Flesh and Blood

by James Neal Harvey

  And none of them was Jessica Silk.

  Even more curious, the man was not former Senator Clayton Cunningham.

  It was his son, Clay.

  Ben went through the stack quickly, then again more slowly. He returned the photographs to the envelope and put the envelope back into the case.

  Looking around the room, he wondered what else of interest might be here. If there was something more, the likeliest place to find it would be the desk. He tried the drawers, finding them also locked. The locks had inset bars; he’d need something heavier than his pocketknife to force them.

  Among the pens and the box of paper clips and other junk on the desk was a letter opener with a long steel blade. He jammed the blade into the file drawer and exerted pressure. The lock broke with a loud snap. He opened the drawer.

  Inside was a stack of videocassettes. On each was a strip of masking tape with initials and dates written on it. He went through them until he found one that was identified as CC-JS 11/3.

  November third was the day Senator Clayton Cunningham died.

  There was a VCR attached to the television set on the far side of the room. Ben went over to it, shoved the cassette into the machine, and turned on the TV. Then he sat down in one of the upholstered chairs to watch.

  Seconds later, the image of Senator Cunningham loomed onto the screen. He was standing beside the table in his office and Jessica Silk was seated at the table.

  As Ben stared at the tube, he saw the senator draw Jessica to her feet and embrace her, holding her in a long, deep kiss. Then the old man led her over to the leather sofa and began to undress her.

  81

  When she drew close, Shelley could make out details of the mausoleum’s construction. It was built in the style of a Greek temple. Carved into the tympanum under the tiled roof were figures of warriors on foot and in chariots, and on three sides of the building Doric columns stood like tall sentinels.

  Approaching the steps, she saw a pair of heavy bronze doors, just inside the columns. The doors were almost sure to be locked, but she wouldn’t know until she tried them.

  She stood there for a few moments, willing herself to have the courage to go up the steps. Whatever she did, remaining here was out of the question; she was too visible. After one last glance over her shoulder, she walked quickly up the wide treads and past the columns to the doors.

  The handle on each was a thick vertical cylinder, also of bronze. She reached out and gave the handles a tug. To her surprise, the doors opened easily.

  The interior was shrouded in darkness. She stepped inside and the doors swung shut behind her, enclosing her in pitch-black silence. The air in here was cold and damp, infused with a musty odor that crawled into her nostrils and stayed there. Grateful that she’d brought along the tiny flashlight, she dug it out of the pocket of her windbreaker and thumbed the switch.

  As the small cone of light swept over the area, she saw that she was standing in what appeared to be a single large room. Set into three of the marble walls were smaller bronze doors, stacked one above the other, and she realized these were the actual tombs. Each of the doors bore engraved inscriptions identifying the tomb’s occupant.

  In the center of the wall opposite where she stood was a door larger than the others. She went over to it and read the legend that had been carved into the metal. What she was looking at was the final resting place of the founding father of the clan, Colonel Clayton Cunningham.

  Below that door were a number of others, set into the wall in a horizontal line. In the flashlight’s beam, she saw that they were the tombs of two of the Colonel’s wives and of his son and daughter-in-law, who had died young in the skiing accident Shelley had read about, an avalanche in Austria. The son had been the father of Senator Clayton Cunningham III.

  But where was the senator?

  She played the light over the walls. Some of the doors were inscribed with the names of other Cunninghams, many of whom were unknown to her, and some doors bore no inscription. The spaces behind these, she reasoned, were empty at the moment, waiting for family members who were yet to die.

  She found the senator’s tomb on the wall to her left. He was also in what was obviously a place of honor, behind a door set on the same level as that of the Colonel. Impulsively, she reached out and touched the clammy bronze surface. The door was locked.

  For the next few minutes, she walked slowly around the dank, gloomy room, trying the other doors and finding all of these securely locked, as well.

  She studied the inscriptions. Judging from the dates, the life spans of some of the Cunninghams who were entombed here approximated that of the Colonel, while others ranged over more recent years. Many of these people had lived long lives, but some had died in infancy.

  Not all had the name Cunningham. Who were they? Cousins, perhaps, or in-laws? It struck her as odd that so little was known of them, compared with the Colonel’s direct offspring, who had always enjoyed a certain celebrity—or notoriety. The engraved inscriptions gave no clue, stating only names and the dates of birth and death. Shivering in the damp cold, she felt a growing sense of disappointment.

  That thing in the mausoleum.

  What was it—and where?

  An idea struck her. Perhaps what she hoped to find—whatever it was—had been stored in one of the empties. Stepping to an unmarked door, she tried to open it. No luck; this one was also locked. She tried another and was again frustrated.

  Damn it. She’d better get out of here. See if she couldn’t figure out some other way to approach this place and its secrets before one of the guards found her.

  She flicked the flashlight beam over the room once more and turned to leave. As she did, she caught sight of an upright doorway she hadn’t noticed, at the end of the far wall. It was painted white, the same shade as the marble wall, which was why she’d overlooked it.

  Stepping across the room to the door, she tried the knob. It was unlocked. With growing excitement, she opened the door and stepped through, into a space that was smaller than the one she’d come from. She swept the area with her flashlight.

  Inside this room was a row of coffins.

  Each was made of highly polished wood, so dark as to seem almost black. Handles on the sides appeared to be of hammered silver. Some of the caskets were larger than others.

  For a few seconds, she simply stood gawking at what she’d discovered. Then she went to the nearest one and bent over it. Holding the flashlight with one hand, she reached down with trembling fingers and touched the gleaming wood. Taking a deep breath, she grasped the lid and opened it.

  The coffin was empty.

  The lining, she saw, was as elegant as the exterior. It was of tufted white satin, with a lacy pillow at the head end. But there was nothing else inside, and she felt deflated.

  Stepping to the next, she repeated the process, gripping the heavy lid and raising it—and was disappointed once more. She tried the next, then the one beside that, and the sense of excitement she’d felt a moment ago turned to one of frustration. There was nothing in any of them.

  But she wouldn’t give up until she’d looked inside each one. She went to the next and swung the lid upward.

  And was stunned.

  Looking down at what lay on the white satin, she felt faint and sick at the same time, her knees turning to rubber and bile welling up in her throat. She opened her mouth to scream.

  At that moment, a thick arm clamped around her neck and she was lifted off her feet. The cry died in her mouth and bright lights exploded like rockets going off in her head. She tried to bite the arm, tried to kick at whoever was behind her, but her efforts had no effect. No matter how hard she struggled, she couldn’t break free, nor could she breathe.

  Seconds after that, she couldn’t think. There was a roaring in her ears, as if she was standing in the path of a freight train. The lights in her head began spinning faster and faster and then she fell into a deep black void.

  82

 
It was like watching an X-rated movie, which had never been Tolliver’s idea of a good time. But this was worse, because the old man kept biting Jessica’s neck and touching her thighs with a lighted cigar. Seeing it made you want to puke, he thought. You could almost feel the sting, smell the stench of burning flesh.

  They went at it for some time, writhing on the leather sofa, the old man groaning and slobbering, sometimes whispering into Jessica’s ear, sometimes squealing with pleasure. She was responding the same way, but Ben couldn’t help wondering whether that wasn’t a put-on.

  Gradually, the coupling grew more and more animated, until at last Cunningham jerked spasmodically, Jessica gripping the back of his neck and gasping. He shuddered and let out one last wail. Then both of them collapsed, sprawled in a tangle of flaccid, sweaty limbs, breathing hard. The cigar lay in an ashtray on the floor.

  After that came a long period in which the pair remained relatively still. Ben kept his eyes fixed on the screen, however, sensing this wasn’t the end of the action.

  It wasn’t.

  Jessica got to her feet and went over to the table. There was a sheen on her naked skin and a number of red spots were visible on her legs and buttocks.

  Again Ben recalled the scene in the autopsy room and the condition of her body when he’d seen it there. Some of the wounds had looked raw then, when he’d observed them close up.

  Now the tape showed her opening an attaché case, the same one Ben had found the photos in. She took something out of the case and returned to the sofa, hiding the object behind her back.

  The senator raised himself on one elbow, watching her. “What have you got there?”

  Jessica gave him a kittenish smile. “Close your eyes and do as I tell you.”

  “Is that the new toy?” he persisted.

  “Don’t be so nosy. Just close your eyes. You’ll love it.”

  He did as instructed and she got back onto the sofa, sliding under him and spreading her legs so that he was lying between them. It took a little coaxing, but finally she succeeded in helping him reenter her.

  At this point, Ben could see what she was holding in her free hand. It was a slim, shiny cylinder, perhaps six inches long. As the senator again began a slow, rhythmic thrusting, she inserted the device into his anus.

  Cunningham tensed, but Jessica cooed reassurance, and he resumed his lovemaking. Another few seconds went by and then she pressed her thumb down on the end of the cylinder.

  Instantly, the old man grew rigid. He arched his back and a strangled cry issued from his mouth. Ben could see his eyes protrude, spittle forming on his lips. He twisted and bucked, his hands fluttering, feet kicking. For several seconds, he flopped about, still in position between her legs. He cried out once more, but now the sound was a muffled grunt. Finally, he stopped moving and his body became totally limp.

  Jessica shoved him off her and got to her feet. She stood beside the sofa, looking at him lying facedown. Then she pulled the shiny cylinder out of his rear end and put it on a table.

  Tolliver stopped the tape, thinking of what he’d seen in the dungeon under the Palace of Justice in Panama City.

  He rewound the tape to the beginning of the sequence with the love toy and started it again.

  Once more, he watched as Jessica inserted the cylinder and the pair went through the action on the sofa. After removing the toy from the senator’s body and placing it on the table, Jessica stepped over to his desk.

  She opened the drawers and quickly went through them. There seemed to be nothing of interest to her, until she pulled an envelope from one of them. She opened it and, after leafing through the contents, went to her case and put the envelope inside.

  After that, she hurriedly put her clothes back on. She picked up the telephone, speaking into it so softly, Tolliver couldn’t hear what she was saying.

  Ardis Merritt came into the office. She knelt beside the senator’s body and felt for a pulse. After a moment, she looked back at Silk and shook her head.

  Straightening up, Merritt said, “Where is it?”

  “There, on the table.”

  Merritt picked up the shiny cylinder. She wrapped it in a handkerchief and tucked it into a pocket in her skirt.

  So intently was Ben watching that he never heard the door open behind him. The first hint he had that he was no longer alone came in the form of a cold, hard object pressing against the back of his head.

  A voice said, “Hold still or you’re dead.”

  He froze and the voice said, “Now get up and put your hands on top of your head. Go over to the wall and stand against it with your feet spread apart.”

  When his nose was flattened against the wall, the object was withdrawn from the back of his skull and he was frisked. Hands relieved him of the Mauser, the case containing his shield and ID, his keys and his knife.

  “Turn around,” the voice said.

  The guard was like the others in Montrock’s security force, tall and husky. He was holding a submachine gun and pointing it at Tolliver, his finger curled around the trigger.

  “Get in front of me,” the guard said. “And walk slow. You try anything stupid and I’ll blow your backbone out your belly.”

  83

  The pain in Shelley’s head was a fierce pounding in synch with her pulse, as if a demon were inside her skull, smashing against the bone with a sledgehammer. Each time her heart pumped, it felt as if the top of her head would come off. After a while, she wished it would, to end her suffering.

  The pain was also affecting her stomach. It made her weak and queasy, made her want to vomit. But the contractions of her belly muscles produced only a scalding sensation in the back of her throat, leaving a sour taste in her mouth.

  She tried to think of what had happened to her, as much to get her mind off the agony as anything else. She remembered going into the mausoleum, seeing the tombs of Cunningham family members. Remembered finding the smaller room where the coffins were stored, the dark, gleaming boxes squatting there like a row of vultures, waiting.

  And most of all, she remembered looking into each of the caskets, one after another. Opening the lids and peering inside. Finding all of them empty.

  Except the last.

  When she’d directed the flashlight beam down into that one, she’d wanted to scream. Now, seeing the ghastly contents once more in her mind’s eye, she again opened her mouth. But all that came out was a thin whimper.

  She tried to recall what had happened after that. Remembered being hoisted off her feet, a heavy, muscular arm pressing against her throat, cutting off her air. Remembered kicking and biting and struggling until the lack of oxygen had set off a burst of fireworks and a horrendous roaring in her ears.

  And after that, nothing.

  But where was she now? Her eyes were open, but she couldn’t see. Because she was in total darkness, she realized. Lying on her back in a place that was cold and dank.

  She tried to sit up, but instead banged her head on a hard surface. She lay back and groped with her fingers. What that revealed was that she was confined in a narrow space, not much more than a couple of feet wide, whose ceiling was scant inches above her face.

  Realization struck her, and this time she did scream, a long, piercing screech that left her trembling in horror and made the hammering in her head more violent.

  Panicking, she beat on the surfaces with her fists, but they were as unyielding as stone. She kicked and clawed and thrashed her legs and her elbows against the walls of her tiny prison but achieved nothing but bruises and more pain. After a time, she grew limp, sobbing in the darkness.

  Think, she told herself. Think.

  And don’t give up. Nothing’s hopeless, ever.

  Or is it?

  No, no, no. Don’t give in; don’t feel sorry for yourself. And above all, don’t flail around like some kid having a tantrum—that’ll only use up the oxygen faster.

  But what if it does?

  Wouldn’t that be better than prolonging
this? You’re thirsty, aren’t you? And cold. Your legs and your arms hurt. And this goddamned pounding in your head is more than you can take.

  But there has to be a way out of this; there has to be.

  You were stupid, weren’t you? Thought you could bring this off all by yourself. Thought you could play detective, become a big hero. You’d show that damned Tolliver, wouldn’t you?

  And what would you give now to have his help? To have him get you out of this hideous trap?

  If only he knew now where you were. He wouldn’t leave you like this, would he? Hell no he wouldn’t. He’d rip this place wide open to free you.

  But he doesn’t know, does he?

  And so here you are, alone in your little black dungeon, cold and in pain. Waiting to die.

  84

  “You stupid bastard,” Clay Cunningham said.

  Ben looked up from where he was sitting on a straight-backed chair in the living room of the beach cottage. He still had on the uniform he’d swiped, and his hands were tied behind his back. A guard was standing beside Cunningham, the muzzle of his submachine gun trained on Tolliver’s gut.

  Kurt Kramer was there as well, wearing his cynical smile. And his wife, Ingrid, Clay’s sister. Also Evan Montrock, with light from the room’s single lamp gleaming on his bald head. The group formed a half circle around Ben, glowering as if he were something smelly that had washed up from the ocean. In the shadows on the far side were still others, apparently more of Montrock’s guards.

  Cunningham shook his head. “Did you really think you could get away with this? Creeping in here like some two-bit burglar? You and your girlfriend must both be idiots.”

  “But don’t worry,” Kramer said, “she won’t make any more trouble, either.”

  Ben said, “Where is she?”

  Montrock answered. “In the mausoleum, asshole. Dead. Same as you’re gonna be in another minute.”

  Dread washed over Tolliver like a cold wave. And then he felt a surge of anger. “You’re only making it worse for yourselves. I know more than enough about your scam to blow it away, and you along with it. All of you.”