by AnonYMous
It was.
Kacy opened up the text message and read it. ‘Job done. Girl is all urs. Dispose of body when ur done.’
Kacy nearly vomited. She needed Dante, big time, something her instincts always told her when she was in trouble. He could fix this if he was with her. The sooner he got back to the hotel the better. It didn’t matter how tough Agent Swann was, Dante could take on a tank in a fistfight and beat it, if it meant rescuing Kacy from harm.
She flicked frantically through the menu on the phone, knowing that Swann had Dante’s number stored in there somewhere. She found it quickly and pressed the ‘call’ button. A deep intake of breath calmed her momentarily as she put the phone to her ear. Don’t let me down, baby. Please answer. The words ran through her head, repeating themselves over and over like a broken record.
The phone rang three times and then Dante’s voice came through loud and clear.
‘Whadda ya want, cunt?’
‘Baby, it’s me!’ Kacy squealed.
‘Oh shit! Sorry, Kace, I thought you were Swann.’
‘He’s in the bathroom. I’m using his phone.’
‘Okay. Sit tight, babe, I’m comin’ to get ya! I got help with me. We’re gonna get outta here okay. Ya hear me?’
Kacy was so overjoyed at hearing Dante’s voice that she burst into tears, letting out all her fears in one surge of emotion. ‘Honey, I’m scared. I heard Valdez say the job’s over. I think they’re going to kill us. She’s gone, and she sent Swann a text telling him to dispose of my …’ Her terror finally got the better of her and her voice cracked completely. Telling Dante brought home the reality of the situation. It was just too much to take. Her sobbing became uncontrollable.
At the other end of the line her lover could tell that she was in a bad way and needed guidance. He knew that when she panicked she became indecisive, so he took a firm line in the hope of giving her some focus.
‘Kace, listen to me. Get the fuck outta there and head to the reception desk, somewhere public. I’m two minutes away, baby. I’ll see you there.’
Dante’s voice gave away the fact that he was running because his speech was punctuated by deep breaths and the volume of it went up and down.
‘I love you,’ Kacy sobbed.
‘Love ya too. Now get the fuck outta there.’
The phone went dead as Dante hung up. The next thing Kacy heard was the sound of the toilet flushing in the bathroom. It stopped her crying instantly, but threw her into an even greater state of panic. Could she get out of the bedroom and then to the main door into the corridor before Swann came out of the bathroom? And what about his phone? Should she put it back where she found it?
Her hesitation was costly. Swann wasn’t one for washing his hands after using the toilet and she heard the lock on the bathroom door click as he prepared to come out. Then she remembered what Dante had said. ‘Get the fuck outta there!’ He always knew what to do in a crisis. Do what Dante says, she thought. She took one more deep breath through her nostrils and ran for the front door.
Unfortunately, her timing was poor. Swann stepped out of the bathroom, saw her charging for the front door and instinctively reached out, grabbing her by the left arm.
‘Where the fuck d’you think you’re going?’ he asked, looking somewhat confused.
‘Umm.’ Kacy was stuck for words.
‘Where’s Roxanne gone?’
‘Umm.’
‘And what are you doing with my phone?’
Swann’s face was suddenly masked with concern. He could tell something was amiss. He reached over to Kacy’s right hand and wrested his phone from her grasp. Her face was betraying her. She was terrified, and he could see it in her eyes.
Still gripping her arm tightly, he began flicking through the menus on his phone. He quickly found the text from Valdez and as he read it Kacy saw his eyes light up and his jaw slacken. Then a huge, ugly smile slowly broke out across his face.
‘Well, well, well,’ he grinned. ‘I hope you’ve shaved your legs …’
Fifty-Seven
From his private quarters in the small building to one side of the church Father Papshmir watched a black V8 Interceptor pull up and come to a halt right outside the front of the church. The driver switched off the engine and stared hard down at the steering wheel for a few moments, deep in thought. The rain was still hammering down, and the windows of the car were tinted slightly so it was difficult to make out his face. Santa Mondega’s streets had been quiet since the word had spread that a mass murderer was in town on a killing spree, and since the thunderstorm had started there had been even fewer people about. So who was this? And why was he here?
The driver’s-side door opened and a hooded figure stepped out into the rain. There were no streetlights on and no lights showing in any of the nearby buildings. From high above it would have looked as though the town was in the middle of a blackout. That was not the case, however. It was a tradition in Santa Mondega that on the night of a blue moon the only light permitted in town would be moonlight. And, of course, it was still the witching hour, and those not tucked up safely in their beds were asking for trouble, openly advertising themselves to the undead, offering themselves as food for the vampires and werewolves. Not a wise thing to do. Especially not on Halloween.
The shady hooded figure closed the car door and walked up to the front doors of the church, head bowed to keep off the worst of the rain. He had not set foot inside for many many years. Tonight was an important night. It was time to confess.
The church doors opened with a gentle push. It was no warmer inside than out, but at least it was dry, and welcoming. The Kid walked down the aisle in the centre of the nave, passing row upon row of pews until he reached the altar. He knew his way around the church from years ago, when he had often escorted his younger brother to Sunday school. As if he had last set foot inside these walls only yesterday he took a left turn and walked around a large pillar to where the confessional was situated. He made his way over to it and stepped inside the public booth, to await the arrival of whichever man of the cloth was on duty.
In the event, he waited for less than a minute before he heard the door on the priest’s side of the box open. Then the curtain over the grille separating the two sides of the booth was pulled aside. It was far too dark to make out any features on the holy man’s face, but a voice spoke softly, almost at a whisper, through the grille.
‘Welcome, my son. I will hear your confession now.’
‘Thank you, Father,’ was the response. The voice had a gravelly quality to it. ‘Where to begin?’
‘When was your last confession?’
‘Fuck, I don’t know. Coupla decades ago, I guess.’
‘Decades?’ there was a gentle yet polite laugh from the priest. ‘You have been busy, then?’
‘Yes, Father. I’ve been killing.’
‘Excuse me?’
‘Murders, Father. Massacres. I’ve killed many men. Many, many men.’
‘Oh dear, that is unfortunate. Is this what …’
‘And women.’
‘And women?’
‘Children, too. Vampires, werewolves, kids, animals. I’ve killed pretty much every creature God ever created. And I did it all without any remorse. For a great many years. And now I’ve come to confess.’
There was a pause, during which it sounded very much as if the priest was holding his breath. Eventually he exhaled as slowly and calmly as possible and spoke, again.
‘Is this a joke?’
‘No, Father. I’ve committed every sin you can possibly imagine, and a good many you could never even have dreamt of.’
‘I see. And what do you think has made you do all these wicked things?’
‘It all started when I killed my mother.’
‘Your mother?’
‘Yes. I shot her a half a dozen times after I drank a bottle of bourbon.’
There was a pause, during which all that could be heard was the constant hammerin
g of the rain on the church roof and against the windows.
‘Bourbon? Did you say bourbon?’
‘Yes, Father.’ A gravelly pause. ‘I was that guy.’
There was a silence of deathly proportions for a second, followed by a loud squelchy farting noise from the priest’s side.
‘Please excuse me,’ he mumbled nervously through the grille. ‘You caught me cold there. I apologize.’
‘I forgive you, Father,’ said the gravelly voice calmly. ‘But are you able to forgive me? Will God forgive me for these terrible things I have done?’
‘Do you feel remorse for these things that you do?’
‘Did, Father. Did. My killing days are over. I intend to lead a sin-free life where possible, but I need to know if God will forgive me for all the souls I have destroyed, for the evil that I have done.’
The sound of a door opening near the back of the church interrupted them, and succeeded in imparting a sense of urgency to both men. Both wanted the confession over as quickly as possible. The arrival of a third party was more than enough excuse to hurry matters along.
‘Yes, my son, go on into the night. The Lord will forgive you.’
‘You’re sure? Should I feel any different now?’
‘You will feel different in the morning, my son. If you wake tomorrow morning, then you will know the Lord has forgiven you.’
‘Thank you, Father.’
‘Peace be with you, child.’
A gust of wind blew through the church as Father Papshmir walked towards the confessional. He caught sight of the hooded figure he had seen outside leaving by the front doors through which he had entered only a few minutes earlier. Papshmir let out a deep, irritated sigh. After going to all the trouble of dressing in his full robes the man had not stayed to make his confession. Or had he?
Showing beneath the curtain on the priest’s side of the confessional Papshmir saw a pair of white trainers. A pair he recognized only too well.
‘Josh,’ he ordered wearily. ‘Come on out.’
The curtain was pulled aside and the pale, terrified face of a fifteen-year-old boy looked out at him. He was trembling, but he managed to haul himself to his feet and step out of the booth. The terrified kid could barely speak. He had managed to control his fear during the revelation that he was sitting next to Santa Mondega’s most prolific mass murderer, but now he was in a terrible state. He looked as though he was in shock, so the sight of the balding priest standing before him in his dark church robes and white collar was probably a calming one.
‘Have you been listening to people’s confessions again?’ Papshmir asked, unable to hide the annoyance in his voice. ‘How many times have I told you about that? Altar boys cannot absolve people of their sins. That man’s confession counts for nothing when it’s you listening.’
‘Sorry, Father.’ The boy looked abject, standing, shivering, in his school shirt and pants.
‘You’re the one who should be confessing. It is a sin to impersonate a man of the cloth, you know.’
‘That was the Bourbon Kid.’ The words came out in a sudden rush.
‘What?’
‘That man. It was the Bourbon Kid. He confessed to all his murders and stuff, Father.’
‘Oh, for Christ’s sake! You heard confession from the Bourbon Kid? You stupid cunt!’ He looked up to the heavens. ‘Forgive me, Lord,’ he whispered, then he turned his attention back to Josh. ‘What have I told you, eh? See what happens? You’ve now taken confession from someone with no soul. Well, I hope you didn’t tell him his sins would be forgiven. That man is beyond redemption.’
‘Well …’
‘You absolved him? You dumb fuck! Forgive me Lord. So, that man – no, monster – is now walking the streets believing that God has forgiven him for all the murders he has committed? Well let me tell you, if he thinks that, he’s very much mistaken.’
‘I told him if he woke up tomorrow morning it meant God had forgiven him, so technically it’s in God’s hands now, right?’
The priest looked down into the frightened eyes of the teenager, and relented a little.
‘I guess so,’ he said, shaking his head. Then he sniffed the air. ‘What on earth is that smell?’
‘I’ve shit myself, Father.’
‘In my confessional?’
‘Yes, Father.’
‘Holy shit!’
Fifty-Eight
Robert Swann was an extremely strong man. He was also superbly well trained in how to deal with a struggling captive. And as struggling prisoners went Kacy was pretty feeble. It didn’t take much for him to drag her in to the bedroom in which he had spent the last few nights. With considerable aggression he threw her like a rag doll on to the nearer of two single beds. She landed flat on her back on top of the orange duvet, her head thudding gently into the white pillow below the headboard. The right-hand side of the bed was pressed up against the wall, meaning that her only escape route would be to roll over to her left into the space, no more than six feet wide, that separated the two beds. In between, against the wall, was a small dressing table with a mirror above it. Before Kacy could make any attempt to roll off the bed, however, Swann had lurched on top of her, his heavy muscular body pinning her down beneath him. It knocked the wind right out of her, so that she found she couldn’t even scream. As she saw his leering face come pressing towards hers with his tongue out and his eyes bulging she turned her face sideways. The move ensured that he missed any chance of kissing her on the mouth, but only encouraged him to lick the side of her face with his wet, slobbering tongue.
His hands moved fast, one of them grabbing her left breast, the other sliding down towards her crotch. Kacy was ready to be sick, but somehow she held it back, knowing that she would be unable to fight back if she was busy retching. Just about the only part of her body that wasn’t pinned under the panting figure of Robert Swann was her left arm. With it she reached out towards the dressing table, trying to find and grab hold of anything she might use as a weapon. What she found was a bedside lamp. Not a great weapon, but all she had at her disposal. She seized it by its base and swung it at Swann’s head as he pressed it against hers. The lamp crashed against his ear and the flimsy orange shade fell off. The impact of it barely registered with her attacker. Swann merely sat himself up, keeping Kacy prisoner by squeezing her waist tightly between his knees. His eyes were everywhere, eagerly anticipating the sight of her naked flesh, and he wasted no time in grabbing her grey sweatshirt and pulling it up over her head. It lifted her arms back with it and she dropped the bedside lamp on to the floor. A crashing sound followed as the light bulb shattered.
While Kacy struggled to free her arms and head from her sweatshirt sleeves so that she could fight back, Swann quickly took the opportunity to unbelt and unzip his trousers. His speed was impressive, not that Kacy would have noticed. Her face was still trapped inside her sweatshirt as he pulled his pants and underwear down to his knees. His penis was already erect – and now all he had to do was rip the girl’s jeans and underwear off, so he could put it to use. He went straight for the thin black leather belt on her jeans and frantically began unbuckling it. His fumblings were reminiscent of a teenage schoolboy, so out of practice was he, and by the time he’d unbuckled it and was ready to rip her jeans open at the fly, Kacy had freed her left arm from the sleeve of her shirt. Swann was too slow to react when she lunged at him. He had been so transfixed by the sight of the smooth skin of her stomach, and so aroused by the thought of the rest of her body, that he hadn’t noticed her left hand scrabbling around on the floor. Kacy had managed to grab the metal end of what remained of the light bulb and swung it at him as he knelt over her, in the manner of a boxer’s upper cut. Only she wasn’t aiming for his chin. She went for his crotch.
‘AAAAAAARGH!’ Swann screamed as loud as he’d ever done, as the jagged ends of the bulb ripped into his ass and part of his scrotum. His hands reached straight down and cupped the wound, hoping that nothing was permanently dam
aged. Kacy let go of the bulb and tried to wriggle free. It proved easier than she’d dared hope, for in his agony Swann lost his balance and fell sideways, collapsing off the bed and on to the floor, screaming and holding his balls and ass together. Kacy quickly redressed her upper half, pulling her sweatshirt back on in a second, rebuckled her belt and jumped up off the bed.
She was about to rush out of the bedroom when she spotted Swann’s gun tucked into a holster below his left shoulder. The filthy scumbag was on his knees on the floor with his back to her and his hairy ass up in the air, so, taking advantage of the situation, she lunged forward, reached over his shoulder and grabbed the gun. She plucked it from its holster and then pointed it at the back of her attacker’s head.
‘Don’t fuckin’ move!’ she yelled at him.
It barely registered with Swann, who was busy inspecting his balls and moaning in agony.
What to do? Kacy thought of all the cop films and cop TV shows she’d seen. Smack him over the head with the gun, she told herself. She rearranged her grip on the weapon and did exactly that.
SMACK! Right on the back of Swann’s head. The serial rapist yelled out in pain, then took one hand from his groin and placed it on the back of his head where Kacy had hit him. Then he twisted his head around and looked back at her.
‘You cunt,’ he sneered.
Kacy had had enough. The blow to the head hadn’t knocked him out at all; it had only angered him further.
Fuck it. Time to get out of there.
Fifty-Nine
Dante and Peto were soaked through when they finally made it to the Santa Mondega International Hotel. They also looked a little messy on account of the bloodstained police uniforms they were wearing. Neither man could wait to get inside. Dante led the way up the stone steps outside the ten-storey building, shivering violently from the cold rain. Peto followed, trying to squeeze some of the excess moisture out of his heavy dreadlocked hair.