"Nor do I. But there's no option. I'll miss you."
Aidan resisted the idea. "There must be another way to save Ashley without getting involved in this atrocious game."
Aidan stood back, looking at the platform, trying to find an exit. He did a full circle and considered his options. A frightening silence returned. It was as if Tedd and Todd and Wilfred were avoiding the slightest sound to let him think the whole thing through. He lost the whole notion of time, but finally looked at them once more.
Wilfred stared at him understandingly. Tedd and Todd waited either side of the white throne, running their hands over it, cleaning it.
Suddenly they raised their violet eyes and looked straight into Aidan's. Smiling, inviting, they extended their hands for him to take the throne.
Their invitation coincided with the moment in which Aidan Zack realized that he had never had another option.
EPILOGUE
Bruce Webster, at the age of thirty-two, had managed to do a lot of stupid things in his life. Perhaps not as many as others, but a lot just the same. And here he was now, dangerously close to committing the biggest mistake of his life. Just thinking about it made him break out in a cold sweat.
Bruce put his hand around the wad of notes. It was all the money he had in the world after emptying his bank account. His debts and his mortgage were things he hadn't taken into account. He would worry about them later if he lost. He pushed the money slowly towards the centre of the table.
"I'll see you and raise you," he said, trying to sound confident.
The other three gamblers at the table looked at him, and two of them folded their hands and pulled out of the game. Bruce studied the only man left, the one who would decide if Bruce would make a pile of cash or finish up being nothing more than a stupid fool who'd lost everything he had on one hand of cards.
"Did you know that this place was an art gallery at one time?" his adversary informed him. "There, on that wall, the ugliest painting you can imagine used to hang."
"So, how did it finish up being a gaming room?" one of the others asked.
"Because the gallery was burnt down two and a half years ago."
"Why didn't they rebuild it and reopen the gallery?" Bruce asked, trying to sound relaxed, although he was far from it. In fact, the only thing he wanted to know was what was in the other man's hand. "Maybe they were insured and didn't lose too much."
"They were insured," his opponent agreed. "But it's difficult putting a value on works of art. There are always people who take advantage of situations like that. The simple fact is they found my offer better than the insurance company's, and I became the owner. I decided to put it to better use."
"You're Dylan Blair?" one of the others said amazed. "The millionaire?"
Bruce wasn't as impressed as the others. He knew who Dylan was. In fact, he'd been coming to the gaming room for a few weeks with the express desire of playing against him. Since he'd decided to give up his life sitting in front of a computer screen, working for others, he'd been looking for an opportunity like this. He'd discovered that Dylan was one of the regular players in the room and lost heaps playing poker without even batting an eyelid. Sometimes he won. Lately, though, his luck seemed to have improved, but Bruce trusted in his own ability and had waited patiently until the millionaire was ripe for the kill.
"Exactly. That's me," Dylan said. "I can see my fame precedes me."
"I heard that you got your start by breaking a casino," one of the others said. "Well, that's the official version," Dylan explained. "The truth is that I sold my soul to the devil so I could live a degenerate and superficial existence."
The two gamblers who'd tossed their hands in chuckled to themselves.
"Bah! The rich never reveal their secrets," one said to the other.
Bruce had run out of patience. "If it’s all the same to you, can we continue the game?"
"Of course," Dylan said politely. "It was only an anecdote, to break the tension a little bit. Let's see. I believe I'm going to see your bet."
Dylan Blair took out a pile of notes and threw them on top of the rest in the middle of the table. Bruce thanked God at that moment. He'd made a few slick moves during the game and had manipulated the cards to finish up with four aces. He'd been sweating on Dylan seeing his bet, and now it was time to collect. It had all been done perfectly and no one could doubt that his hand had been dealt to him. He was a professional. The four aces had been spread through the pack and had come from the discards. It would have been suspicious if he'd got four aces in the first deal.
It was perfect. Bruce turned his cards over and fanned them across the felt, a look of total satisfaction covering his face.
"Four aces," he said triumphantly.
"Excellent hand. No doubt about that," Dylan said poker-faced. His expression never changed whether he won or lost. "But my royal flush is better."
The world came to a stop then for Bruce. All his dreams shattered in his heart. The other pair at the table were amazed by what had just happened and began to praise Dylan. Other gamblers from nearby tables came over to see what had happened and soon a crowd surrounded the table.
"I… I can't believe it," Bruce stammered. "It was all the money I had. You've ruined me."
"Gambling's like that," Dylan said impassively. "Don't get too upset. You'll see that your problems–"
"Wait a moment!" Bruce exclaimed, jumping across the table and rummaging through the discards.
Something had just become very clear in his mind. The royal flush was formed from two of his own discards. It was impossible that they could be in Dylan's hand now if they'd been on the table. The bastard had cheated.
"That's the reason I told you the story," Dylan said, realizing by the look on Bruce's face that he knew. "I needed to distract your attention. A great friend of mine showed me how to do it a few years back. The whole thing's been a lot of fun."
Because he'd lost everything at least he could thank this rich arrogant bastard by giving him a good beating. Bruce got up and started to round the table. But as he did so a great thundering noise reverberated around the room. The front wall closest to the street came apart and everybody started running every which way they could in panic. The table with all the money on top turned over and knocked Bruce and Dylan to the ground underneath. They pushed the heavy table up but something crashed onto it, pinning them where they were.
They struggled clumsily underneath but couldn't budge it. People were screaming throughout the room as they ran for the exits. Bruce hadn't seen what had crashed onto the table and that made him furious. Then suddenly he felt the weight above them disappear, and this time, with Dylan's help, he managed to push it off them. When they did, the biggest man Bruce had ever seen was standing before them. He wasn't that tall, but he was massive. He wore a black suit and held a giant mace with both hands.
"Stay still," Dylan warned him with a smile. "Sit down and enjoy the show. If you stay here nothing will happen to you."
Bruce didn't know what to say or do. He just stared dumbfounded at the bodybuilder in the black suit.
Then, someone else even stranger arrived. The huge man threw the mace in a perfect arc towards a wheelchair that moved unaided. It missed its mark by inches. And a man, around seven feet tall, got up from the wheelchair. He was carrying a sword almost as tall as he was and looked cold and hard and very serious. He walked across to the man in black and ran him through with the sword.
An incredible panic invaded Bruce. This recently arrived giant was going to kill everyone still in the room and there was nothing he could do to stop it.
"A little early for a check, don't you think?" Dylan said, approaching the swordsman.
"I suppose you're right. Are you still living a perpetual orgy, Dylan?"
"Trying to," Dylan answered. "Look after yourself, friend."
"That's what I'm trying to do," the swordsman answered sadly, as he shook Dylan's hand.
Then, without giving the d
ead body on the floor a second glance, he disappeared. Bruce watched him go in disbelief.
"Do you know him?"
"He was a policeman. The first time I ran in to him he punched me so hard I nearly lost an eye. He's a good bloke, but a bit boring at the same time."
"Good bloke? He just killed this man mountain here and whacked you. And you say he's a good bloke," Bruce said, baffled.
"Hmm. Yes, he is a good person," Dylan said after a pause. "One of the best, depending on how you judge people, of course. Which reminds me, this money problem of yours. You know, being ruined for life and all that. I know an old man and a boy who love to help out people in just the sort of jam you're in. They speak a bit strangely, but you'll get used to it. Anyway, you'll find out…"
BLACK ROCK PRISON (the continuing saga of TEDD AND TODD'S SECRET)
(Sample)
Kevin dropped the eyes on the floor. One of them bounced off his leg and came to a stop under a table; the other one landed in front of him and there was no way he could avoid stepping on it.
“Shit,” he exclaimed, completely annoyed. He inhaled slowly and deeply, squeezed his eyes shut tightly, then exhaled forcefully.
Kevin Peyton was a meticulous man. He paid attention to details and was convinced that it was precisely because of this that he enjoyed such a good reputation in his profession. Clients recognized his fastidious personal touch and respected him for it.
“He was perfect,” a woman had told him on one occasion after admiring the results of his labor with fascination. “Even better than before the accident.”
Kevin had limited himself to nodding respectfully and had abstained from commenting. He certainly hadn't had the faintest idea of how to reply to that kind of remark. It was the only time that he remembered ever hearing anything like it. And it had come from a regular client, which was something rare in his profession.
This time no one would be congratulating him. He could have kicked himself for having been so clumsy as he took off the mask and picked the eyes up off the floor. It was no easy task to get the one from under the table but he finally managed to grab it. He threw the eyes in the trash and looked the body over carefully, searching for a solution for this unfortunate mishap. He remembered that once a long time ago he had had a similar problem with an eye donor. The body had to be presentable, so he had resorted to stuffing some cotton balls under the eyelids to keep them from sinking down into the eye sockets.
For a fleeting moment he considered presenting the cadaver with sunglasses. It was a totally involuntary and random thought, undoubtedly brought on by nerves. He quickly dismissed it tucked it in the back of his mind as a last resort. The cotton balls would no doubt work perfectly and provided a considerably more elegant recourse.
Fortunately, everything turned out exquisitely and two hours later the deceased was in impeccable condition for the family's showing: a good suit, a little makeup, and the yellow handkerchief that his wife had so vehemently insisted be placed around his neck. It wasn't necessarily an unusual request; Kevin had dressed corpses in every way imaginable. Just the same, as he finished preparing the body he couldn’t help turning over in his mind the possible significance of that particular accessory—but didn't arrive at any interesting conclusion.
He finished up with an hour to spare before the funeral home would open. The family of the deceased wouldn't arrive until ten a.m. and his colleague would be there by then. Now seemed like a suitable time to go out for breakfast.
Norman's bar was the best bet given that it was across from the funeral home and Kevin didn't like to have to take the car; in fact he hardly ever strayed too far from the Far Southeast Side. The Chicago cold grabbed him as soon as he stepped out onto the street. Kevin was used to low temperatures so his thick wool sweater was more than sufficient to keep him warm.
At this early hour, the bar would be closed, but Norman would no doubt already be there getting everything set for breakfast and maybe even be in the mood for a little company. And anyway, Kevin wanted to see his friend alone.
Norman Smith was a nice man with a certain magnetism about him. You couldn’t help but laugh at his witty remarks delivered with that cheerful Irish accent. His sharp tongue was always at the ready with entertaining observations for any and every situation and it was extremely unusual to see him angry or gloomy. Kevin had known him for more than ten years, since the time when the funeral home had opened. After his ridiculously difficult first day straightening things up in order to be able to carry out his new duties, Kevin had crossed the street and gone into the Irish bar directly opposite the funeral home to have a drink to relax a bit. Norman had struck up a conversation with him. Later, as he walked back out the door, he had already decided where he'd go the next morning to have breakfast.
They got along well. A strong friendship developed between them over the next eight years, and then Kevin discovered Norman's secret: gambling. Poker, roulette, betting . . . anything and everything. Then a year and a half ago, Norman suffered an “unexpected” slump and lost everything. Consequently, he almost lost the bar as well. Kevin took pity on him and loaned him money. A considerable sum of money. It meant a serious sacrifice on his part since his wife had walked out three years before that without a single word, leaving him on his own with his now eighteen-year-old daughter—the most important person in his life.
Now the tables had turned. His precious Stacy's imminent entry into the university along with a rough patch at the funeral home had put him in a rather delicate economic situation. His daughter's future was at stake, leaving Kevin desperately needing to get his money back, or at least part of it. The problem was asking Norman for it. Of course, it was legitimately his and the time period in which his friend should have returned it had long since passed. Just the same, Norman hadn't even ever mentioned the matter; it was as if it had never happened. Kevin was infuriated. In his opinion, as a good friend, Norman should have taken the initiative and returned the money to him without forcing him to ask for it. Or, at the very least, he should have explained the reason why he still hadn't kept his end of the agreement and indicated when he might be able to. Nevertheless, it seemed that Norman didn't see it that way so Kevin would have to bring it up even though it wouldn't be easy for him. Figuring that it would also put Norman in an uncomfortable position made Kevin uneasy, and he got annoyed with himself for feeling like that. He was only taking back what belonged to him—nothing wrong with that—and besides, it was for his daughter's benefit. But
still . . .
Maybe this time Norman would say something to him. The best case scenario would be to show up at the bar and chat a bit, just the two of them, and to act as relaxed as possible so Norman would have no idea of the grudge that he was carrying over the whole thing. The worse case would be to somehow have to manipulate the conversation so it turned to the topic of debts, and then Norman would hopefully take the hint. No, surely he wouldn't have to do anything like that.
Kevin took long strides across the street, moving to the other side with great agility. He was tall—six feet, three inches—and he was in great shape. His body showed all the signs of regular exercise and was wonderfully sculpted. Virtually all of his muscles were well defined, but at the same time he didn’t look like someone who never left the gym. And he was handsome; people had always told him so. Kevin was uncomfortable hearing compliments—they made him blush—but he knew they were true. He couldn't deny it. His unmistakable garnet eyes and his straight ginger-red hair were the main reasons for his natural good looks.
Kevin entered the bar but didn't see anyone. He was just about to call out to Norman, thinking that he was somewhere in there, but then saw the silhouette of a man at the far end of the bar. Instantly he realized that something wasn't right. This guy was not the typical Irish client that frequented Norman's place. Kevin cleared his mind and focused his attention. He heard a muffled sobbing that was apparently coming from the unidentified man. He then remembered that the door to th
e establishment had been unlocked, that he had only had to give it a push to open it. And he noticed something else—a strange . . . odor.
“Hello,” he greeted the stranger. “Have you seen the waiter?”
The man did not turn around but kept his back to him. Kevin wondered for a brief moment what he should do. The stranger was seated on a stool and had one elbow leaning on the bar. He was dark-haired, medium height, and he seemed thin, though it was really hard to know for sure because a black raincoat enveloped him. Kevin approached slowly, making noise as he moved so as not to startle the man. Something out of the ordinary was definitely going on here. The man moved. His shoulders rose and fell quickly and Kevin heard him moaning weakly.
“Are you okay, man?” Kevin reached out slowly toward the stranger's shoulder. He realized that his hand was shaking though he didn't know why. “I don't mean to bother you.” Kevin gently tapped him and the man slowly turned around. “Don't be alarmed. I only want . . .”
Kevin instinctively took a step back. He tripped over a stool and fell clumsily to the floor. He sprung back up, his heart pounding uncontrollably as a rush of adrenaline burst through his body. He stared at the man and then dropped his eyes to the man's left hand.
He was clutching an enormous pistol.
“G-Get away,” said the man in a voice choked with emotion.
“Calm down, friend,” said Kevin, struggling to control himself. “I'm nobody . . . I just came to . . .”
“I don't care who you are. I just want one last drink.”
And in that moment Kevin understood it all, or he thought he did. The man wasn't pointing the pistol, it was more like he was just mindlessly holding it. Two tears rolled down his cheeks onto his chin. His eyes were very strange. They seemed unfocused, like he wasn't looking directly at anything. His face was thin and pale, vaguely reminiscent of someone who had been attractive in his younger years. It was obvious that he had been rubbing his eyes judging by the look of his eyelids. Kevin's fear that the guy would shoot him quickly evaporated. That was definitely not this guy's intention, nor had he come to hold up the bar. The only real explanation filled Kevin with a sick feeling like he had never felt before. Unless he was pitifully mistaken, the man was about to kill himself.
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