The Tin Man

by Nina Mason

  The car drove on, her angst building with each passing mile. She had been like this for what felt like hours. The side of her face, where they’d hit her, pounded unmercifully. Her mind slipped in and out of awareness. When she was conscious, her memory remained murky.

  She sucked in a breath. The events of the past several hours started coming back in slices. The lounge at the crappy motel…seeing their pictures on the news…carjacking the Toyota…making love in the hayloft…waking up alone…the creepy twins in tan suits.

  Panic threatened. Obviously, they’d put her in the trunk of a car. But where was Buchanan? The thought of him tightened her throat and brought tears to her eyes. Was there any chance he might still be alive?

  Images drifted through her mind. The twins, looking like they’d stepped right out of a 1970s spy film, looming over her with guns. Her on the ground, back against a tree, feeling so woozy she couldn’t focus. One of them kneeling before her, putting a hand on her face.

  “She is very pretty, do you not agree?”

  “Yes, Georgi,” the other one said. “Very pretty. But also forbidden fruit, in case you have forgotten.”

  The hand on her face traveled south, stopping at her left breast.

  “Very, very pretty,” he whispered as he squeezed hard enough to make her wince. “She has nice tsitsi, too—not as nice as my Tatyana’s, of course, but there are few who can make that claim.” He turned to look at his twin. “What do you say to having a look?”

  “Nothing wrong with looking, I suppose,” the standing twin replied with a shrug.

  Thea’s eyelids were heavy and hooded, but she could feel his hands lifting her sweater, could feel icy fingers reaching inside her bra to twist her nipples like radio dials. She squirmed a little in protest, but could manage nothing more. And then, he slapped her hard across the face, knocking her over. The last thing she remembered before everything went black was the taste of bloody grit in her mouth.

  * * * *

  The black sedan was heading southwest along Interstate 95, having just crossed the border into Maryland. The road was flat and mostly straight, with three traffic lanes in both directions. Trees lined either side of the highway. Many looked barren and skeletal, having already lost their leaves.

  A couple of times along the way, Dee and Dum, as Buchanan had dubbed them, pulled off the highway. He’d followed, keeping his distance, parking on the shoulder. While waiting, he’d consulted the map he found in the glove compartment or pissed in a Budweiser bottle he’d found under the seat.

  Thea, clearly, was locked in the trunk. He tried hard not to think what it must be like for her in there. With any luck, she was unconscious. It wasn’t hard to guess where they were taking her. Not specifically, of course, but in general terms. According to the map, the road they were on would take them straight into Washington, D.C.

  He’d considered pulling alongside and trying to take them out. Best-case scenario, he’d shoot the driver and cause a wreck, which might seriously injure Thea. Worst-case scenario, they’d shoot him first. Neither option struck him as especially prudent. Better, he decided, to follow, see where they took her, and decide his next move from there.

  * * * *

  It was late afternoon before Dee and Dum exited the Interstate for good. They got off somewhere called Silver Springs and continued south for several miles, ending up in a neighborhood of narrow streets and older-looking apartment buildings. Most of them were brick and stone. Some were clean and fairly well kempt while others were derelict and boarded up.

  They cruised down what looked like an old-fashioned Main Street on acid. Victorian buildings painted an array of funky colors offering everything from bookshops to nightclubs and every type of ethnic cuisine imaginable. The sedan turned into an alleyway between a liquor store with a bright blue awning and a large building whose brick façade was a bilious shade of purple. The sign out front read The Pillory.

  Buchanan cruised past the alley, peering down. The sedan was stopping. He continued for another half-block before parking in front of an Indian restaurant. The smell of curry hung in the air, reminding him of a place he used to frequent back in Edinburgh. As he stepped out of the car, he felt alternating pangs of hunger and nostalgia. Something about the whole area reminded him a wee bit of The Royal Mile.

  He hurried down the sidewalk. A pounding dance beat boomed out of the purple bar. A couple of men in vests and leather chaps stood out front smoking cigarettes. Buchanan thought it a bit early in the day for a leather bar to be jumping, but what did he know? Leather bars weren’t exactly his scene. Not that he begrudged those who frequented them. In fact, he was a big supporter of gay rights. Kenny had been homosexual, something his parents still didn’t know. And he planned to keep it that way. The way he figured it, if Kenny had wanted to be outted to their parents, he would have done the job himself.

  A disturbing image flickered: Kenny being buggered by another man. He quickly shoved it away. He could accept the fact that his brother had been queer, but preferred not to dwell on the details. Especially since they were twins. Why, he’d often wondered, was Kenny gay, but not he? Then he’d worry that maybe he was, but just too hung up to know it. Not that there was any evidence to support that fear, but still. Fears weren’t always rational, were they? He pictured Thea then, under him with her legs wrapped around him, heels digging into his clenching arse. His groin twitched with longing.

  Nay. Not gay. No way.

  At the edge of the alleyway, he stopped to peer around the corner, acutely aware that the cowboys were checking out his backside as he did. His anus tightened, along with his gut. The sedan was nowhere in sight.

  * * * *

  Thea came back to herself feeling a chill. The trunk was open. The sky was overcast and the air bracing—a welcome change from the stuffiness of the trunk. She twisted around, trying to make out where she might be. Windowless brick buildings. Zigzagging fire escapes. Flat, featureless rooflines. There was a faint odor of garbage on the wind.

  She jumped when two faces appeared above her—the same odd pair who’d grabbed her back at the barn. They wore wide silk ties, matching suits with outdated lapels, elongated sideburns, and ultra-conservative side-parted haircuts. Even stranger, they reeked of perfume.

  Seizing her under the arms, they hauled her out, set her down hard on her feet without letting go. Her gaze darted around in search of answers, but found none. They jerked her roughly toward a basement stairway, dragging her down the concrete steps to what looked like a set of heavy iron doors. A plaque on the wall read: Tartarus. How peculiar, she thought, narrowing her eyes. Was it a nightclub of some sort? Just under the sign was a keypad. The twin on her left punched in a series of numbers with one hand, keeping the other clamped firmly on her upper arm.

  Silently, the doors swung open. The twins dragged her inside so roughly she lost her footing. Righting herself, she looked around, still befuddled. The space was small—no bigger than one of those self-storage units so prevalent in this age of runaway consumerism. And, bizarrely enough, empty except for a phone booth. It was a weird place for a phone booth, her mind told her, but, then again, this entire experience was too freaky for words. And she had a sinking feeling it was about to get a whole lot weirder.

  As the iron doors clanged shut behind them, the twins urged her forward, into the booth, squeezing in behind her. One of them lifted the receiver and punched in some numbers. The keypad, she noted, was toneless—a security precaution. As soon as he hung up, the bottom dropped out of the booth, leaving her stomach behind. She landed with a grunt on something plush. Before she could get her bearings, the twins had her by the armpits again and were hoisting her to her feet.

  Shaken and disoriented, she looked around, blinking. Was she seeing things clearly? Was she dreaming? Had she just stepped through a time warp into the past?

  The room was a stylish tribute to mid-century modern. Streamlined sofas, chrome tables, Grecian columns, animal skin rugs, mirrored wa
lls. Everything was black, white, red, and silver. Studying the space, she started to notice a few anomalies. There was a streaked marble statue of a satyr right next to her—a fountain—water spouting from the goat-man’s erect penis. Beyond the statue was a life-size cardboard cutout of Sean Connery as James Bond. Movie posters, she also noticed then, lined the lipstick-red walls.

  Dr. No. From Russia with Love. Goldfinger. The Spy Who Loved Me. And, rather anomalously, Spartacus.

  What was this place? Her brain couldn’t make sense of it. It appeared to be a shrine to James Bond, and yet some things didn’t fit—a human-sized birdcage, an opulent French-looking doghouse big enough for a family of Saint Bernards, what looked like a massage table with a whole in the middle, an antique stretching rack, a giant boulder, a black leather chair suspended from chains.

  Wait a minute. Wasn’t Tartarus the equivalent of purgatory in Greek mythology? She racked her brain, trying to remember anything about it from college. Something started to come back, but it was far from comforting. Tartarus was a deep, gloomy pit between Gaia and the Underworld used as a dungeon of torment and suffering for souls deemed deserving of punishment.

  Gulping, she glanced around, still struggling to make sense of what simply made no sense. Was it an eccentric collector’s private showcase? A club for fetishists? Despite its peculiarities, the space might have been stylish, even elegant, if not for the bizarre accessories and disturbing smell. She took a deeper whiff. What was it, exactly? Perfume, yes. Floral and cloying—the same she’d smelled earlier on the twins. But there was something else—a far more disturbing odor: a perplexing blend of pepper, leather, musk, and—holy fuck!—was that methane gas she smelled?

  And then, she saw. Tartarus was an old fallout shelter someone had converted into some kind of bizarre torture chamber. As panic detonated, she swallowed hard. She was in the lair of a psychopath.

  * * * *

  Buchanan found the sedan parked a little ways down the alley. Surveying his surroundings, he tried to work out where they might have taken Thea. Seeing what looked like a basement stairwell, he limped to the rail, still holding his Glock as discreetly as he could, and looked over. There was a heavy metal door down below—solid iron from the look of it—with a brass sign above a key pad. He leaned over, trying to make out what it said.

  “Can I help you with something?”

  The voice from behind him startled him so badly he nearly shot himself in the foot. Keeping his gun out of sight, he rounded on the speaker. It was the man in chaps—the one in the codpiece with bare buttocks. He looked around for the other one, afraid he might be preparing to ambush, but there was no sign of him.

  The journalist took a minute to study the man who took the same minute to study him. Around his chest was some kind of leather harness with metal studs and chains. Metal rings hung from his nipples. Remarkably, despite his appearance, he didn’t seem all that threatening. Buchanan motioned toward the basement door.

  “What’s down there?”

  The man grinned. “Why? You looking for some action?”

  “No,” he said brusquely. “I’m looking for a friend.”

  The guy cocked a brow. “You’re British?”

  Eyeing him guardedly, Buchanan nodded.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Shrek.”

  “Yeah, okay,” he said with a cocked grin. “Well, mine’s Jim.”

  Buchanan grunted. He didn’t give a damn what the guy’s name was. He wasn’t here to make new friends. Especially with someone who so clearly wanted to fuck him up the arse. “Sorry to disappoint you there, Jimbo. But I’m straight.”

  Jim laughed. “Disappoint? Are you kidding? A straight, uncut Brit is the Holy Fucking Grail.”

  Ignoring his remark, Buchanan nodded toward the stairs again. “What’s down there?”

  “A private club.”

  Buchanan raised an eyebrow. “What kind of club?”

  “Hardcore,” Jim said. “Not just leather, but some seriously dark and twisted Shite. Domination, humiliation, enemas, CBT. That sort of thing. The freak who owns it is like obsessed with James Bond.” He shook his head. “He calls himself Zeus, if you can believe that Shite.”

  Still feeling on guard, Buchanan asked, “What’s CBT?”

  Jim’s grin spread from ear to ear. “Cock and Ball Torture.”

  Buchanan just looked at the guy, trying to work out what might be involved in Cock and Ball Torture—not that he really wanted to know.

  “How do I get in?”

  Jim laughed. “You mean to Tartarus? Seriously? Jesus, dude. Don’t tell me you like getting kicked in the nuts.”

  Was that what CBT entailed? Getting kicked in the bollocks? He shook his head. Bloody hell. What got some people’s rocks off never ceased to amaze him.

  “I told you, I’m looking for a friend.” He was starting to lose patience. “And I think she might be down there.”

  “Does she know Zeus?” Jim looked skeptical. “Coz, from what I hear, that’s the only way anybody gets in.”

  Buchanan turned back toward the stairs. Something about the name Zeus struck a chord (besides the obvious mythology reference), but he wasn’t sure why. “What’s his real name? Do you know?”

  “That depends,” Jim said, sounding gallingly coy all of a sudden. “What are you willing to do to find out?”

  Buchanan wasn’t in the mood for bullshit, especially this brand of bullshit. “Do you know the freak’s real name or don’t you?”

  “Nobody knows his real name.”

  “Have you ever seen him?”

  “Only once,” Jim replied, half-grinning. “I was back here one night—you know, getting some head—when he pulled in. He drives a silver roadster. You know, the kind Sean Connery had in the Bond films. When he got out, I got a pretty good look.”

  “Did you? And what did he look like?”

  Jim took a minute, as if searching his mind for the details. “He had on a trench coat. Over a tuxedo.”

  “I didn’t ask you what he was wearing.” Buchanan’s patience had reached the breaking point. “I asked what the motherfucker looked like.”

  Jim shrugged. “Tall, slim, dark hair. Good-looking, I guess. If you’re into that type.”

  Buchanan regarded him warily. “And what type would that be?”

  “The James Bond type,” Jim replied with a cheeky smirk.

  Buchanan grumbled under his breath. Whoever this “Zeus” character might be, he sure as hell didn’t sound anything like Milo Osbourne. Something struck him then like a thunderbolt. Zeus. The image on the van. The mark on the forehead of Connolly and Davidson. Was there a connection? Was this Zeus guy the killer? And, if so, what was his relationship, if any, to the Babylon conspiracy?

  Squinting at Jim, he asked, “Anything else you remember about the guy?”

  “Well, let me see…he has intense eyes, if that helps, though not in a good way.” He smirked. “But why not see for yourself? He usually puts in an appearance around dusk. I could keep you company, if you want.”

  “That won’t be necessary,” Buchanan assured him with a steely glare.

  After Jim finally fucked off back to The Pillory, Buchanan waited, taking cover behind a big blue dumpster, killing time by smoking and hitting on his flask, which was getting distressingly low. After about an hour, he limped up the alley to the liquor store, scored a half-pint, and refilled. He wanted to be numb enough not to think about what they might be doing to Thea, but not so numb that he would be of no use to her should the opportunity present itself. Returning to the alley, reasonably certain he hadn’t been sighted, he continued waiting.

  Just as the sky began to gloam, he saw headlights coming down the alley. He heard the sputtering engine before the front-end came into view. The car moved slowly, pulling in behind the twins’ sedan. He drew his Glock, keeping down. It felt like forever before he heard the door open. Ever so gingerly, he stole a peek around the side.

  There was
n’t much light—only a single fixture over the stairs illuminating the whole area—and the man had his back to him. All he could see was that “Zeus” did indeed have dark hair and wore a black trench. Just as the man reached the top of the basement stairs, he stopped for no apparent reason and glanced toward the dumpster. The description Jim had given him was dead accurate, right down to the cold eyes. Heart jolting, Buchanan ducked out of sight, then sat back on his haunches, puzzling.

  Who was this guy? Was he the killer? What did he want with Thea? And how was he connected to the takeover scheme? He considered banging on the door of the club and asking him outright, but quickly dismissed the notion. He was of little enough use to Thea out here. In there, with Zeus and his twin thugs, he’d have zero chance of getting her out alive. Or getting out alive himself, for that matter.

  Staying out of sight until he was sure Zeus had gone inside, he crept over to the roadster to have a better look. Apart from the left-hand steering column, it was a perfect replica of the silver Aston-Martin DB5 used in the original James Bond movies.

  He peered through the driver-side window. The interior was impeccable. Not so much as a straw wrapper anywhere in sight. He tried the door, not surprised to find it locked. He thought about jacking the mechanism—vintage cars were easy enough to break into—until he saw the red flashing light on the dash. He stepped away, giving up the idea. He walked around to the boot to have a look at the license plate, hoping he’d be able to memorize it quickly. He didn’t have a pen or the best recall anymore. He laughed to himself when he saw the plate read AGNT 007. That, even he could remember.

  Chapter 23

  Fear quickened Thea’s pulse when she heard a door open and close. Looking in the direction of the sound, she saw a man—tall, well built, and donning a classic tuxedo and black eye-mask. James Bond meets Zorro. What the fuck? A chill crawled up her spine when, through the eyeholes, she spied pupils of blue ice studying her.