Soon, Brant thought. Soon as I whip this dude for a while. The exercise will do me good.
Which, he knew, was a lie. He received plenty of exercise through sex. But he needed to flex his anger now, with the looming threat of Kasas hanging over him. So he whipped the kid again. And again. Though other options existed, he stuck with the belt. A nasty gash had opened across the dude’s chest when the door burst open.
“Stop,” Katie uncharacteristically commanded. “They're coming.”
Brant, internally alarmed but displaying no emotion, replied, “Who are coming? What are you talking about.”
“We have to stop their screams.” She looked coked-out but had sense enough to bring a roll of duct tape and pairs of socks, which made her intent clear to Brant. Someone was coming to the house, someone who shouldn't be privy to the goings-on here, which could include almost anyone.
As Brant adhered tape to the man's mouth – Katie handled the woman – Brant asked again, “Who is coming?”
“Police are coming. Elliot called because you weren't answering your phone.”
Police? Why? He hadn't done anything they should know about. But of course he'd done plenty. Had a mistake been made somewhere along the line? Possibly. However, he couldn't imagine what that might be.
“How much time do we have?”
“No idea. Not much. Hurry.”
He'd removed his shirt before inflicting punishment on his captives. He put it back on. His wallet and keys were in the upstairs bedroom. He sent Katie to fetch them and meet him in the library. He wanted to see who, if anyone, might be there. Being mid-morning during the week he suspected no one. Suvos' watchful eyes were all that met him. A fire roared in the fireplace.
An unmarked police cruiser pulled into the driveway as Katie, hugging the banister, waddled down the stairs with his things. Her dilated eyes welled with tears as she handed them to him.
“Daddy, I'm scared,” she confided.
“Nothing to worry about, sweetie,” Brant kissed her forehead and wrapped an arm around her shoulders. “Daddy will handle everything.”
Doorbell chimes rang as Brant answered the door to a tall, thin man and his short, fat counterpart. Both wore rumpled and worn suits, neither had much hair. The shorter of the two wore a thick, bushy mustache. He spoke first.
“Detective John Brown, of the Austin P.D., and Detective Dallas Lee,” he said, introducing the pair with a flash of badges. “We're looking for Brant Wilson, of Kasas LLC. Are you Mr. Wilson?”
“I am he. How may I help you detectives today? And what, may I ask, has prompted your visit?”
“Would you mind if we went inside to talk? It's mighty hot out here.”
“Perhaps you should remove your blazer,” Brant suggested. “It's such a beautiful day today, and I so rarely step outside for fresh air.” Brant, then, stepped outside, Katie by his side, and shut the front door. “Now, you were about to enlighten me as to the reason for your visit...”
“We have a few questions regarding commercial space leased to Kasas LLC, space which appears to be vacant and unattended. Your name, number and residence is associated with Kasas LLC.”
“It's my company,” Brant said.
“A number of people went missing, in association with a few mutilated bodies which turned up a while back. An investigation discovered an unlicensed gathering had taken place—”
“A rave,” Detective Lee clarified.
“We had assumed, based on information gathered, that the illegal party had taken place in one of the many abandoned buildings in the area. It was a huge but short-lived media story, you may have heard about it. Tell me, Mr. Wilson, do you know anything about such a gathering on the weekend of...” The detective flipped open a notepad and read the date.
“Not that I recall.”
“I see.” Brown appeared pained. “Do you recall where you were and what you were doing on the night in question?”
“Wow. That was a long time ago. I could've been doing any number of things.”
“Think hard,” Lee urged. “It's important.”
“What I think is,” Brant said, “the night in question happened much too long ago to recall anything at all. I also think my attorney, Joshua Elliot, the man I keep on retainer and the man I assume you contacted before paying your visit today, would chastise me like a child if I were to continue this discussion, especially considering the amount of money I pay him, without his being present. In fact, I'm mildly surprised that he hasn't arrived. But you know attorneys, always busy.”
“Busy, yes,” Brown agreed. “Thing is, we had hoped for a tour of your facility. We understand it is the site of some sort of Internet company.”
“As you know, based on your being here,” Brant said, “I'm a bit short-staffed at the moment—”
“About that,” Lee interjected, “how can you run a business without anyone being there?”
“Networked computers,” Brant explained, “they make our lives much easier. It's a virtual office. I simply need a place to house hardware.”
Detective Brown said, “You can give us a tour, or we can have a judge issue a warrant.”
“We can have the warrant by this afternoon,” Lee added.
“Then we can gain entry and give ourselves a tour.”
“Thanks, detectives, what a time-saver that would be, although I have no idea what you might hope to find.” Brant shrugged. “A time-wasting wild goose hunt, if you ask me. I typically keep someone on-site – that is preferable – but, damn it, good help nowadays—so tough to find. I had a guy but he recently quit. I've been scrambling to find a replacement ever since.”
“That's not exactly what we had in mind,” Brown said.
“It works out best, though,” Brant said. “My assistant will gladly meet you there, along with my attorney, assuming you're able to acquire a search warrant for such a crazy straw-grasp as this. I assume you've ran out of buildings to search in the area, but I won't tell you how to do your job. If you have further questions, I'm happy to address them in the presence of my attorney.”
The pained expression on Detective Brown's face deepened as he jotted down Katie's cell phone number.
Lee, apparently the “bad cop,” added, “Don't plan any out-of-town business trips for the foreseeable future. We'll be in touch.”
The duo returned to their unmarked car until a patrol car relieved them at the curb.
Dammit, this was the last thing he needed right now.
Brant went inside and Katie went upstairs to change into, he assumed but didn't truly care, business attire before meeting the men at the server farm. Dude #1 should be there, giving the grand tour, instead of strapped to a bed of nails down in the dungeon.
“I'm surrounded by idiots,” Brant muttered to himself.
Not true, he knew, yet it felt that way. Perhaps not idiots, incompetents. Unfocused individuals unaware of the final goal of creating and sustaining the greatest network of occult knowledge and depravity this world (and the world beyond) had ever seen. All for Kasas.
Kasas.
The entity, despite all Brant had done, who planned to make an example of him.
And then, of course, Dude #2, the replacement dude. The BOFH who'd flaked, thus leaving the site unmanned. Not that his presence would have prevented a police inquiry into the sacrificed party-goers. But it would have delayed or perhaps prevented today's frustrating interruption.
Something else nagged at him as he flew down the flight of stairs to the basement, barely maintaining composure.
Something had prompted today's visit
New evidence had surfaced
No, not evidence – evidence led to arrest(s)
Information
Information from who, about what?
Information obviously pointing to location. Who knew the location? Everyone in attendance, of course. Spells and wards had been used (along with plenty of drugs and alcohol) to cloud party-goers' minds. If one of them had divulged t
he precise location, this police inquiry would have happened much sooner. No, it had to have been someone else. One of his employees, perhaps? One of the coven? Brant couldn't see any of them causing this problem, not even Sassy.
Had to be someone else.
But who?
Didn't matter. Fan blades were slinging shit at high velocity in all directions and time had come for a proactive approach. He hoped the clean-up effort at the facility immediately preceding the sacrifices had proved sufficient to remove the most obvious evidence. Of course certain wards had simply been covered by coats of paint. And the most damning and heinous of all evidence, the blood-soaked symbols left covering the floor, remained. Those symbols, naturally, lie hidden under a raised server floor supporting racks upon racks of humming computer and networking equipment. Would the detectives think to search under the floor? Would Brainy's deception spells cause them to overlook the possibility of finding evidence there? Brant had no idea, suspected and needed to assume they'd turn the place upside-down, and so he needed Joshua Elliot and his team to legally maneuver his ass out of this sling he found himself in.
Brant pulled his cell phone from a pocket as he closed the distance to Brainy's occult supplies. He sent the following cryptic message to Alex Lancaster, the ex-con who ran things in Nebraska: I need you and a crew here ASAP. When can you be here?
He located the ceremonial dagger and had entered the dungeon after texting Joshua Elliot to call when Lancaster's reply came:
I'll catch the next flight. Crew to arrive tomorrow.
Great, great...
“Dude,” Brant addressed the guy in the dungeon as he pocketed the phone, “today's your lucky day. Today your suffering ends.”
The dude's eyes bulged as Brant plunged the dagger with both hands straight into his heart.
The prostitute was next. Lancaster's crew could dispose of their bodies tomorrow.
42
The cell phone chirped at receipt of another text message. His phone, it seemed, had been blowing up all day. Not literally exploding, as he'd assumed the first time he heard Katie (or was it Jenna?) use the expression. No, his cell phone was “ringing off the hook,” as people used to say regarding landlines. Except this was the text message equivalent, which seemed appropriate considering all the sounds and vibrations. Surprisingly, the battery hadn't died already.
In this message, another from soon-to-be ex-wife Evelyn, she complained yet again about the troublesome BMW he'd so graciously given her. Apparently, now that she owned it, it had broken down twice.
I cannot help it if cars don't like you, he replied.
Fuck me running, Brant thought.
Enough shit existed without Evelyn's juvenile cry for attention. He was so over her. Why hadn't Elliot's team taken care of her already? Oh, yeah. Because he'd asked in the beginning they cause delays with the divorce simply to fuck with her. That was then, this was now. He couldn't care less about the bitch.
Daddy, Katie text messaged, the police car is gone.
Luckily, Elliot's law firm knew its shit. Or perhaps the cockamamie story Detectives Brown and Lee had tried to feed the judge simply offered no taste. They'd since left a string of patrol cars parked at the curb. But they hadn't contacted Elliot, Katie, or himself for access to the Austin site since leaving. Brant would know if they had gained entry to the building themselves, considering Alex Lancaster now manned the facility. His goons, faceless, nameless ex-cons, should be arriving at the airport soon, if not already. They'd rent, borrow or steal an automobile and show up to the house shortly, to dispose of the rotting corpses downstairs in the dungeon. Brant didn't care what they did with bodies, as long as they were gone and couldn't be traced back to him, which he trusted to take place. Lancaster – hell, all of his leadership team – had proven trustworthy. He couldn't ask for a better team than Lancaster, Katie, Denzel, Derek, Joey and Tara.
In fact, he'd asked that they all fly out for a team-building celebration next week. Build them up, keep Kasas sated with depravity. Two birds with one perverted stone. He'd mentioned the idea to Brainy earlier. A demon of perversity hoping to make an example of someone certainly wouldn't act hastily with scheduled acts of depravity on the horizon.
If Brant Wilson knew anything, and Brainy Witch agreed, the supernatural yet diabolical entity known as Kasas would not act hastily. No. First of all, Kasas operated on a different timetable. His timetable prevented immediate repercussion from perceived infractions. Secondly, if Brant knew anything and he believed he did, any substantial act of depravity should buy him time.
And so it seemed fitting to request the appearance of executive staff.
Blood flowed to his groin as he thought about his plans.
His mind also flirted with the idea of fucking the streetwalker's corpse in the dungeon. Kasas would get a kick out of that. So, Brant realized, would he. When might the next opportunity to experience the erotic pleasure of decomposing pussy present itself? The orifice, leaking a viscous fluid of death, would offer an interesting and depraved lubrication to experience. As would other orifices...
Something caught his eye. An old book, obviously one which belonged in the library, simply left out on the bar top, a bottle of vintage wine standing beside it. He first thought perhaps Brainy had left it there. Except Brainy never left books strewn about the house. The coven occasionally checked out books with Katie and read them on the sofa in front of the television. Brainy took them to her room downstairs.
But she wasn't here, she was in class. Only Fat Witch was here and her housekeeping duties currently kept her occupied. She wouldn't have brought a book from the library.
Upon inspection Brant noticed a piece of parchment slipped under the front cover. The letter, dated with today's date and written in English using a cursive font, bore Suvos' inscription. The brief note, addressed to Brant Wilson, read:
You may find that which you seek within these pages. Enjoy the wine. It comes from Kasas' own cellar, won in a wager between us a century ago. I thought it fitting you have it, considering your intentions.
His intentions? Regarding Kasas? Brant wasn't sure what he would do, or if he could do anything. At least not yet. Perhaps the book might offer an answer, as suggested by the note.
The wine, a vintage circa 1666, had been bottled in France, based on its yellowed label. The wax seal around the cork appeared untampered with. While Brant couldn't read much of the label, he could tell, based on images of tortured women, that much pain and agony had went into its making. Young women, perhaps virgins, whips and knives torturing them as they trampled grapes. Vin de Sang. Wine of blood, Brant assumed. Interesting concept. He wondered how it might taste. Perched upon a bar stool, he opened the untitled book. It's Latin text gave him little trouble.
Skimming the introduction and front matter he discovered the book to be quite rare, with, it seemed, no actual publication date. In fact, the penmanship contained within, carefully inked, had initially given the impression of actual publication, when in actuality, Brant realized, the book was a journal or notebook of sorts. A collection of spells specifically intended to obscure a person or entity's whereabouts, along with spells to anchor entities to objects or places.
Very interesting.
Frightening, yet interesting.
Intending to put away the wine and return to the library to read the book, he found himself rudely interrupted by the chime of a doorbell.
Who the hell—his mind started, then realized it must be Lancaster's men at the door.
The book must wait. He left it with the wine and went to answer the door. Upon reaching the foyer he noticed Katie heading down the stairs, leaning heavily on the banister to help balance the added weight of pregnancy.
“I'll get it, Daddy. Sorry to be so slow.”
Brant, ignoring the statement, opened the door to two rough-looking guys. One sported a shaved head, the other had hair that belonged on a rock guitarist. The rock guitarist wore dirty, faded jeans and a T-shirt wh
ich had once been black or navy blue but now showed signs of sun-bleaching and sweat stains. The Latino, shorter by nearly a head, wore chinos and a button-up shirt, buttoned to his tattooed neck. Several buttons at the bottom had been left undone.
“Colleagues of Alex Lancaster, I presume,” Brant greeted them.
The rock god grunted and the Latino jutted his chin.
“Please, come in. I assume Alex advised you as to what needs taken care of.”
“Lancaster said you needed shit moved, pronto,” the Latino said.
“Yes. Shit. I need some moved,” Brant confirmed as he closed the door behind them. “I also assume you know what sort of shit we're talking about.”
“Shit is shit, man,” the Latino said, shifting his weight in a way that Brant read as a need to urinate.
“We know what needs moved,” Rock God clarified.
“Daddy,” Katie interrupted, “is there anything you need me to do?”
She had that glazed, coked-out look on her face again. Though intent on pleasing her daddy, her eyes never strayed from the long-haired man. She had caught his attention and apparently he appreciated what he saw. Namely a woman several years his junior, in pigtails and pink miniskirt, pregnant belly and swollen breasts nearly ripping through the see-through matching blouse she wore.
“Pardon me for not asking your names,” Brant told the men. To Katie, he said, “Perhaps you show our Latino friend here to the restroom before he pisses himself. We'll meet you at the bar. I assume you two might wish to wet your whistle before getting down to business.”
Katie led the Latino off down the hall; Brant took the other guy to the bar, where, through brief chit-chat, he learned:
Getting here had been a long haul for the men
The guy wanted a beer
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