Messenger of Death

by Alex Markman

  “He doesn’t want this rag in his mouth,” Claude said with mocking notes of regret. He went back to the front seat, took the biggest wrench from the toolbox, returned to the back door, and raised it, preparing to crush Stanley’s left eye and nose. The wrench landed with remarkable accuracy; blood splashed all over the rear of the car. His terrified shrieks made Stanley’s jaws opened wide enough to accommodate the rag. Claude used all his force to stuff it inside his mouth, as far as it would go. Now Stanley was only able to utter muffled sounds through his broken nose.

  “You see,” Claude said, returning to his seat, “I know how to deal with the Ghosts.” There was tremendous pride in his tone.

  On the way to the farm, Hans didn’t utter a single word. Claude glanced at him once in awhile with a smile: The guy was terrified.

  When they arrived, the farm seemed to have been deserted by its owners. Claude took the shovel and began digging a grave behind the barn, not far from the place where Stash was buried. The soil was soft and yielded easily to his shovel. Not accustomed to this kind of work, he soon grew tired and gave the shovel to Hans. Hans worked in silence. When the grave was deep enough, they went to the car, lifted Stanley out, and carried his twisting, shaking body toward it. After throwing him into the grave, Claude began pushing earth back into the hole. Stanley worked desperately to get out; he moved frantically, turning from side to side and trying to get to his feet. His silent, determined struggle was unreal and terrifying. His face, distorted by horror and hatred and covered with blood, looked yellow and pale in the moonlight.

  “Son of a bitch,” Claude growled. He jumped into the grave, stamping his feet on Stanley’s face.

  “Push it,” he commanded to Hans. “Push as much earth as you can. That’s good. A bit more.” When the soil covered Stanley’s face, Claude jumped a few more times to make sure that the surface was hard enough to sustain the last agonizing resistance of the living corpse below it. Claude stepped up and out, picked up the shovel, and pushed the rest of the soil into the grave. Hans was not much help anymore. His hands were shaking. It seemed that he had lost all his strength.

  “I have some pot,” Claude said. He sat down on the grave and put his hand in his breast pocket. “Let’s smoke a bit.”

  Hans crouched nearby and took the weed from the small metal box that Claude held in his outstretched hand.

  “Let’s get out of here,” Hans said, his voice trembling. “Let’s fuckin’ get out of here, Claude. I don’t like it at all.”

  “We did a good job, Hans.” Claude slapped his back with appreciative laughter. He lit a joint and gave the lighter to Hans. “Just a few tokes, Hans, then off we go. Just a few tokes.” He took a deep drag himself.

  On the way back, they didn’t speak. Silence filled the car like black, choking tar. Claude wasn’t laughing anymore. He realized that he had pushed Hans too far. Hans was visibly shaken; his pale face looked dead even in the darkness of the car.

  “Here,” Hans said, bringing the car to a complete stop. His voice was coarse and broken. He stepped out of the car, leaving the engine running. Bending over, he grasped the open door with both hands, his body shaking while he vomited.

  “We have to go a few blocks more,” Claude said.

  “No. I ain’t going anywhere, Claude. You go yourself.” He straightened up, wiping his mouth.

  “What the fuck you are talking about?” Claude had lost his temper. “Help me unlock the door in the house.”

  “I won’t. You don’t need me there. Just break the window and get in. For sure, there’s no alarm system. It’s a biker’s house.”

  Hans began walking down a side street.

  “Motherfucker!” Claude shouted at his back. Hans vanished into the night.

  Claude got behind the wheel and continued toward Stanley’s house. He pulled up on the opposite side of the road and walked across the street, scanning the neighborhood for any suspicious activity. Nobody was in sight. Stanley’s house seemed uninhabited. Its windows, like large black eyes, were staring at him in menacing silence. Claude went behind the house, holding the wrench in his hand. There, he knocked out a basement window and crawled in, careful not to scratch his skin on the glass shards that remained in the window frame.

  Stretching his hands ahead of him in the total darkness, he made his way through the basement, until by pure chance he touched a wall and found a light switch. The light was too bright for him at first, and he squinted as he looked around. The space was nicely finished, with a bar, cozy chairs, and some coffee tables. In the corner, where the money was supposed to be, stood a huge vase with artificial flowers in it.

  Claude went upstairs first, trying to make as little noise as possible. If anybody was there, he would have to be killed. The staircase squeaked under his feet, loud unnerving sounds in the dead silence of the house. Claude turned the lights on in each bedroom, three of them. Nobody was there. Even in such a stressful moment, Claude managed to notice that the furniture was very expensive. The owner must have lived a good life, no doubt. Then he rushed to the basement again. Only now, he realized that there were no tiles on the floor. It was covered by a gray carpet. Claude moved the vase, tore the edge of the carpet up, and saw bare concrete under it.

  Stanley had cheated him.

  “No damned money,” he whispered, fuming. “Sucker.”

  He got up and went upstairs to the ground floor, without looking back. When he unlocked the front door and stepped out, he saw a police car on the street, parked directly in front of him.

  “Hands up,” shouted someone from behind the car. “Don’t move. Police.”

  Claude obeyed the command. Now, he understood what Stanley had hoped for. His house was under surveillance. That was why it had taken so little time for a squad car to arrive. Two huge policemen jumped on him, twisted his arms behind this back, put handcuffs on them, and then dragged him to the police car, pushing him inside.

  The game was over. Now, he was back to square one.

  V

  Claude couldn’t sleep. His cell, built like a concrete box, didn’t have a single piece of furniture, or even a rug, to rest on. His face was swollen from the punches the policemen had given him in response to some abusive words he had offered while he was being handcuffed. He was the only one in the cell. Sitting on the cold floor, he thought about his situation.

  It was clear to him that long years in jail were in the cards now. Lady Luck had not been kind to him tonight. The question was, What would the cops be able to find out about the hit? Had Hans been arrested? If not, they would never know about Stanley’s death. Even having a wrench with Stanley’s blood on it, they would not be able to lay charges against him. Claude had worn gloves during the ordeal with Stanley and had instructed Hans to do the same. As far as his other hits were concerned, they didn’t know anything about them, that’s for sure. For breaking into a house with the wrench . . . Well, if it hadn’t had blood on it, the only charge against him would have been breaking into the house. It wasn’t even a robbery, since he had taken nothing.

  At 7 o’clock in the morning, two policemen unlocked his cell. They took him to a room where a detective in civilian clothes sat at a desk, his face bearing traces of little sleep. Claude recognized him at once as Serge Gorte, the one who had talked to him in the hospital. Naturally, Claude thought, he’d been awakened early because of this important event: A biker had been arrested during an attempted robbery. One cop took a position at the entrance, the other sat beside Claude. Both of them carried guns.

  “My old acquaintance,” Serge said with a smile. Claude shrugged his shoulders.

  “Tell me, how’d you do it? How’d you kill Stanley? Who was your accomplice?”

  “I ain’t killed nobody. What are you talking about?”

  “I’m talking about murder. You’ve been after him for quite awhile. And, now you’ve done it. We have all the evidence.”

  “What fuckin’ evidence do you have?” Claude asked in a rough vo
ice.

  “A wrench with his blood on it. Your arrest in his house. Where did you bury him?”

  “You shove your fuckin’ evidence up your fuckin’ ass,” Claude barked. “No court would find that good enough to lock me up. You have to move your ass to find more.” He uttered his usual rowdy laugh.

  Serge remained calm and composed. He even smiled in false sympathy with Claude’s arguments.

  “Funny,” Serge said, “you’re right. We don’t have sufficient evidence at this moment. Mind you, it’s only half past seven in the morning. Suppose we just give the court our insufficient evidence. The court would charge you with the attempted robbery. But the Iron Ghosts would quickly figure out two plus two. They have far better methods than we do for discovering the truth.”

  Serge paused for a few moments, enjoying the effects of his words. Claude ground his teeth. He knew how the Ghosts would find the truth.

  “Exactly!” Serge continued with the same air of understanding and sympathy, as if he had read what was going on in Claude’s mind. “Your guess is correct. They’d find you and do the same to you. I doubt that you would be able to escape their revenge. There are too many of them, these Iron Ghosts. What would happen to you in jail? Stanley wasn’t just an ordinary guy. They’ll hunt you the rest of your life.”

  Claude stared at Serge, trying to cool himself down. With the handcuffs on his wrists, he contemplated jumping forward and biting Serge in the throat.

  “Actually, it won’t be that hard for the Iron Ghosts to find the missing evidence,” Serge interrupted Claude’s train of thought. “You had an accomplice. We’ll find him. They’ll find him, too.” Serge’s stare became intense. “He’ll talk.”

  Claude nodded.

  “Fuck you.”

  Serge sighed.

  “You remember, I showed you the photograph of Norman and his wife, the woman you killed. He’s now in our custody. He’s prepared to testify against you, and Marcel. Life without parole—that’s what’s waiting for you around the corner.”

  Is he bluffing? Claude thought.

  “By the way, the Devil’s Knights will be after you, as well. You probably think that we’ll put you in a jail where they hold the upper hand. Not necessarily so, Claude. But even if we didn’t, they’d kill you eventually anyway. You know too much. Marcel wouldn’t take the risk of having a potential witness against him serving a life sentence. Your gang, or the other, it doesn’t make much difference when you consider your future.”

  He’s not bluffing; it would be better to commit suicide than face any of those choices, Claude thought.

  “That’s not all. You have a girlfriend. She’ll talk. Most likely, she’ll be in jail, too. You’ll never see her again.”

  That thought caused Claude to blink. He cleared his throat.

  “What’s your point?” he croaked.

  “We want your cooperation. Putting you in jail isn’t a big deal for us. We’re after top-ranking Devil’s Knights. Particularly, your boss, Marcel. We need you as a witness against him.”

  “What would you offer for that?” Claude asked. Serge straightened up with a jolt, fixing a gimlet-eyed stare on Claude.

  “We’ll put you in the witness protection program. We’ll change your identity . . .” he started. The two policemen guarding Claude exchanged nervous, excited glances with Serge. Serge flapped his eyelashes, as if tasting a good cognac. Claude felt a powerful urge to vomit.

  “Take off his handcuffs,” Serge commanded.

  The policemen rushed to unlock them. Claude rubbed his wrists.

  “I wanna go to the bathroom.”

  “Take him.” Serge nodded to the policemen. In the bathroom, Claude vomited into filthy toilet. It seemed to him that his guts were coming out through his throat. His negotiations for survival had begun.

  Chapter 9

  I

  The flood of information from Claude’s confession made huge headlines in all the newspapers, magazines, and television shows. But in the midst of the hoopla about police success in fighting the biker gangs, Serge Gorte remained calm and as busy as ever. He actually worked even longer hours than before, collecting material facts, supervising autopsies, analyzing lab results, and then assembling all this information into logical order to prove without any doubt the guilt of those accused.

  As soon as Claude told the story of Stanley’s death, Serge sent a team to the farm. The bodies of Stanley and Stash were exhumed and autopsied. Stanley’s body was later released to the Iron Ghosts, and a lavishly grand funeral was announced.

  A police patrol was placed on guard outside the graveyard that day to stave off any possible disturbance from the Devil’s Knights or one of their puppet gangs. The last thing the police wanted was a skirmish in the graveyard, which would result in the police being blamed for not being able to maintain order.

  Out of professional curiosity, Serge arrived at the cemetery one hour before the motorcade arrived to observe the funeral. He could have obtained reports about the event from officers in the lower ranks, but preferred to rely on his own observations, which he felt were far superior to those of anyone else. From his vantage point, which was behind a huge gravestone located little more than a hundred yards from the fresh grave, he recalled the events of that unforgettable morning when Claude had agreed to cooperate with the police. Although Serge had prepared himself well for the interrogation, he had never expected it to be such a huge success. If only Claude had known that most of his taunts and accusations had been bluffs, or near bluffs. . . . First of all, at that time, Norman had not been under arrest. Second, although Serge had felt sure that Claude had killed Stanley and that there had been an accomplice, he’d had no proof of either.

  Serge’s threats about the inevitable revenge of the Iron Ghosts and the possibility of Claude being killed by the Devil’s Knights were real concerns, worries that Claude understood, and that put him off balance. But none of those had been the reason that Claude had rolled over. This biker was so obsessed with his status and image in the underworld that in all likelihood he would have accepted his death as part and parcel of his gruesome profession. That’s why Serge began talking about the girlfriend, the one he didn’t know existed.

  This was another sheer bluff on his side. He had recalled the girl only that morning, on the way to the police station. She had been at Claude’s bedside in the hospital. She was too beautiful to have been an occasional broad. Serge then remembered his thoughts about the rather strange makeup of the human mind. Very often, even the most despicable criminals fell in love with a woman only to behave like an inexperienced schoolboy, losing all commanding attitude and gangster pride for a weak, helpless object of love.

  So, Serge concluded then, she must have been his old lady, the girl he was likely in love with. If that was the case, Claude’s feelings might outweigh all other considerations. Serge had guessed right. After his remarks about the girlfriend, Claude’s face had grown deadly pale. Serge clearly saw that he was devastated. That was when the tough demeanor of this contract killer had cracked.

  A lot of work had yet to be done to lay formal charges against Marcel. The only proof of his participation in crimes was Claude’s testimony. As expected, the gang’s lawyers unleashed a vicious campaign that questioned the validity of such testimonies. They were right in a way, Serge admitted to himself. The benefits for the informer were enormous: Along with significantly reduced sentences for all the horrendous crimes he had committed, he would get huge financial rewards, witness protection, and a comparatively comfortable life in prison. However, the testimony of this one witness would take them further than any investigation had gone before; no other proof of participation in criminal activity had been found, or would be found, because the gang leaders did not commit any crimes themselves. And then Norman. For sure, he’ll be arrested. Once in the custody . . .

  At last, the funeral procession arrived. A long, impressive escort of motorcycles rolled along the streets to the cemetery—the
place where the spirits of the dead live on in the good memories of the living.

  A few speeches were made. Serge stood far away, watching the bikers, trying not to be too conspicuous but mingling with the occasional visitor. Soon the place was deserted. Serge waited a few minutes longer, after the last biker had left, just to make sure that nothing else was going to happen. A large crow flew over his head and settled on a tree branch. Folding its black wings, the bird uttered a furious cry, after which silence enveloped the beautiful and sad land of death.

  Serge was about to leave when he noticed a lone figure, dressed in black, approaching Stanley’s grave. It was a woman, apparently pregnant, hiding her head under a hood. She walked up to the grave, threw a single rose on it, and wiped silent tears from her eyes. For a few minutes, she stood almost motionless, slightly nodding her head as if talking to the one under the ground. And then she left, stumbling and staring forward, as if blind. Serge followed her with curiosity and very little compassion. This was his profession: Every day he dealt with a river filled with human blood, filth, tears, and despair, with no beginning and no end in sight. For him, this woman was just a potential witness or source of information on bikers. Although he couldn’t see her face, he had a strange feeling that he had seen her somewhere before. But at that moment, he couldn’t remember exactly under what circumstances they had met. When she climbed into the driver’s seat of her car, he pulled out a notebook and wrote down her license plate number.

  Strangely enough, he thought, a lot of the information he collected would be about those who were already dead and therefore out of reach of the law or revenge. For some reason, though, it was important for his investigation to find the truth, to discover the victims and those who had committed the crimes against them, even if they had ceased to exist. All human sins are recorded in heaven, he thought; their crimes are recorded in police files.