mine shaft.

  In a part of his mind, far away from the shaft, Weasel watched the whole thing and saw his sanity hanging by that legendary thin thread; he saw it unwind and snap.

  He screamed louder than he ever had before—screaming, but not knowing that he was screaming. Sitting up, powered by adrenaline, not knowing that he was sitting up, his heart squeezing with pure fear, he began to fire into the giant rat’s head.

  Chapter 30

  Susan sat on the sofa in her living room staring into the empty fireplace grate. Her beautiful face was drawn and she had dark circles under her eyes. Her body was exhausted from lack of sleep, but her brain was wriggling with its diabolical plan. She went over it again and again.

  At last her body won out and she lay on her side on the sofa, thinking she would lay still, just for a moment. She was asleep when her head rested on the sofa. She smiled in her sleep. She was entering a dream, where she was high priestess to the One. She served only him.

  She stood on the summit of an Aztec temple, which was actually the casino Azteca. The night scene of Vegas spread out below. Two large fires burned in huge fire pits on either side of her. Somewhere, a drumbeat, slow and ceremonial, drifted up to her. She wore a sexy black gown that floated and swayed in the night air. Her totem necklace reflected in the firelight. In her breast, above her heart, she felt a surge of power as she looked out above the gaudiness of Vegas. She was in power, queen of all she surveyed. It was a rush. The power. The power. Now there was some commotion at the base of the pyramid. Victims. First, her uncle, stripped to the waist, arms held by Jake and Billy. He cowered and tried to pull away from the steps slick with blood, but the men powered him up the steps. He began to struggle and scream like a baby, tears and blubbering, but the men brought him up the steep stairs quickly and pushed him groveling at her sandaled feet. He started to beg, but she lost control and pulled her dagger from her belt and began to stab him crazily. It took him forever to die, but each stab filled her with joy. He was dead for some time before she stopped her arms, shaking with the effort, her face and body sticky with his blood. She grabbed the executioner’s axe and lopped off his head and then kicked it soccer style off the pyramid. It landed midway down the steps with a cracking sound and bounced down the stairs. She kicked/pushed the rest of the body off the back of the pyramid, where it fell hundreds of feet to the street below. Far, far below, she could hear the hordes of Las Vegas cheer her name. She smiled and raised her arms in victory. She turned as she heard a disturbance in the front of the pyramid.

  A bit of dread tingled in her belly. She saw the cowboy at the base of the pyramid. He too was stripped to the waist, but instead of the straight, pure hatred she had felt before it was mixed with fear and a strange thread of desire. He was not restrained or under anyone’s control. He began to climb the pyramid, his powerful body moving with the shadows cast by the flames. His intense blue eyes were locked on hers and her desire increased. His eyes held an emotion that she could not read, but she was afraid and wanting him at the same time.

  He closed the last distance quickly and walked the few steps across the pyramid until he could reach out and touch her. Her idea of killing him had vaporized and been replaced with the idea of making him her slave. She brought the dagger to his throat, but he knocked her hand away with one movement and the blade clattered on the blood-wet stone. His right hand shot out and grabbed her by the throat. He lifted her easily to eye level, and at last she could read his eyes. Determination. Unwavering strength. Finality. It was a straight line that ran on into infinity. Doing that which must be done. She grabbed his arm and began to fight, kicking, lashing, scratching, but her blows were pathetic. She looked down and could see that the cowboy had moved to the edge of the pyramid and was about to release her to the same street where she had deposited Uncle.

  She was furious. How? How could this happen? She was in charge! How could some shit kicker topple her world? She was angry and questioning even when his hand shook itself free of her and she was falling, her beautiful gown fluttering up, her hair whipping around her face. His blue eyes watched her fall, making sure that she was going to die. Her scream of rage filled her ears, her anger welling, so much larger than her fear of death that it surprised her.

  Susan awoke, sitting bolt upright before she hit the street. She was breathing hard and her clothes were sweaty and stuck to her skin. Even her hair was drenched and her unwashed, neglected body was starting to smell. This jolted Susan more that her dream gone wrong. She had always been appearance-oriented and disciplined. She shook herself out of it. She needed a shower and real rest. She pulled herself up from the couch, shook her head and headed to the bathroom.

  Chapter 31

  Father Bob called the Whites and got their machine. He hung up and started to look up their cell phone numbers and stopped. He knew how Tom felt about him going to Vegas. He wouldn’t want him to go or at least would want to come with him. Tom would also want to know his plan and he didn’t have one yet. Tom would point out all the problems that Father Bob himself recognized about this trip—he didn’t want to hear it. This was a reconnaissance mission or maybe just a glamorized gambling junket. He had an eight-hour drive before him, maybe longer if he stopped to eat or stretch his legs, which he always liked to do, and this would be plenty of time for him to get his plan together. And if he couldn’t form a plan? Well, then he would really be on vacation, wouldn’t he?

  He redialed the number and this time talked to the machine. “Hi Cami, hi Tom, hi kids. This is Father Bob—hey, the bishop has given me some time off and I’m heading to Vegas. There’s a nice young kid filling in for me, Father Michael. Tom, if you need to get a hold of me my cell is 782-7821—I doubt it will work much on the way to Vegas, but once I get there it should. I’ll try to call you when I get to my room if it’s not too late. Take care and God bless.” He hung up the phone, grabbed his bags and headed out to the Toyota. He felt a little guilty leaving like this, but he had left a note for the visiting priest. He wanted to be on his way before anyone could delay him.

  He sighed as he started the car and headed out of town. He turned off his cell phone and set the cruise and slowly began to review what he knew about the Taylor family and how he might bring them to the law.

  After Weasel emptied the clip into the monster rat’s skull he pulled the trigger several more times before he realized he was out. The giant rat was gone, and he could see his numb lower leg was still there and ungnawed. He dropped exhausted to his Steve pillow, realizing at the same instant he had shot all of his ammo and his easy way out was gone. His mind spun like the wheels on an old-time slot machine, but the dials did not line up on a row of cherries. They clicked one at a time onto tilt.

  He burst out laughing at his idiotic and horrible predicament. Shooting all of his bullets into a giant rat that was eating his leg—ha, ha, ha! Weasel choked with laughter, the pain of his movement wracking his body, but this only made him laugh harder. The streams of tears that rushed from his eyes were dehydrating him further. At some point the laughter that shook his body turned into sobs that yanked his broken torso to and fro. His mind was like a downed electric wire, popping and hissing, no longer completing its circuit. He threw the gun across the shaft and tried as best he could to pull himself into the fetal position. He fell into a long exhausted sleep, his primitive mind taking over, survival its main concern.

  Chapter 32

  It was hot already and it was only a little after nine. Tom pushed back his hat and wiped the sweat from his brow with his forearm. He reined in Chance and looked back over his shoulder. The girls were a few hundred yards behind him. Amanda was doing better than Kylee at managi
ng her mount. Kylee’s fat pony Cheyenne was stopping every few steps to munch at the green alfalfa. Amanda had a better handle on Red, Tom’s old horse, an old quarter horse gelding that had seen it all, but mostly remembered his manners.

  Tom sighed and tried to be patient. He remembered how his first horse had been a real nag and how it had been all he could do to pull its head up when it wanted to graze.

  “Daddy!” Kylee strung the word out and let it hang in the air. “She won’t stop.”

  “Okay.” He turned Chance around and trotted back. “Hand me her lead rope.” The fat pony seemed to know what was up and sidled away from Chance, keeping her mouth busy all the while in the lush feed.

  “You little,” Tom paused, wanting to say “bitch,” but instead said, “brat.” He finally got the rope from Kylee and yanked the pony’s head up a bit roughly. She switched her tail in annoyance but came up to Tom’s stirrup, and he looped the rope around the saddle horn. “Ready?” He smiled at Kylee.

  She smiled back and Tom could see the tears of frustration fading from her blue eyes; he was glad that he had come back to help her. Working with the girls slowed everything down, but Tom wanted to teach them and spend time with them. They were both becoming good riders and he wanted to encourage them, besides, as Cami always told him, it was making him more patient.

  At last they reached the field where the fat cow had broken in. Just as Tom had thought, the second pair had joined the first. He stopped at the gate and gave Kylee her lead back. “Girls, back off from the gate so I can drive them through. I know this old red cow is mean, so I want you to stay back a ways and let Farley and me get her going.”

  They nodded and moved their horses about ten yards from the gate. Tom cantered off. Tom moved down the far side of the field, and the cows raised their heads only for a moment, acknowledging his presence. It felt good to be horseback again, and he enjoyed the flow of air on his face. Farley galloped by his side, glancing at the boss, waiting for his cue to move in on the cows.

  Once he was past the cows a bit he eased Chance to the left and circled in front of the cows and pulled into a walk. He made a beeline for the cows, and even though he was one hundred yards off yet, the black cow and her calf turned heel and headed for the end of the pasture. The red cow was watching him but didn’t lift her head from the rich feed, eating for all she was worth. Farley trotted ahead of Tom and the horse. His whole carriage was that of concentration. Tom knew that all of the cows on his place hated dogs. They would ignore a coyote ten paces from their new calf, yet run after a dog that was a quarter of a mile away.

  As Tom got closer, he could see the cow switching her tail and stomping angrily. She was one of the last cows that had belonged to his dad, a real old bitch that broke fences regularly, was hard to work and had generally caused trouble wherever she went. Last year she had charged and struck Chance while Tom was on his back, and Tom wouldn’t have such an aggressive animal on his ranch. This old biddy was going to the sale in Fallon.

  “Whoa.” Chance stopped immediately.

  Farley looked at him expectantly and Tom nodded. “Go get a bite, Farley.”

  The dog didn’t wait for Tom to change his mind and raced up to the cow. The old witch was no match for the dog, who was an athlete and in excellent shape. He barked and darted and circled the old cow, looking like a hummingbird in a flower patch. The cow, aged and rotund, reminded Tom of a brontosaurus lumbering around. She kept trying to hook Farley with her horn but found only air where the dog had been a second before. It took less than a minute for the old girl to get frustrated and head after the other cattle. She ran off, tail swishing and snot flying, with Farley and her calf chasing after her.

  Tom laughed and called Farley back to him. The dog bounded back as happy as could be. It was a good day; he got to chase a cow. “Good boy, Farley!” He bent down to the dog, and Farley jumped against his stirrup for a pat on the head.

  They trotted after the cows which had already passed the girls and were headed towards the house and corrals.

  Chapter 33

  “What’s going on?”

  “Not much, sir. She hasn’t left her place for two days.”

  A thought flashed through his skull. “Two days?”

  “Yeah. I saw her lights come on once or twice, but that’s it.”

  He was silent. He could not imagine Susan committing suicide. She was too in love with herself. It was not her style—he could only see her killing herself in an extreme circumstance and only then if she could take someone else with her—someone like himself.

  “Mr. Taylor, are you there?”

  “Yeah, better check on her, call her from a pay phone just to see if she picks up. If she doesn’t, let me know. Keep watching her place. I need to know where she is and what she’s up to.”

  “I’ll keep you posted, sir.”

  He pocketed his cell phone and leaned his forehead against the aquarium tank. Thinking about Susan gave him a headache. He found himself wishing again that it had been her and not Ash that had taken the bullet. It was dim down here in the casino basement, one of his favorite places to relax. He watched through the aquarium window and saw a long arrow shape glide past. Charon, the male. In a few seconds, Hecate, the female, swam past. Here were his dear pets, his expensive hobby and his favorite way of taking his mind off his troubles. Other casino executives might have mistresses or polo ponies or professional sports teams. He had two giant aquarium tanks in the basement of Azteca with a pair of bull sharks that he had raised for decades. Vicious man-eaters and the only type of shark that could live in fresh or saltwater, the bulls were his amusement and solved enough problems that he was almost thinking of using them as a business write-off. He smiled at this and thought of the many nasty people the sharks had enjoyed. He liked them to have live prey, because it was more natural and made them healthy. He kept them on the lean side, and they were always hungry. They had not had anything to eat since that card counter, a smart-ass college kid that didn’t have much meat on him. He would need to feed them in the next few days.

  He climbed the stairs that led to the observatory platform; it was about ten feet above the tank and ran about five feet wide across the middle of the tank. The sharks surfaced, knowing that most times dinner was dropped in from this platform. Taylor leaned against the railing and looked at Hecate, who passed directly below him, skimming the surface, her eyes seeming to take him in. Even though he marveled at her structure and thrilled to look at his monstrous pet, he still chilled when he looked into those eyes. His pets were giant fish and they liked to eat. They were hungry. Their attacks were ferocious and cold; he had watched them many times. But were they much different than him? Of course he had better manners, when he was opening his Chinese takeout or buttering his slice of toast, but were they not similar creatures, following a series of steps that led to satiation—filling a need?

  He straightened up and looked across at the twin tank which he used whenever the main tank needed repairs or a major cleaning. It was exactly the same, except the platform across the middle was much wider—about fifteen feet across. Chairs would be set up there later for Ash’s private memorial. Ash had loved the sharks too, and it was very private here. Some of his friends in the group had been pestering him about seeing Charon and Hecate and one of their feedings. It would all tie in this way. In the back of his mind, he had hoped to have Ash’s killer here to feed to his babies, but that was not happening. Still, he hoped to have someone here for dinner. He sighed. Maybe something would happen. That would be at least one bright spot in his horrid week—feeding his babies in front of the group. He rarely shared them with anyone and it would be a fitting tribute to Ash.

  It was hard to say which view was more exciting when he fed his pets—the platform where you could see the terror of the victim and see him pulled under and yanked about like a rag doll, or from the aquarium window below, where you couldn’t see the victims’ terror (although you heard it just fine), but had a g
reat view of the sharks’ approach and attack and could watch them enjoy every bite. This view was for the person with a stronger stomach, and most women didn’t care for this much gore, except for Susan—for her, the gorier the better. He shook his head. Could he never stop being bothered by his niece, even down here in his favorite place?

  The sharks had gone back to circling the tank, giving up on the hope that he might jump in and feed them himself. He looked at his watch and sighed again; time to go back to work. He trudged down the stairs and headed towards the elevator, wishing again that Ash was still alive. He had been looking forward to retiring, and Ash had just begun to take the reins. Now he had to find someone new to train.

  As the elevator took him to the penthouse, the basement fell to total silence. The sharks circled relentlessly. They were hungry, not so hungry that they were ready to attack each other, but more than ready to eat. They did enjoy the live prey better than the chunks of meat that they sometimes were fed. Something primal in their tiny brains fired and pleasured at the tearing, ripping and fighting of the live prey. The flood of warm blood into the water, the vibrations and disturbance of the water, the sounds of terror from their prey had become Pavlov’s bell to them.

  Chapter 34

  Susan awoke starving. She had slept for twelve hours straight, but she had no care for the clock at the moment. She stalked to the kitchen and began to eat right from the fridge. She could not remember the last meal she had eaten, and that raised another warning flag in her mind. Another little thing that was not normal for her. She watched her figure and nutrition constantly; every meal was at a set time and every calorie counted. That she had forgotten to eat for …? She glanced at the clock, but that did not tell her what day it was. She ate like a starved person just in from a deserted island. She drank milk from the jug, stuffed grapes into her mouth, found part of a medium rare steak and ripped and chewed it off the bone like a dog. The meat made her crave more meat and she ripped open a package of hamburger and put her face into it and ate. She loved steak tartare, but this was a new one for her, cold raw hamburger right out of the package. It occurred to her that she must look like a dog or wild beast with the blood from the meat about her lips and the chunks of raw burger in her teeth. She growled and laughed. The nutritious blood made her feel better and she continued to eat, slowing down enough to use her fingers. When she had eaten about half of the package she stopped and set it back in the fridge, licking her lips and fingers. Her full stomach warmed her, and she went back to her bed to enjoy her feeling of satiety and to work on her plan.