by Adam Carter
And slowly, slowly, she accepted what was happening and allowed her spirit to die.
*
The stupid dog was in the lake. It couldn’t swim and was floundering as it attempted to make it to the shore. Baronaire ignored the animal and concentrated instead upon the three men. Two were standing joking about something, shifting from one foot to the other in an attempt to keep warm. The third man, all of them wearing immaculate suits, was holding Rachael’s head under the water, and something inside Baronaire simply snapped. Sanders would want this kept as quiet as possible; he wouldn’t want Baronaire to leap from a tree and tackle three juggernauts like these. If he phoned Sanders right now and explained the situation, he would likely tell Baronaire to just come on home and forget about it. He had done his best.
But Baronaire had not done his best. Not yet.
Throwing himself from the tree, he sailed over the heads of the first two men, landing with the grace of a jungle cat beside the third. Max, if he had heard his name right. Baronaire grabbed the giant with one hand and tossed him aside as though he was a sack of foam, not even watching him land. He grabbed Rachael and drew her from the lake, turning her onto her back. She was pale, her mouth was filled with water and she was not breathing. He could hear no heartbeat, could sense the warmth of her body fading, and panic seized him.
The first of the men ran into him before he even remembered they existed.
Baronaire turned to them both and hissed. Rachael was dying, and every second he wasted was one second too long. He had no time at all to waste on these goons, and some base instinct in his mind took over, some primal rage he later would not be able to explain. The hiss he emitted was not that of a man, not that of an animal. It was the sibilant roar of a monster.
He pounced, landing upon the first man with both feet, his fingernails tearing out his throat and sending a spray of blood gushing in either direction. Even before the body had hit the ground had Baronaire whirled, lunging at the second man, his claws stabbing through his eyes and embedding clear into the man’s brain. Baronaire landed upon the ground, a bestial ruin of a man, but Rachael’s scent was strong and his humanity forced itself to the fore once more as he turned back to her. Racing to her side, he cradled her body with gentle hands. Baronaire knew nothing of resuscitation methods, but he had seen them on TV and while it was likely wrong it was all he had to go on.
Turning her onto her side, he watched the excess water spill from Rachael’s mouth. With bloody fingers he moved her tongue aside, remembering from somewhere that was something he should be doing, wondering whether he had even got that wrong. Panic was rising within him. Rachael’s once cherubic face was growing paler by the moment and he pushed her onto her back once more and massaged her chest. He pushed once, twice, to no effect. Placing his lips to hers, he breathed directly into her lungs, knowing he was supposed to have done something to tilt the head or something but not knowing what position to actually put her in.
He placed the heels of his palms against her chest again and pushed. He was well aware he could shatter her ribcage if he applied too much pressure, and it was all he could do to calm himself to actually perform these actions.
Baronaire repeated the mouth-to-mouth and chest massaging, not knowing whether either was doing any good. He did not know how long he sat there, did not know how long this could take. Blackie had by this time managed to reach the shore and was sitting there looking forlorn and extremely sorry for himself. Baronaire felt like kicking the damn beast, but all his efforts had to be put into saving Rachael’s life.
And then he felt something. He sensed her heart beating once more, and held her head as she exploded in a fit of coughing. He tried to hold her steady, but Rachael was frantic, crying and yelling, uncertain where she even was. Baronaire held her to his chest, swaying her slowly to calm her. “You’re safe,” he whispered, kissing her wet forehead. “You’re safe, Rachael.”
“Charles?” she asked, her senses returning at last. He could see confusion in her eyes; confusion followed by a sudden outflow of emotions. Terror, shame, gratitude and so many others. She clung to Baronaire as she cried, and Baronaire held her firmly, allowing her all the time she needed. He would not rush her, would never berate her. She was safe, as he had told her, and that was all that was important to him. She was safe once more. Baronaire would not allow anyone to harm her again.
“Charles.”
“Don’t try to speak,” he said in a quiet voice. “I’ll get you out of here.”
“Charles.” Her voice was cracking, and they both knew she was blessed to even be alive at all. She could barely speak, and every syllable was spoken in a half-drowned wheeze married to a sea of mental confusion, but she was determined to speak. “Charles ... I love you.”
Baronaire held her tightly and closed his eyes. “I love you too, Rach.”
He did not realise until the words were spoken that he meant it.
CHAPTER SEVEN
His head was pounding but as Max opened his eyes he realised it meant he was still alive. He was sitting on a living room chair, hands bound behind him. The curtains were closed and the lights were on, indicating it was still sometime during the night, and he could not believe he was sitting in someone’s house. Across the table from him there sat a familiar young woman. Her clothes were not the only thing she had changed, for upon her face there was no longer any trace of the earlier terror. She was stern, determined, and entirely in control now. He set his jaw firm. Whatever was going on here, he knew he wasn’t going to like it.
“Max Vereton,” a man said.
Vereton turned his head as far as it would go. There was a man leaning against the settee, looking for the world like he was going through some notes. He was tall, powerful-looking, dark-haired and gruff. Vereton refused to be intimidated and looked back to the girl, saying nothing.
“Not too wise,” the stranger said, “leaving your driver’s licence in your pocket when you go out to kill someone.” When Vereton did not respond the man added, “But then I guess you never expected to be the one on the receiving end of a beating, Max.”
The man had come to stand before him now, close to the girl, Vereton noted. Rachael Webster. Vereton knew the name well enough, even though he had not met her before the park. “What do you want?” Vereton asked in a bored tone.
“A lot of things,” the man said, probably thinking he was intimidating. “Dale Johnson.”
Vereton shrugged. “Who?”
“Your boss.”
“No idea what you’re talking about. I work for Russ, so if you want to know anything, talk to him.” A sudden memory flashed through Vereton’s mind then. Russ and Louis gasping for air as their windpipes were ripped out. Their eyes wide with fear, their blood fountaining in the air. He realised the stranger was grinning and Vereton determined not to show any further emotion to him. “Who are you anyway?”
“Charles Baronaire. I’m a cop.”
Vereton noted the girl started at that, and Baronaire seemed to realise he had said something he shouldn’t have. Either this was a ruse, or Baronaire just hadn’t told the girl what he did for a living. And since being a cop wouldn’t have intimidated Vereton in the slightest he figured it was the latter.
“Dale Johnson is a politician,” Baronaire continued. “Turns out he cavorts with prostitutes. It was raining one night, he was drunk, had a fight with the wife. He headed on over to his usual working girl, but it turned out she wasn’t working right then. She was wet, cold and hungry and she was entertaining a guest. Her best friend, Rachael Webster.” He spoke in a simple matter-of-fact way and Vereton did not interrupt. “Johnson got angry, started smashing things. Everything else had gone badly for him that night, the last thing he was going to take would be a hooker turning him down. So he hit her. Then he hit her again. And again.” With each word Baronaire was taking one step towards him. He was crouched beside Vereton’s chair now, his cold angry eyes burning into him. Vereton had seen angry, annoyed
people before, but after everything he had seen and done in his life even he quailed before the imperious gaze of Charles Baronaire.
Vereton chided himself for looking away first. “What do you want?” he asked at last.
“Rachael was a witness,” Baronaire continued calmly. “Johnson wants her eliminated, which is of course where you and your pals came in. I don’t want to kill you, Max.” And then he grinned. “God, that’s a lie. Sure I want to kill you. But I won’t. Because I want Johnson more. Give me Johnson and I’ll give you your life.”
“If you’re a cop you wouldn’t be doing this.”
“Then maybe I’m a bad cop.”
Vereton looked back at him, glanced at Rachael. She was nervous now, but had taken a deep breath, her eyes never leaving the two men. Whatever was about to happen she had steeled herself to witness it. Vereton knew there had likely been an argument, that Baronaire had wanted her out of the room when this happened, but that she had forced him to allow her to stay. Not because she wanted to watch, but because she needed to. Because she needed to see for herself how a dangerous man like Max Vereton could be brought down by her protector.
“You don’t scare me,” Vereton lied.
Baronaire placed a gentle hand upon Vereton’s shoulder and smiled. “Yes. I do.”
It was as though Baronaire could see into his soul, as though his every thought was exposed. Vereton looked away, to the girl, but there was such a ferocity within her that he found no solace there. “You’ll kill me anyway,” he said.
“That’s up to Rachael. I guess it depends on how forgiving she is.”
“You expect me to tell you anything?” Vereton laughed. “You haven’t even hit me yet.”
Baronaire struck him with such force that the chair toppled. It had been Vereton’s intent to fake a fall so he could get his hands free, but he had never expected this man to possess such power to strike him to the floor. Vereton shook his already pained head as he lay there, blood from his split lip dripping onto the carpet. Baronaire remained calm, looked down upon Vereton with pity, and Vereton hated him for it.
“I’ll kill you for that,” Vereton told him calmly.
“No. You won’t.”
Baronaire spoke with the certainty of the Devil.
The doorbell sounded then and Baronaire looked annoyed. “Rachael, could you get rid of whoever that is please?”
The girl did not want to go, but her argument died on her lips at Baronaire’s glower. Casting one final hate-filled glare at Vereton, she slipped silently from the room.
Baronaire smiled. “Now we can really get to work, Max.”
Vereton was no fool; he understood Baronaire was a psychological manipulator. But his girl was only in the next room, and if Baronaire intended to violently interrogate him it would take more than a few seconds to get any information. The fact Baronaire still seemed so certain unnerved Vereton, and Baronaire seemed to delight in this knowledge.
“You touch me again,” Vereton said, “and I’ll make your girl wish I had drowned her in the lake.”
Baronaire’s smile widened. “Thought never crossed my mind.”
He stood there smiling for several moments and Vereton had no idea what the clown was on, but he clearly wasn’t playing with a full deck any more. Vereton was working furiously all the while, and finally managed to get his hands loose. Tearing the ropes apart, he stumbled shakily to his feet, but still Baronaire did not seem to care.
And then Vereton heard a strange chittering, like bats or mice. Frowning, he looked about, but could see nothing. Something scurried beneath the floorboards at his feet, he could hear the fast-pace thump of tiny feet. The sound came again, through the floor and the walls this time. The noise built quickly and Vereton realised the house was infested with something. And suddenly black furry shapes exploded from holes in the walls, from unrepaired plug sockets, from gaps in the carpet. Something clung to his leg and Vereton tried to shake it off, but two more joined it. Within moments the black forms were crashing over him like a wave and Vereton fell, shrieking, as he was covered in rats. Tiny claws scratched at him, fierce teeth bit down upon him, hairy dark bodies were pressing against his exposed flesh. He tried to scream again, but a rat was burrowing into his mouth, choking him, cutting off his air.
“That’s what it feels like to drown,” Baronaire said, and Vereton watched as he simply stood there, unconcerned, unafraid and entirely unsurprised.
Vereton felt rats biting at his arms, his legs, his throat. He rolled upon the carpet, trying to bash them, throw them, but for every one he managed to get rid of six more jumped into its place.
“All I want is Johnson,” Baronaire said tiredly. “Is that so much to ask?”
“Johnson had us watch the house!” Vereton shouted. “We were watching the house!”
The rats stopped moving. All of them, all at once. Vereton was lying upon his back, staring at Baronaire with wide, fearful eyes. Baronaire was frowning, but saying nothing.
Vereton blurted out anything he thought the psycho might want to know. “He said the girl would make a break for it eventually, that when she did we should follow her and do her in.”
“Johnson knows about the house?” Baronaire asked.
“You kiddin’ me? Johnson’s always known about the house.”
The rats suddenly retracted, as though the Pied Piper himself had taken up his instrument. Vereton’s shock at their sudden departure left him stunned, and by the time he looked about himself all the black bodies had vanished back into the walls. If not for the blood oozing over his body from a thousand cuts and scrapes he would have believed he had imagined the whole thing.
“Where is Johnson?” Baronaire asked tightly.
Vereton was breathing hard, resting upon his elbows. His mind was still in a daze, but he knew he had to answer. “He said we should report back to him when the girl was dead. We should meet him by the docks. The red pier, wherever that is.”
“I know the red pier,” Baronaire said nervously and ran from the room. Vereton knew the guy was spooked because of their watching the house, but none of this was making any sense to him. Exhausted, he collapsed to the floor and wished he had never got up at all this morning.
*
Baronaire found Rachael in the hallway, desperately trying to keep Sid Matthews in the porch. As soon as Matthews saw Baronaire he shouted over. “You can’t just bring people back here to interrogate, Baronaire. I’ll report you for this.”
Baronaire strode past Rachael and grabbed Matthews by the shirt, slamming him against the wall. “My assignment was to watch the girl,” Baronaire all but hissed. “You and Foster were supposed to be watching the house. Johnson’s been onto us from the beginning, waiting for his chance to strike. If you were doing your job right you would’ve noticed.”
“All right, so I didn’t notice!” Matthews said, and Baronaire could taste the fear from him. “But we all make mistakes, Baronaire. We’re only human.”
Baronaire released him and Matthews fell, choking, to the floor. Only human. In truth Baronaire did not know what he was, for no human could do what he could. No human could leap from rooftops, no human could track people by their scent, no human could command an army of rats to attack someone. His eyes turned to Rachael then, staring at him in incomprehension. If he was not human, he did not deserve Rachael, did not deserve anyone. But if he was not human, what was he?
“I left the prisoner in the living room,” Baronaire told Matthews. “Do whatever you want with him, I don’t care. Rachael, you’re with me.”
“Where are we going?” she asked as they left the house together. She hurried to catch up to him and he held the car door open for her, silently scanning the surrounding windows for any sign they were being watched. He caught movement just as Rachael sat down, and he closed the door, not taking his eyes from the window and he travelled around the car to the driver’s seat. He opened the door and stood there, staring at the window. The curtains ceased twitch
ing and Baronaire did not smile to himself as he tore his gaze away. It would possibly be days before the occupants of that house were found, torn to pieces by rats, but by that time this would all be over and Baronaire would be away from this street forever.
He turned back to the car to find Blackie sitting in the driver’s seat. “Fat lot of good you did back at the lake,” Baronaire said. Blackie lowered his ears and groaned. Baronaire sighed. “Fine. In the back.” He shooed the dog to the back and climbed in the car, belting up before starting the engine. “This is going to be difficult,” Baronaire told Rachael without looking at her. “I just figure you’re better off by my side.”
“Trust me, Charles, that’s exactly where I want to be.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
The air was thick with smoke and stank of beer and unwashed bodies. The sounds of raucous laughter and bad singing mingled with the clash of pool balls and Baronaire judged there to be around fifty people already packed into the place. Garbed once more in his trademark trench coat and scowl, Baronaire approached the establishment and seriously considered leaving Rachael in the car with the dog. But he had allowed Rachael out of his sight once already and she had almost died. He would not abandon her again.
“Charles,” she said as he reached for the door. It was eleven o’clock now and the pub would be closing soon, although Baronaire had known for the Red Pier to open ‘til the early hours regardless of any laws. The local police were too afraid to go near the place, much less set foot inside to tell them to keep the noise down. But Baronaire was not local police. He realised with a pang of regret he had yet to tell Rachael he was any form of police, and he hated keeping that from her. There was so much he would have to keep from her anyway, the details of his profession seemed a foolish thing to be adding to the list.