“Do you think he took pictures of them?”
“He may have indeed. Then again I’m not sure. The diseased mind doesn’t work like yours or mine. The image of this family may already be burned into his memory.”
Chapter Twenty-six
Brian Spano awoke in a large field. The morning sun had just begun to rise. The first few rays burned his eyes as he squinted to see where he was. It took a second for him to settle in. “Oh thank God,” he said aloud. “I’m alive.” He scanned the large field and saw that he was alone. He began to breathe nervously as one thought linked to the next and to the next. A face filled his mind and terrorized him. He began to breathe frantically. It was the giant’s face. The face of a man so large and frightening that it caused him to tremble. But I’m alive, he told himself. Take it easy, Brian. You’ll be all right. His rapid breathing began to slow down. He tested his legs and then stood. As he did, a terrible pain shot through his neck and restored the memory of a huge hand encircling his throat and a mammoth arm lifting him into the air. He rubbed his neck to soothe the pain, but it did not help.
Where the hell am I? Brian looked around and saw that the field was littered with trash. The air smelled with a putrid odor. He felt something sting him and saw that red fire ants were swarming on one of his shoes and crawling up his leg. “Shit.” He brushed them off as best he could but the ants continued to bite him all the while. This is the least of my problems.
Something moved in the brush nearby that startled him. It didn’t take long for him to see that a rat was gnawing on a discarded box of crackers. He walked in the opposite direction, brushing the ants from his leg every few steps. He heard a noise that he had recently learned to detest. It was the sound a sanitation truck makes when its hydraulic winch engages to lift the trash dumpster. The bedroom of his new apartment was on a busy street, and the sanitation trucks woke him prematurely two to three days a week. Jesus, I’m in a goddamn garbage dump. The sanitation truck was a quarter mile off in the distance, and the path to it was blocked with refuse and vermin. He took a deep breath and hurried toward salvation.
~~~
Spano was strapped to a gurney. He was wearing a neck brace, and an IV line had been inserted into his arm. He was staring up at the roof of the ambulance when a uniformed cop got into the ambulance and sat down next to him.
“How are you doing, buddy?” the cop asked.
Spano spoke in a hoarse voice. “Okay, I suppose.”
“I’m Officer Nowicki, Stan Nowicki. The EMS guys said someone dumped you here at the kills. Jesus, what the hell happened?” Nowicki took out a pad and began to make notes.
“I’m an inventory clerk at Vicor Pharmaceuticals.”
“Oh yeah,” Nowicki said. “I’ve seen that place, over by the Outer Bridge Crossing. They tell me your name is Brian. Is that right?”
“Brian Spano.”
“So how’d you get here, Brian?”
“I don’t know.” Spano sighed. He tried to move, but he was strapped down securely. “I’d just finished my dinner break. I was about to go back on duty when I heard noises coming from the storeroom. Next thing I know, some giant monkey has me by the throat and—”
“And?”
“The guy was a monster. He lifted me up in the air. I started to black out, and then I woke up in the dump.”
“Do you remember what he looked like?”
“That’s all I remember, that big fucking head of his. Shit, I thought I was gonna die.”
“Well you’re still here, Brian. The emergency service guys are taking good care of you. I’ll be out of your hair in a minute, and they’ll take you over to the hospital to get checked out.”
“Which one?”
“Which hospital? Staten Island University Hospital. Good place. They’ll check out your neck and make sure it’s not broken.” Nowicki saw his partner walking by outside the ambulance. “Hey, Ray, can you get on the horn? Find out if a break-in was reported over at Vicor, okay?
“Got it,” Ray said.
“You’ll have to give us a full statement, but a detective can get that from you in the hospital. Anyone you want us to notify?”
A lump formed in Spano’s throat while he thought about his ex-wife and whether she would care that he had been attacked. “I just got divorced.”
“Oh, sorry to hear that. Look, I’m sure she’ll want to know. Got any kids?”
“Yeah, my son Alex.”
Nowicki smiled. “Your son will tie the two of you together forever. Trust me, I know.”
Chapter Twenty-seven
Tillerman hoisted the body of the mammoth Russian onto his shoulder, closed the doors of his panel van, and trudged back to the funeral parlor. The Russian was heavy on his shoulders, not because of the weight but because the body continued to shift back and forth as he walked down the steps to the basement crematorium. Tillerman routinely cleaned and jerked more than four hundred pounds, and the Russian by his estimation was scarcely over three hundred.
He missed a step on the way down. His legged slipped out from under him, and he felt a hard pop in his left thigh. The pain was severe and far worse than any physical pain he had ever felt before. He regained his footing but not before the Russian’s head smacked into the staircase wall. “Ah shit!” Pain coursed up his leg and into his gut. He stopped momentarily to compose himself. He pressed the Russian between his shoulder and the brick staircase wall. His right hand was now free, and he used it to rub his face and calm himself while he fought off the overwhelming desire to vomit. He waited a moment and hoped that the pain would subside, but it didn’t, and the weight of the Russian did not help. He could feel his injured leg begin to cramp as the huge muscles attempted to lock in spasm. Move! Move. He attempted to step down with his uninjured leg, but the left leg buckled, and he went down. The Russian hit the stairs with a thud and rolled down to the basement floor. He cursed himself. The abductor group of muscles was one of the few muscle groups he ignored—most men did. It was for sissies. The exercise for the abductors was performed on a “ladies machine,” a machine that women used to tone and slim their thighs.
He sat down on the steps, rested with his head in his hands, and gazed between his open fingers at the body sprawled out on the stone floor in front of him. It felt like the muscle tear went all the way down to the bone. Pain seared his leg—it was as if a red-hot branding iron was pressed against his inner thigh.
“Fire, fire, fire, fire,” he began to chant, a loud guttural chant. Think past the pain! “Fire, fire, fire.” He clenched his fist and continued to chant “fire,” making it a mantra to see him through the pain and allow him to continue on his quest. “Fire!” Tillerman exploded off the steps, hopping on his one strong leg until he had reached the body. He knelt down alongside the Russian and used his immense upper-body strength to lift him and roll him back onto his shoulder. He stood and balanced in a way as to not put any pressure on his damaged leg. He began a series of short hops—one excruciating thrust after another. Moments later, he slammed the body into a cremation container, much in the same way he would cast away a heavy barbell after completing a set of heavy lifts.
Tillerman was completely spent and laid on top of the open cremation container for a moment. He reached into his back pocket and fished out the Russian’s wallet. The name on the drivers’ license read Marat Vetrov. The picture on the drivers’ license was dark and shadowy. It made Vetrov appear even more menacing than he actually was. Vetrov was a huge man, taller than Tillerman and heavier. He did not have Tillerman’s body-builder physique, but he was massive in every respect. It would normally have taken three men to bring him down, but Tillerman caught him off guard and snapped his neck with one violent twist. He compared the drivers’ license photo to the face of the man lying in the cremation box. A big hairy bear, Tillerman mused, a monstrous grizzly bear. A word formed on his lips. It was a word he had heard only once, but it had stuck with him and rolled smoothly off his tongue: “Медведь
(med-ved).” It was the word the Russian woman had used to describe Tillerman, but the description better suited Vetrov. “So that’s how you got into Vicor.” Tillerman said aloud. “That’s how you came to steal my pills.” He brought the image of Anya Kozakova to mind. He had not been with a woman since his wife’s murder, but Anya’s contours roused him. She was formidable and strong in appearance with large pillows for breasts and a thin, cruel mouth that intrigued him. He thought he had seen her for the last time, but he now knew that he would have to see her again, if for no other reason but to complete the ritual. Vetrov was number three. He needed just one more. “She betrayed me. Why? For more money? What does she need with my pills?” He closed the wallet and tossed it haphazardly into the cremation box.
Vetrov’s eyes were wide open. He screamed when Tillerman pulled the duct tape off his mouth. Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth. His eyes were filled with terror as he looked up at Tillerman. “Why?” he said in a trembling voice. Blood gurgled in his throat from the socket Tillerman had made removing his teeth—he struggled not to choke. Tillerman had snapped his neck, but the trauma had not proven fatal—Vetrov was paralyzed from the shoulders down.
Tillerman said nothing and lined up the cremation box up with the opening of the furnace. Vetrov angled his glance and saw the furnace in front of him. His lips began to quiver, and tears ran down from the corners of his eyes. “Why?” he repeated as he tried to make sense of what was going on. “Don’t do this!”
Tillerman picked up the lid of the cremation container and held it over Vetrov. He looked down at the paralyzed giant and then closed his eyes. “Blessed are the elements of life. May the fire consume you.”
He reignited his chant. “Fire, fire, fire!” He grew louder and louder, summoning his innermost reserves. He slammed the lid down on top of the box and sealed it. He set the controls and then pushed the cremation box into the furnace. “Death by fire!” he roared as the flames leapt up inside the furnace and consumed his sacrifice.
Chapter Twenty-eight
Nick Sonellio pushed on the glass door to enter Café Baci. It was early morning, hours before the café opened for lunch. The restaurant was so quiet that he would have been able to hear a proverbial pin drop if it hit the polished, cherry-wood floor.
He looked around at the familiar setting. He had been a regular at the café ever since he and Toni moved into the neighborhood almost thirty years ago. The food at Café Baci was a cut above the rest, but it was not the kind of place that you brought your wife and kids. Baci was for gentlemen only, a place to drink wine and smoke a cigar. The No Smoking law did not apply within the hallowed walls of Café Baci. It was a private club, a place to discuss business—by invitation only.
He heard the sound of footsteps and then the kitchen doors swung open. Giacomo Babocci had a tray of clean wine glasses on his shoulder as he entered the dining room. “Nick!” Babocci said with surprise. He set the tray down on the bar and rushed over to give his old friend a hug. He kissed him on both cheeks. “Nick, you son of a bitch, where have you been?”
“Maine,” Sonellio replied. “At my cabin.”
“You’ve got a cabin? I didn’t know that. You hunt or fish?”
“Fish—they’ve got bass up there the size of tuna.”
“Madonna, what about branzino?”
“Jaco, it’s Maine, not the Mediterranean.”
“No branzino?” Babocci said lightheartedly. “Ah, too bad.”
“Same old Jaco.” Sonellio laughed, and then he coughed. His cough had become worse. Each cough was accompanied by a wheeze. It sounded like wind whistling through an old window.
“That’s a bad cough you’ve got there, Nick. Bronchitis?”
Sonellio shrugged and framed a helpless expression. “Cancer.”
“Oh Jesus Christ, Nick.” Babocci grimaced. “You hit me right between the eyes with that one. Come here. Sit down for God’s sake. Have a glass of wine.”
Sonellio pulled out a chair and sat down at the closest table. Babocci inspected the wine rack and selected a bottle. He sat down at the table and proceeded to open the bottle with a corkscrew. “Tuscan Chianti,” Babocci said. “A glass of this will fix you right up.” He filled two glasses and slid one across the table to Sonellio. He lifted his glass and fanned the bouquet toward his nose. “What an aroma . . . like liquid fire.”
“Here’s to the good old days,” Sonellio said as they toasted.
Babocci stared at Sonellio for a moment without talking. “You hungry, Nick? I’ll have Alfredo whip you up a nice bolognese—how ‘bout it?”
“Jaco, it’s nine thirty. I just had breakfast.”
Babocci’s shoulders slumped. “I don’t’ know . . . you’ve made me very sad. What happened?”
“For God’s sake, Giacomo, I’ve been smoking since the Eisenhower days. What the hell do you think happened?”
“They can’t do anything for you?”
Sonellio took a mouthful of wine. “Nothing this Chianti can’t do better.” He put the glass down on the table and turned the base while he stared at it. “Jaco, you heard about the Jacoby family, yes?”
It took perhaps two seconds for Babocci to transform from a mellow restaurant proprietor into a raging, seething maniac. “Some motherfucker comes into our neighborhood and guns down an innocent family like that—it’s a fucking disgrace. We’re gonna get whoever it is, and we’re gonna fix them good. It shows a total fucking lack of respect. The police have any solid leads?”
“No, we don’t. That’s why I’m here. I know that you’ve got your ear to the ground.”
Babocci clenched his fist so tightly that his knuckles popped. He pointed at Sonellio. “I tell you one thing—if I do hear something, that piece of shit will be dead in a hurry. I guarantee it.”
“Just calm down, Giacomo. You know they were my neighbors, right? I came home from Maine and saw that someone was using my backyard to case the neighborhood. I figured it was some crack addict looking to score some spare change, but I was wrong.”
“You told the police?”
“Of course I told the police. I’ve devoted my entire career to law enforcement.”
“And the Jacobys are dead anyway. You should’ve come to me—we would have found the prick before he did it.”
“Giacomo, the whole thing happened in about ten minutes. Once I realized that someone had been in my yard, the police acted right away, but it was too late.”
Babocci poured the glass of wine down his throat. “Like I said, it’s a fucking disgrace. I knew those Jacoby boys; they were good kids.” He sighed to evidence his extreme exasperation. “So what can I do for you, Nick? This has turned into a very bad morning.”
“You know a lot of people, my friend. You haven’t heard anything?”
“I’m gonna look, Nick. Believe you me, I will. I’ll find something . . . trust me.”
Sonellio flipped a business card on the table. “This is my old card, but the cell number is still good.” He took a ballpoint pen out of his pocket and circled his cell phone number on the card. “I expect to hear from you if you find something—don’t take matters into your own hands, capisce? These people were my neighbors, and I take their murders as a personal offense.” He reached across the table and took Babocci’s hand. “Come here,” Sonellio said and pulled Babocci toward him. He kissed him on the cheek. “I’m not going to the grave in disgrace. Are we good?”
“Yeah, Nick, we’re good,” he said reluctantly. The two men stood and hugged.
“Remember,” Sonellio said. “No vigilante shit. You bring this guy to me, and I’ll fry him.” For a brief moment, the disease had retreated into the background, and Sonellio was once again a force to reckon with. “You do this for me. Okay?”
“Yeah, okay, Nick.” Babocci kissed Sonellio on the other cheek. “I’ll bring you the motherfucker.”
Chapter Twenty-nine
Rocco Sclafani sat in the funeral parlor parking lot, listening to t
he exhaust burble of his six hundred and sixty-two horsepower Shelby Mustang, sipping coffee. The funeral parlor was his by inheritance. His family had owned it for decades. He had grown up around the dead: draining blood and dressing corpses. He hated it, despite the money he made. He watched the clock. Just two more minutes. He revved the engine and listened to the growl of the immensely powerful engine. Jesus, what the hell am I doing? I could sit here forever. He shut the engine and walked to the building.
He unlocked the basement door and switched on the lights. The hot air from the cremation furnace hit him immediately. What the hell? The heat of the furnace imparted a distinctive arid quality to the air that he felt in his nostrils and lungs. He raced down the stairs and saw a red streak on the painted brick stairwell. He stopped and examined it for a moment. “Blood?” Jesus, what’s going on?
He could hear the furnace roar as he approached. “I don’t believe this.” Sclafani knew that there were no bodies scheduled for cremation. He also knew that no one would be stupid enough to leave the furnace running unattended. He inspected the gauges on the outside of the furnace and then quickly shut the unit down. He peered through the viewing panel and saw a charred cremation container. “This is unbelievable,” he said. “This is just un-fucking-believable.”
Chapter Thirty
I was juggling a lot of balls at the same time. I was thinking about Ambler’s case in one corner of my mind and the wanton murder of the Jacoby family in another. There was my pregnancy of course, absurdly high levels of hormones, my worries about Sonellio, a colossal appetite, erotic dreams, and let’s see . . . was there anything else I had to concern myself with? No. I’d covered it. Needless to say I had a lot on my mind.
“I don’t know how you can handle it all,” Gus said. “I’ve got a migraine and my hormones are in check. Too bad you can’t smoke pot.”
Our Honored Dead (Stephanie Chalice Thrillers Book 4) Page 10