by Gred Herren
He gave me a weak smile. “No, let’s get the fuck out of here.” He grimaced. “I don’t ever want to see the inside of this hotel again.”
“Attaboy.” I gave him a big hug, and he wrapped his arms around me tightly. “All right, then; let me see if the coast is clear.”
I opened the door and looked. The lobby was crowded, but I didn’t see either of the goons anywhere. Then it hit me. Frank was going to stand out like a sore thumb with his little gold swim trunks and gold-painted boots—not to mention the now streaky gold paint and glitter all over his body. “Fuck. Wait here a minute.” I slipped out into the hallway and whistled as I walked out to the pool area. Sure enough, just like I remembered, there was a towel stand out by the pool—and praise be to the Goddess, someone had left a pair of sweatpants there. I grabbed two towels and the sweatpants and ran back inside. “Here, put these on.” I tossed him the sweatpants and started rubbing at his skin with the towel. All I managed to do was smear the paint some more. Frank leaned on me as he put on the sweatpants, pulling them up as high as they would go. He grinned at me and grabbed the other towel, which he draped around his shoulders.
“Hardly incognito, but it is Mardi Gras.” He shrugged. “Scotty, we really need to talk. You’ve got to hear what I have to say. . . .”
“Later, Frank—we’ve got to get out of here.”
“But, Scotty—”
“I know; I love you, too.” I grinned. “Come on, then.” We slipped back into the hallway. We ran into the lobby, slowed down and walked naturally to the front doors, but once out on the sidewalk started running again, heading for Royal Street. Frank’s legs obviously weren’t working yet, as I had to slow down a few times so he could catch up. People stared at us as we went by, and I kept scanning the crowds of people for the thugs but didn’t see them anywhere. We didn’t slow down until we got to the Devil’s Weed. We walked to the back door and stood there for a minute to catch our breath. Frank put his arms around me and gave me a big kiss. “I knew you would come for me,” Frank said, between gasps for air. “What took you so long?”
“Who were those guys, Frank?” I changed the subject.
He shook his head. “I don’t know. I don’t know anything about them. But they were Russian; that I know. What they are up to, I don’t know, but I do know—” He hesitated. “Scotty, this is going to be hard for you to believe, but you’ve got to listen to me.”
“I mean, how did they get you? That’s the part I don’t understand. I mean, you left with a guy, right? Was that a setup?”
Frank’s face turned red and his eyes narrowed. “Is that what you think? You think I left with a trick?”
“It’s okay, Frank. It bothered me a bit at first, but it’s okay now.” I was babbling and didn’t care. “Come on, let’s get inside and in the house.”
I unlocked the door to the back steps, closing it once we were inside. We started up the stairs, Frank behind me and holding my hand. Every once in a while he squeezed it. I unlocked the back door and called, “Mom? Dad? You here?”
“In the living room, Scotty,” my mother replied.
With a sigh of relief, I turned and threw my arms around Frank. I held him like I never wanted to let go. “I’m so glad you’re okay,” I whispered.
“I knew you’d come,” he whispered back, kissing my cheek. “I knew it, but we really have to talk, Scotty. Please, it’s important.”
“Come on, let’s go into the living room.” I grabbed his hand. “We have a lot to talk about—you wouldn’t believe what’s been going on the last couple of days. We’ll get Mom to look at that bruise, and then we can talk, okay?”
“I think I know more than you think I do.” He rubbed his chin ruefully. “I could stand to sit down.” He didn’t go inside the door. “You mind if I come in a little later?” His eyes looked a little glassy. “I’m feeling a little woozy.”
I kissed the top of his head. “You just stay here. I’ll go get Mom and Dad to help me bring you in.”
I could see the living room was dark when I walked in, and automatically I reached for the light switch. “Why are the lights—”
As the room flooded with light, I saw in horror that my parents and Misha were tied up. Only my mother wasn’t gagged.
And the kidnapper with the white shirt was standing next to her, a gun against her head, a nasty smirk on his face.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Justice
justice will be done; balance is required in all things
Until that moment, I would have said there’s nothing more horrific than looking down the barrel of a gun.
I’ve unfortunately looked down more than my fair share of them. And just like the dead bodies thing, every time I find myself on the wrong end of a gun, it’s just as rough as the first time. It never seems to get easier. But this was worse, I decided in that split second as my eyes scanned the room and took it all in. It’s much, much worse when the gun is held to your mother’s head, and all you can do is stand there helpless. I stood there in the doorway from the kitchen, frozen in complete shock. I didn’t know what to do; I couldn’t move or speak. My mother’s eyes were wide open and she was moving her eyes rapidly back and forth, trying to signal me—or maybe she was just having a seizure of some sort. My father’s eyes were also wide open; Misha’s looked resigned. “What the hell? What is going on here?” I said loudly as Frank came through the back door. I hoped that White Shirt hadn’t heard two sets of footsteps on the stairs, or heard Frank and I having our little chat out there. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Frank stop dead in his tracks when I spoke. I couldn’t turn my head or anything without tipping White Shirt off that I wasn’t alone—Frank was our ace in the hole. I just took a deep breath and, feeling like an idiot, said loudly, “Why are you holding a gun on my family?”
I took a step forward, willing Frank to go back down the stairs and go for help. I couldn’t take my eyes off the gun pressing against my mother’s temple, even though her eyes were still moving back and forth. What the hell is she trying to tell me?
“Sit down.” He gestured to a vacant chair with his free hand. His white dress shirt was wet at the armpits, and his forehead was wet with sweat. “Or I’ll shoot her.” He pressed the gun tighter against her skin. She closed her eyes. His eyes glittered. “Believe me, I would love nothing more than to shoot this bitch.” That was when I noticed the scratches on his face. Mom, apparently, had not gone down easily. Attagirl, I thought to myself.
I’ve always been raised to believe that hate is the worst emotion possible for humans. The very basis of my religious beliefs, my spirituality, is that hate is a destructive force that will eventually consume the hater with its negative energy and rot his or her soul. Everything evil that humans do springs originally from hate. Evil is not possible without hatred. Murder, rape, war, and violence all are symptoms of hatred in the soul. Evil and hate are vile, despicable twin sisters who should be reviled and avoided at all costs. If all humans could turn their backs on hate and evil, the world would become a paradise where we could all live together in peace and harmony. I’ve never allowed myself to let hate into my heart or my mind. Even when it flashes into my consciousness, I’ve always managed to take a deep breath and step away from it, turn my back and return myself to a balanced state of peace. I never let my anger, at those moments when it takes control, sink roots in my psyche and deepen. I never wish ill on another human—after all, the basic karmic principle of the Goddess is that whatever energy you send out into the Universe returns to you threefold. So, I pray for the haters of the world. I pray for the fanatics who shoot doctors who perform abortions and blow up Planned Parenthood. I pray for the haters who masquerade as Christians and pervert the religion of the Prince of Peace into something Jesus Himself would regard with horror. I pray for the monsters pretending to be humans who attend the funerals of AIDS victims with signs that read GOD HATES FAGS and AIDS KILLS FAGS. I always pray that the rapists, the killers, and the violent
will somehow find the grace to let go of their hatred and make peace with the beautiful, magical, wondrous Universe with which we have been blessed.
Yet as the barrel of the gun pressed against my mother’s temple, I wished in that moment that my psychic gifts were a lot more powerful than what they were. I wished that I had the ability to move objects with my mind. I wished that I could shoot laser beams out of my eyes. I wished that I could unleash some kind of power or magic that would disintegrate the white shirt–wearing gunman into ions, as slowly and painfully as possible. I felt the anger, the power of rage and hatred coursing through my body as I carefully raised my hands up in the air over my head and walked slowly over to the chair, all the while hoping, with each step I took, that Frank was at that very moment on his way down the back steps and going for help. “You are never going to get away with this,” I said, knowing I sounded trite, trying to keep my voice from shaking. I didn’t want him to know how terrified I actually was.
Pray for a brave heart.
It made sense to me now.
I sat down, placing my hands on my knees so they were visible. I willed my hands not to shake. I wasn’t armed, but he didn’t know that, and I wished I’d brought the gun I’d taken off the Homeland Security agent with me. As soon as I was sitting, he turned the gun away from my mother and pointed it at me. I closed my eyes and said a quick “thank you” to the Goddess. At least for now my mother was safe. I opened my eyes and watched as he walked toward me. His face was twisted with hate. You’re a dead man, Scotty, I thought to myself, but then wondered why Misha was still alive. Wasn’t that the whole point—to kill all three of them?
I weighed my options and tried to clear my mind. As powerful as the rage and the hate were, I knew they would only cloud my mind. I needed to be calm, to clear my mind. I took some deep breaths and felt calmer, tried to force the anger out and let the peace in.
Could I possibly kick the gun out of his hand when he got close enough?
Pray for a brave heart, Scotty.
I let go of the anger. I closed my eyes and prayed for strength and wisdom. As I prayed, I felt the darker emotions drain from my body and a sense of peace and serenity slowly sweep over me, blanketing me with a sense of calm. I felt energy radiate through my body, coursing through my veins, filling my muscles with a kind of power I’d never known or felt before. My tiredness, the aches I’d been feeling, were gone and I felt refreshed, and I knew I could do it—somehow I just knew I could get the gun away from him and save everyone. I opened my eyes.
He was getting closer to me, that sick gloating smile on his face.
I coiled my legs, getting ready.
I closed my eyes again and prayed again for the strength, for accuracy, for the ability to somehow save my family.
I opened my eyes. He was close enough. I took a deep breath and kicked out with my right leg.
I managed to catch him in the wrist and his arm flew up. The gun went off with a deafening roar as it flew out of his hand, and plaster rained down from the ceiling as I launched myself out of my chair and at him. I caught him in the midsection with my shoulder, and we fell backward, landing on the coffee table, which collapsed beneath our weight. I wrapped my legs around his to immobilize them and squeezed mine together as tightly as I could as I slammed my right hand into his stomach over and over again, knocking the breath out of him as he tried to hammer blows down on my head and shoulders. I didn’t feel them, felt nothing at all except the urgency of finishing him off, rendering him helpless and impotent. Adrenaline raced through my body and I kept slamming my fists into his ribs and stomach while my eyes glanced around the room, trying to locate where the gun had fallen when it flew out of his hand. I saw it—lying on the floor just beside where Misha was tied up. I reached up with one hand and shoved his chin upward. He clawed at my hand, which gave me the opening I was looking for. I released his legs and grabbed his Adam’s apple with my other hand, giving it a tight squeeze with all the strength in that hand, then shoved him aside and rolled across the floor to the gun. I grabbed it and stood up, pointing it at him.
Oh, thank you, Goddess, thank you.
I gestured to the chair. “Have a seat.” I smiled at him as he wheezed for breath. The Adam’s apple is incredibly sensitive. Hitting someone there or just giving it a good squeeze is just as effective as doing the same thing to the balls: it’s equally immobilizing. He was coughing and gagging, his eyes watering. I felt a brief rush of exhilaration, which I quickly squelched. “I said get in the fucking chair now.” I gestured again. “I will shoot you,” I said, in a very pleasant tone, hoping he had no idea I was bluffing. He glared at me and climbed up into the chair. “I want to see your hands. Keep them where I can see them, okay? My trigger finger is kind of itchy.” Okay, so I was borrowing dialogue from B movies, but I didn’t know what else to say.
Okay, now what, Scotty? I asked myself. I couldn’t very well take the gun off of him. I glanced around for something to tie him up with, but the only thing I could see was the extension cords he’d used on my parents and Misha. They were knotted pretty tightly, and I didn’t dare take my eyes off him long enough to untie one of them to use on him. Maybe the best thing was to just hold the gun on him and stall for time until Frank got back with the police. I walked over to him and pressed the gun to his temple. He whimpered a little bit.
“I want some answers,” I said. “Start talking.”
He spat at me.
“Nice.” I shook my head. “Didn’t your mother ever teach you that’s not very nice?” I prayed to the Goddess to forgive me, and I smacked him across the face with the gun. A bruise started to form on his cheek, and I remembered the bruise on Frank’s face. Anger rose inside of me, but I forced it down. Stay calm, stay calm. Help will be here any minute. He just kept glaring at me, without saying a word. I sighed. I just don’t have it in me to be an interrogator. I don’t have the stomach for torturing people, I realized. Maybe I don’t have what it takes to be a private eye if I can’t beat a confession out of someone.
But somehow, I couldn’t think that was a bad thing.
I heard a noise in the kitchen, and with relief looked up, expecting to see Frank and maybe reinforcements—and my heart sank when I saw a gun pointed directly at me.
It was the other guy from the Bourbon Orleans, the one with the blue shirt.
“Drop it,” he ordered, cocking the trigger.
I bit my lower lip. Might as well try to keep bluffing. I put my gun against White Shirt’s head. “I’ll kill him.”
Blue Shirt gave me a pitying look and shrugged. “Go ahead. Then I will shoot you.” He raised his eyebrows. “It doesn’t matter to me. Go on then. Shoot him.” He smiled the coldest smile I had ever seen. It sent chills down my spine. His eyes were unlike anything I’d ever seen before. I’ve often heard that the eyes are the windows of the soul. If that was true, then this guy had no soul. His eyes were completely dead and empty. They were the eyes of someone who had killed before and would kill again—a man who enjoyed killing people. He would kill me without a second thought and then turn his gun on my parents and Misha just for the sheer joy of killing. “And then I will shoot them all.”
I was in the presence of something almost inhuman, a killing machine, someone with the morality of a shark, a predator who killed merely for the pleasure of it.
I dropped my gun and raised my arms yet again over my head and walked backward away from White Shirt.
White Shirt picked up the gun and turned it on me, a malevolent grin on his face. “I knew you hadn’t the stomach for killing. Americans never do,” he sneered at me.
He’s going to kill me. Ah, well, it’s been a pretty good life. I’ve pretty much enjoyed my every day. I had wonderful parents and truly great friends, not to mention the last few months with Colin and Frank. I’ve been happier than anyone has a right to expect, and I’ve had lots of good times, and I am not afraid—
“You let this boy disarm you?” Blue Shirt said,
his voice almost wondering. “Can’t I leave you alone for a moment? Are you so worthless? So incompetent? You let a weak American boy take your gun away from you? You are a disgrace.”
A gun fired.
My entire body tensed. But I felt nothing. I opened my eyes in time to see White Shirt topple over backward, a blooming red rose expanding in the middle of his chest, a look of complete surprise on his face. I stared in horror as his body hit the floor, and the blood began to pool and spread across the shiny hard wood. My legs felt weak, and I leaned against the wall to keep from falling. Blue Shirt was now pointing his gun at me. I prayed again—Goddess have mercy on White Shirt’s spirit, and please protect me from this maniac, protect us all—and tilted my chin up defiantly. “Well, go ahead and shoot me then. But why did you do that?” I tried not to look at White Shirt, just nodded with my head.
“He’s a fool. He needed killing. Now I don’t have to share fee with him.” He shook his head.
“Well, go on, get it over with. Shoot me.”
“That is not the plan.”
The plan? What the fuck?
Yet it was still a relief to hear him say it. I hoped Frank was on his way with the cops or Colin or anyone. I swallowed.
“So, what exactly is the plan?” I asked, keeping my voice steady. It wasn’t easy.
He frowned at me. “Shut up.”
Behind him, in the hallway, I saw the door to the staircase leading to the shop slowly start to open. It had to be Frank, back with the cops or someone. Thank you, Goddess. I smiled at Blue Shirt. Keep him distracted; keep him talking; keep him from turning around and seeing that someone is coming.