Before he knew what he was doing, he ground his teeth and asked, “What do you want from me?”
He could hear Evgeni’s smile. “Just like I say. My wife like you. She see you on internet. She like your picture, she like you in person. She want you to fuck her, and she want me to watch while you do it. She like that, me watching. Honestly, I did not like at first. It make me jealous. But…it make her happy. She happy, I happy, we happy. It no big deal anymore. It only have to be one time thing for you, Hershel. We do it here, now, I give you more money, we buy house, and we never speak of it again. And don’t worry, my friend.” He stepped closer and whispered, as if someone else in the empty house would hear. “I no touch you. I only touch myself.”
A cold shiver raced down Hershel’s spine. He couldn’t help himself. His brain brought him to that imaginary place, where they occupied the upstairs bedroom. He saw himself huffing and dripping rivulets of hot sweat down his face as his ground his hips into Yana Sokolov. He imagined her thin, creamy body and her narrow pelvis pushing back into him, her stomach and chest a thin sheet of perspiration. There, in that room, he lasted for as long as he wanted. In that room, in his head, he could go all night. Then he saw her husband, standing at the edge of the bed, holding his prick as the two of them made Yana a satisfied woman. He heard Evgeni moan and shudder, and something spattered the sheet next to him. Suddenly Hershel was back in foyer, with Mr. Sokolov’s hand placed on the small of his back.
Stomach acid filled Hershel’s throat as the guilt began to set in. How dare he even think of something like this as an option? Money or not, he was a happily married man. Monique Leigh Merkley brought him more happiness than any amount of hush money could. And even if—and it was a big fucking if—he decided to go through with it, how could he possibly live with himself? If he already felt guilty watching episodes of Game of Thrones while she was away on work assignment, how could he possibly keep something like infidelity with a supermodel a secret? He wasn’t that good of a liar to begin with.
He shook Evgeni’s hand off his back and took a few steps away. “I’m sorry, I can’t do this.”
Evgeni’s eyebrows shot up. “Say again?”
“Mr. Sokolov, I’m not going to discuss this any further. I think your requests are disgusting and unprofessional, and frankly they make me sick. I believe we need to just move on with the sale of the home and forget this was even brought up.”
“So now we go back to formalities, da? No more Geno? Ok, Mr. Merkley, we play your way. But let me say this: If you do not accept my offer, an offer I only give you one more time, then deal off. No money, no sale, nichego. We walk away, and you start at square one. Who else buy house where someone was murdered?”
Hershel eyed him.
“Ah, yes,” the Russian continued. “You think I’m stupid? I not get this far in life by being stupid. I do research. I know why house do not sell. Young man cut father’s head off in house. Why not tell me about it, hmmm? Scared to lose sale again? You should be. Say no to me again, and we leave you here with nothing. Obviously you keep money I already give you, but you get no more. Is that what you want?” Once again he placed his hand on Hershel’s shoulder, and Hershel did everything he could to not break the man’s tiny digits. “You don’t want that, do you? You want my money. You also make money from sale, da? Too much money to…how you say…piss away.”
Hershel stared out the window, past the front lawn to the miles of dead cornfields beyond. He closed his eyes and let the midday sun warm his face.
“Just say yes,” Evgeni said. “Make me happy. Make Yana happy. Make you happy. Surely there something you want with all that money? New car? Vacation for you and wife? Just think of it as…closing cost.”
He opened his eyes, but they quickly narrowed against the light. Out past the cornfield, a figure marched up the road toward the house. Hershel nearly growled. He turned to Evgeni and gave him the ‘just one moment’ finger, then quickly ducked outside.
TEN
“What are you doing here, Mr. Whitecomb?” Hershel asked as his dress shoes clopped down the driveway. He stepped around the Sokolov’s rental Lexus as the other man’s dirty Sketchers met the blacktop. Hershel stopped him with an outstretched palm. “Stop right there.”
Colin Whitecomb shrunk and threw his hands up in defense. “Hey hey, man! I’m not here to cause any trouble!” Even in his late twenties, his voice squeaked like a prepubescent teenager.
“Mr. Whitecomb, you know better than to be here. This doesn’t appear to be a thousand feet away.”
“But—”
“No. Now come on. Don’t make me call the police again. I’m busy and don’t have time for it.”
“No no no! Please don’t do that! I just…I just wanted to see what was going on up here.” He leaned past Hershel to get a better look at the red sports car parked behind him, but Hershel stepped into his view.
Pale and sickly, the man before Hershel appeared to be a shell of kid he had seen on the news many years back. Just a teenager then, and a broken one at that, but as a grown man he still didn’t seem to have the health or vibrancy someone his age should have radiated. His hair was all but gone, now just a simple brown horseshoe of thinning fluff. His white Donald Duck t-shirt draped over his malnourished form like a dirty sombrero, and his torn at the knee jeans had seen better days. Though Hershel didn’t detect any track marks, he suspected the kid was using. Normal people didn’t jitter like that.
“What’s going on here, Mr. Whitecomb, is none of your concern.” Though Hershel didn’t need to intimidate the kid, he stood up straight, letting all six-foot-four tower over him.
“What? What’s happening at my father’s place isn’t any of my concern? How dare you! I lived in that house, man. I grew up in there.”
“With your brother?”
Colin Whitecomb shook, even more than before. He looked away from Hershel and scratched at his patchy stubble.
“How is Cameron these days, Colin?” Hershel asked.
The younger man grimaced. “How the hell should I know, man? Haven’t seen him since…”
Something was up, and it set off vibrant alarms in Hershel’s head. There was no need for Colin Whitecomb to be snooping around his father’s long vacant home. Not wanting to stay too far away, Colin currently lived in a run-down trailer down the road, where he was always in arm’s reach. He’d been up here before, sometimes when other realtors were busy trying to catch the white whale sale, snooping and trying to stir trouble. He once even broke in and tried to set the house on fire from the inside, which is what landed him the restraining order he was currently violating. Much like his missing brother, he had no claim to the house. It was sold to the state, and then sold to his realty company so they could do their best to fill its walls with new life.
“Why are you here, Colin?”
Whitecomb shook his head, trying his best to look nonchalant. “Nothing. Curiosity, I suppose.”
“You know what they say about curiosity, right?”
“What—it killed the dog? Or cat? I don’t fucking know, man! Why are you all up in my business? Quit hustling me, man!”
Hershel took a step forward, forcing Colin back. “Because I’ve got some very big clients in that house right now, and I am this close to making the sale. I’m trying to be as nice as I possibly can with you, Colin, I really am. So please don’t take this personally, but would you kindly fuck off so I can get back to them?”
Tears suddenly fell down Colin’s face. He put a trembling hand over his mouth. “You need to leave.”
“Excuse me?”
“All of you. You ne—”
A shrill scream rang out from inside the house. Hershel whipped around as its echo lifted over the Bradford Pears in the front yard. “What the hell was that?”
“Oh, no!” Colin pushed past Hershel and
dashed for the front door.
Hershel yelled, “Get back here!” and darted after him.
Colin was in through the front door before Hershel could hit the porch. The door swung back toward him, and he carefully pushed it back inward, then closed it behind him. Other than Colin Whitecomb dashing up the staircase like his ass was on fire, the foyer was completely empty. Evgeni was gone, probably going after his wife after hearing her shrill cry.
Instead of calling for Colin to come back, he yelled, “Evgeni? Where are you? Is everything ok with Yana?” He quickly checked the two side hallways, before going back to the staircase. “Mr. Sokolov? Yana?” When he heard a heavy crash upstairs, he too rushed up the staircase, two steps at a time.
By the time he reached the top, his heartbeat threatened to break his ribs. He didn’t need this, not at all. He was already being weighed down with a life-altering decision, but having to drag Colin Whitecomb’s scrawny white ass back out the front door didn’t need to be part of it. He took a right, where both Yana and Colin had disappeared to, and slowly edged down the hallway. His fingers reached for the nearest light switch. The hall light failed to snap on above him. He flicked it a few more times with the same result.
“Colin? Where’d you run off to?” Only the slight creak of wood under his feet answered back.
“Mr. and Mrs. Sokolov? Everything ok, you two?” Still no response. Grossly, he imagined Yana and her husband getting started in the master bedroom as they waited for him to find them. He wished this was all still some sort of cruel joke, which they refused to let go, but he remembered Evgeni’s money still sitting in his bank account, and that was definitely not a laughing matter. Be a man and confront them, he thought. In the dark, he stomped toward the end of the hallway to the open bedroom door—
—but Hershel suddenly found himself crashing sideways as something collided with his hip. His breath left him in a whoosh before his head made a wide, circular indentation in the drywall. Stars exploded in his eyes. He grabbed his side where someone’s boot had kicked him.
Before he could react, a figure stepped out from the blackened bathroom and crouched over him. A rough hand found his throat and squeezed. Still dazed, Hershel pawed at the man’s arm. He gagged as the grip tightened and pushed down toward the floor. Then a damp rag was thrust against his nose and open mouth, and just as he wondered how this was happening, a sweet, vinegary perfume lulled him to sleep.
ELEVEN
Above her head, the heart rate monitor watched over her like a personal doctor, quiet and consistent with its immediate thoughts. And when it unexpectedly decided to chatter, it startled Tara awake. The room was pitch black, even the bathroom light was turned off. She had begged Nurse Scofield to keep it on. She didn’t like the dark, it scared her so bad, and she at least wanted the ability to see if her daddy was back in the room with her. The only light was her monitor as the green strobe erratically swept up and down.
Then she felt it—the reason the beeping woke her. It wasn’t her legs this time. Her lower back throbbed, and the pain was so intense it made her weep. Hands curled into fists, she beat the bed, willing the pain to go away and never ever come back. But it remained steadfast, and her ECG did its best to tell her so. For a moment she couldn’t find her voice, could only suck in air deeper and deeper—then it came.
The door was thrown open, and Nurse Scofield snapped the lights on. She rushed to Tara’s side. “Doctor Lombardo! Quick!” she yelled. Then to Tara, “Where does it hurt? Can you tell me, sweetness?”
Tara could barely open her eyes. “My back…down here.” She smack at the bed near her hip.
A large man in a white coat charged to her bedside. “Status?”
She tried to hold it back, but Tara leaned over and vomited on her blanket, the one with the piggies and cows her daddy brought for her. She started to cry again, this time out of embarrassment more than pain.
The nurse touched Tara’s lower back as gently as she could. It still hurt a lot, but her touch made her feel safe.
“Could be kidney failure,” the nurse said.
The doctor remained silent, then motioned for the nurse to follow him. Though they were just out of earshot, Tara could still hear them talk.
I don’t know how much more we can do…
Obviously we give her more medication…
Can’t. There’s no more money left…
Surely there’s something we can do? We can’t just…
We have no choice. Just try to make her comfortable.
It’s just so cruel….
You’re right. But my hands are tied…
Tara did her best to stay awake, but the pain was too much. She passed out, wishing her daddy was there to hold her hand. She missed his scratchy beard kisses.
TWELVE
Hershel would have screamed. He would have fought something fierce. He would have cussed and shouted and kicked and punched with everything his forty-eight year old body could manage. If he could.
He awoke to Yana Sokolov’s muffled cries. Coughing, he immediately gagged at the thick shred of cloth tied around his face. The sweet stench of chloroform still lingered in his mouth and sinuses, and he desperately wanted to rid himself of the taste. Harsh lengths of rope kept his hands bound behind his back and his ankles straight out in front of him. A few small candles were lit here and there, but a single, sixty-watt clamp light hanging from a beam in the center of the room provided the most light.
Blood was everywhere.
To his left, Evgeni Sokolov’s supermodel wife was in the same shape as himself, bound and gagged, with a trickle of blood running down her nose. To her left, Colin Whitecomb mirrored them both. The scrawny man stared wide-eyed into the light. In the center of the room, a man walked a slow circle around Yana’s unconscious husband, but unlike them Evgeni was not tied up. Sitting upright and legs folded, his head was down, and his arms rested on his lap. The large brown sack in the man’s hands crinkled as he carefully poured a grainy white substance around the unconscious Russian. When he reached the starting point, he delicately scooped up what Hershel now recognized as salt until it completely enclosed the circle.
Something scratched the floor near Hershel.
He turned his head and found someone’s hand. Only this hand wasn’t attached to anyone. It was nailed to the floor and surrounded by salt.
Hershel jerked away and screamed into his gag.
The standing man turned to him. “You’re awake,” he said. “Good. We can start the invocation now.” He dropped the bag of salt next to a large knapsack and walked toward him.
Still screaming, Hershel scooted himself away from the disembodied hand toward Yana. When she saw what made him move, she too began to yell.
“Scream all you want,” the man said. “Nobody can hear you down here. Not even God.”
Through his gag, Hershel shouted until his neck muscles bulged.
The man stepped closer to Hershel until he was right over him, then he knelt and looked him straight in the eyes. He shook his head. “I don’t care what you have to say to me. I don’t care what your name is. I don’t care if you’re married or if you have kids or you don’t want to die. I. Don’t. Care. It’s not up to me what happens to you.” There was no humor or vitriol in the man’s voice. His words were just a matter of fact to him, spoken like a prepared speech. “This isn’t about race or getting my kicks or money—at least not your money. If it were up to me, I wouldn’t have chosen you. From what I could hear, you all seem like nice, decent people. You’re here with me purely because of circumstance and coincidence.” He angrily pointed to Colin. “You’re here, you dumb shit, because you couldn’t keep your fucking mouth shut.”
The man looked so familiar. Hershel couldn’t quite put his finger on it. He glanced back and forth from Colin and his capturer until the two became one. Th
ough he was the same age as his twin, Cameron Whitecomb didn’t appear quite has haggard as his sibling. He still had all of his hair, and his beard was much thicker. They were both quite skinny, but Cameron didn’t have that sickly look his brother had adopted. He appeared healthier, sturdier, and strangely handsome for a long-missing murderer.
“You can’t get out of this,” he continued. “So stop your fucking crying, all of you, and this will all be over quick. Hopefully your deaths will be as painless as Ishkalben can make them.” He stood and faced all three of his subjects. “Honestly, I don’t know what he has planned for you. Maybe you live, maybe not. I know you’re all scared, even you, brother, but I cannot stress how important this is to me. I’m sorry. I truly am.”
From underneath his cloth, Colin wiggled his tongue until his gag fell loose around his neck. “Please!” he cried. “Please, Cameron! I’m sorry. Please don’t do this to me!”
Cameron grimaced and took a couple of long strides toward his brother. “You’re sorry?” Colin cowed against the wall. “You tried to stop this! Of all people, you know what this can mean—for the both of us! Do you want her to die?”
“Please just let me go! I don’t care what you do to them, just let me go, Cam!” He slowly bounced his head off the blood splattered concrete wall.
Snarling, Cameron walked back to the middle of the room. “I can’t do that. I finally have what it takes to complete this invocation. If I let you go, then I wouldn’t have the right amount out witnesses. Six eyes, three souls. Any less, and it’s my ass. Then where would that leave her, huh? With you, you fucking junkie? Not a chance.”
Closing Costs Page 4