The Darker Side sb-3

by Cody McFadyen

  "I don't recommend going in hot," he says. "I'm not the expert, but it seems to me that they want to be taken into custody. Need it, even."

  "I agree," I say, "but I'm not confident enough about it to go knock on the front door. I think we should set up a perimeter and talk them out via phones or bullhorns. If they want to come quietly, we'll let them. If not . . ." I shrug. "Tear gas time."

  He considers this and nods. "I'll get my team geared up. Give us twenty minutes."

  "We'll meet you in the parking lot."

  I AM CHECKING MY WEAPON and readying my mind. We all are.

  "Hey," Alan says, ratcheting back the slide on his weapon, "if you know the death penalty is on the table and you plead guilty--is that suicide?"

  "I think in their case they're confident that it's martyrdom."

  He holsters his weapon and sighs. "Yeah. So, do you think they meant it about coming quietly?"

  "I think so. But you can never be sure at the end."

  Suicide, by self or by cop, is an oft-preferred solution for a criminal when the jig's up. Most accepted from the beginning that they would die if discovered.

  "Seems strange they have a house in the Valley," he muses.

  "Probably drove by it once or twice and never knew."

  James's cell phone rings. He answers, listens, and frowns.

  "What's that?" he asks. His face goes white. "Send it to me now."

  "What is it?" I ask.

  "Bitch," he breathes, but it has an odd sound to it. More desperate than insulting.

  "James?"

  He looks at me.

  "Kirby got there first. Now they've got her."

  40

  KIRBY APPEARS ON CAMERA, NAKED AND TIED TO A CHAIR. Michael Murphy stands next to her. He's furious.

  "I told you we'd surrender peacefully! I didn't expect any of you to agree with our actions, but I did expect you to uphold the law." He takes a deep breath. "I am very, very disappointed."

  "Oh, for God's sake, shuuuuuuuut uuuuuuuuup," Kirby says, rolling her eyes.

  "Stupid fucking kid," Brady murmurs. "Can never learn to keep her mouth shut." I'd called him back once we knew what we were looking at.

  Michael steps in front of her. All we can see is his back and her legs.

  "You're in no position to take the Lord's name in vain," he says.

  "Bite me, bozo," Kirby replies, "and your God can bite it too. Hard."

  I brace myself, expecting him to slap her, but he draws his arm back and hits her in the face with his closed fist. The smack of flesh against flesh cracks through the computer speakers and Kirby goes over backward in her chair.

  "Motherfucker," I whisper.

  The camera had been stationary. It begins to move now, jiggling a bit with the motion. Frances must have picked it up. It zooms in on Kirby's face. She's lying against a hardwood floor, blonde hair sprayed out around her. Her eyes are having trouble focusing. Her lips have been split open in two places and blood runs freely down her chin and left cheek. She shakes her head to clear it and laughs.

  "You hit like a girl."

  "Oh, Kirby," Callie says. "Stupid girl. Shut up now."

  She won't, I think. This is who she is.

  Michael grabs her by her hair and uses it to heft the full weight of her body, to bring her back into a sitting position. Kirby turns her head to the right and spits to clear the blood from her mouth. She turns back to the camera and we all see those cold, awful killer's eyes.

  "I'm going to kill you and your sister," she says. "Just wanted you to know that. And no one sent me here. One of the people you murdered was an old friend of mine." She grins. Her teeth are red with her blood. "Thought I'd return the favor."

  "Murder is a sin," Michael scolds her. "We killed for God's purpose. If you kill us for vengeance, you'll go to hell."

  Really? I think. What about Ambrose, the man you murdered for his identity? God's purpose?

  It's a useless question; his answer would be yes, of course. Kirby shrugs. "So sue me. I'm good at it." Another torn-lipped, red-toothed grin. "You'll see."

  "You really came here on your own?" Michael asks.

  "I'm a solo act, asshole, and I always have been."

  "Unfortunate for you," he says, "that you missed the backup security camera. We were waiting for you when you came through the door."

  "Yeah, well. Nobody's perfect. You should have killed me, though. Tasers are for pussies."

  "Knocked you down fast enough," Frances snarls.

  Kirby smiles. "Down, but not dead, dummy. Bad move on your part."

  "What's your name?" Michael asks.

  "Since we're on a religious bender, why don't you call me . . . Eve."

  She chuckles. "I always liked her style, you know? Eat that apple. Yummy."

  "Very well. Are you Catholic, Eve?"

  She rolls her eyes.

  "Supreme beings are for suckers. I believe in guns, good beer, masturbation when I don't have a man, and a nice hard cock when I do." She winks. "Know what I mean?"

  "Blasphemous bitch," he observes.

  "Why, thank you, asshole."

  "Why don't you stop calling me that, Eve. My name is Michael."

  "Nah. Asshole is just fine."

  He sighs. "I can see getting you to confess is going to be a lot of work, Eve."

  "Ohhhh, torture? Coolio."

  "Why isn't this clip ending?" I ask.

  "This isn't a clip," James says. "This is live."

  "Sam?" I ask, turning to him. "We need to get over there now. This is your show. What's the game plan with something like this?"

  He examines the video feed. "Looks to me like they're in the living room." He grabs the house plans from a desk. "There's only two ways in. Front door and back." He cups his chin, thinking. "Flash-bangs through the front windows, and we breach through the front and back doors. Go in hard, take them down while they're still reeling. Simple is the best way. Get more complicated and you increase the possibility of screwing the pooch." He nods to the computer. "They've been kind enough to provide us with ongoing video surveillance. We'll use it. Bring a laptop with wireless capabilities and execute at the most opportune moment."

  Sounds good to me. I glance at AD Jones. "Sir?"

  "Do it. Shoot to kill if necessary. And figure out a way to make sure this video never gets seen. The last thing we need on a high profile case like this is association with a killer like Kirby Mitchell."

  "I have a high speed connection via a cellular network on my laptop," Callie says. "I just need the URL for this feed."

  "I'll provide that," James says.

  Brady nods. "I'll meet you in the parking lot."

  "Before I'm done," Michael says to Kirby, "you'll experience the wonder of confession to God. You'll learn what it's like to be purged of lies. Truth is a light, Eve, a light like no other."

  "Bring it on, asshole. But can you stop hitting me in the face, at least? Girl's got to be able to get a date, you know?"

  "Let's get moving," I say. "If she keeps talking like that, she might not have much time."

  41

  "START SMALL, EVE. THAT'S THE BEST WAY, SOMETIMES. BE- gin with the small things and work up to the most shameful. Do you think you can do that?"

  We're all in the same car. Alan is driving, following Brady and his team in their van. I have the laptop.

  Kirby smiles.

  "Sure. I got one for you."

  "Yes?" He sounds pleased, maybe a little surprised that she's agreed so easily.

  "The first blow job I ever gave."

  Michael nods. "Lust, oral sex. Very good. Go on."

  "Well, it was this really cute guy, hunkalicious, you know? I'd heard he had a big old cock, and while I'd seen pictures of them, I'd never seen them in the flesh, so to speak. Turgid, you know?"

  "Yes, yes, continue." He doesn't seem to appreciate Kirby's use of the descriptive.

  "Anyway, I told him I wanted to see that big ol' hot dog, and hey--

>   coincidence--he wanted to show it to me." She rolls her eyes. "Guys are funny that way. He had a car, so I snuck out that night and I met him out front and we drove to a parking lot near the beach. I told him to whip that sucker out, pun intended. Turns out someone had added a few inches. I mean, it wasn't small, but I've sucked bigger, you know."

  "Get to the point, please."

  "It was kind of cute. Wearing its little army helmet, all washed up and shiny and standing at attention. 'Sergeant Cock reporting for duty, ma'am!' " She giggles.

  "This slut is wasting your time," Frances says from behind the camera.

  "Hey, it's my sin, right? As long as I end up telling the whole truth, it shouldn't matter how I tell it."

  Michael nods. "Fair enough, Eve. Go on."

  "Okay. So I decided it was time to play turkey--you know: gobble gobble gobble! I opened wide and put the train in the tunnel. That's when he started screaming."

  There's a moment of silence. Michael frowns. "Why was he screaming?"

  Kirby heaves an exaggerated sigh. "Hey, I was only twelve. He was sixteen, and hot. I was nervous. I was really worried about bad breath, so I gargled with mint freshener for like an hour beforehand. Then I chewed up a bunch of breath mints right before I started . . . you know." She clucks her tongue and looks regretful. "Poor guy. Almost blistered his wee-wee. He started screaming and yanked my head off. From experience, things have to be pretty bad for a guy to do that. He jumped out of the car and was running around in circles saying, 'It burns, it burns, it burns!' That, right there, that's the real sin."

  "What, exactly?"

  "That I gave a bad blow job." She bats her eyes sweetly. "Will the Big Guy forgive me? I never did it again, and I'm a much better cocksucker now, I promise."

  "Oh, Kirby," I say. "Why can't you just shut up and play along?"

  I half-expect Michael to fly into a rage. He just shakes his head in regret.

  "I'm sorry you've decided to be difficult," he says, "but perhaps your journey will help others understand the folly of holding on to sin. Because in the end, you will confess, Eve. You might have no eyes, your nipples may have been cut off, perhaps your kneecaps will be broken, but one way or another, you will confess."

  Kirby yawns. "Here's a tip on torture for you, asshole. It's a lot scarier when you just do it as opposed to talking about it beforehand."

  "If you insist. We'll start small, as I had suggested you start with your sins."

  He steps out of the camera lens. I can hear his footsteps on the hardwood floor. Frances continues to focus on Kirby.

  "You'll break, you know," Frances says.

  Kirby blows a kiss into the camera. She moves her eyebrows up and down. "Hey . . . we've got a camera going . . . a hot naked babe . . ."

  She spreads her legs. "I'm ready for my close-up, director. Want to join me?"

  "Jezebel!" Frances hisses.

  "Hey, I have a friend named Jezebel, so be nice."

  "I think she really is insane," Callie says.

  "Either that or she has a death wish," I reply.

  "Fearlessness is a common trait in sociopaths," James says. "Look, he's back."

  Michael Murphy is carrying a rod, approximately three feet long, with a copper tip and an insulated handle. A wire runs from the base of the rod and out of frame. He shows it to Kirby.

  "Do you know what this is?"

  "Looks like a picana to me. Popular for use in electric torture in South America and other sorta-civilized places. What's yours run--

  about sixteen thousand volts?"

  "Thirty thousand. Technology has evolved. Since you're familiar with it, you know what it is capable of. I ask you again to confess a sin, a real sin, with true contrition in your heart."

  "Hey, I did what you asked. I really did feel bad about giving a bad blow job. A girl has to have standards."

  Michael sighs. "Frances, can you put the camera on a tripod, please? I need your assistance here."

  "Yes, Brother."

  The sounds of the camera jiggling and Frances doing as he's asked ensue. She appears in frame a moment later.

  "Many people think application of the picana to the outside of the body, such as the breasts or genitals, is sufficient. It's painful, I agree, but I've found internal application to be far more effective."

  "Me too," Kirby agrees. "So--where? In my mouth, my ass, or my punani?"

  "A little ways down your throat," he says. "Try not to breathe in your own vomit. You'd die."

  I see a twitch appear at the corner of Kirby's left eye. It's the first sign of a crack in her facade up to this point.

  "Hold her head," Michael says to Frances.

  Frances grips Kirby's head with a hand on each side to keep her from moving. Michael positions the picana in front of Kirby's mouth.

  "You can either open of your own accord, or I will smash this into your teeth until they're no longer in the way."

  Kirby doesn't smile or joke, but she does open her mouth wide.

  "Last chance," Michael says. "Do you want to confess?"

  Kirby sticks out her tongue and makes an ahhhhh sound, like she's having her throat checked by the doctor.

  Michael doesn't hesitate. He slips the picana between her teeth and into her mouth. I can tell he's in the back of her throat because her face starts to get red and she begins to gag. Frances removes her hands from the sides of Kirby's head. It's a deft move; they've done this before.

  That's when he hits the button in the handle of the picana. The result is instantaneous and awful. Her body goes taut as the electricity causes her muscles to contract violently. Her eyes bug out and her teeth snap down onto the picana with such force I'm surprised they don't shatter. Urine runs down her legs. Her belly jumps; I realize that she's probably defecating against her will. It only lasts a moment, it seems like an hour.

  Michael lets go of the button. Kirby's mouth flies open, he yanks the picana back. Vomit comes with it and the convulsions follow. Spasms rock Kirby's body as her muscles and brain try to figure out how to respond to what just happened. Her chair goes over sideways and she crashes against the hardwood floor again, twitching. Her eyes flutter. The spasms eventually die off and we can hear her breathing against the floor, deep, ragged, moaning breaths. Michael waits a moment, just watching. He walks behind her, reaches down, and rights her in the chair. I can't believe how much different she looks now than just ten seconds ago. Her face drips with sweat, her chin and chest are covered in vomit, and her eyes are having trouble focusing.

  Michael leans forward. He brushes a lock of sweat-matted hair away from her forehead.

  "Now, my child? Are you ready to confess? Don't be afraid, God will forgive anything you are truly penitent for."

  Kirby opens her mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. She closes it, swallows, struggles to compose herself. She lifts her head up and gives Michael the sweetest smile I've ever seen on a stone-killer.

  "Let's go again."

  "Jesus!" I say. "How much longer, Alan?"

  "Ten minutes."

  Ten minutes? The torture we just saw happened in two.

  "I don't know if she can last that long."

  "She'll last," James says.

  Is that a hope or a prayer? I wonder.

  "If you insist," Michael says, "but in the end, the result will be the same. We all break under God's will. God is love."

  Frances grips Kirby's head again and Michael brings the picana back up.

  "Drive faster," I tell Alan. "Please."

  42

  "CURTAINS ARE DRAWN," BRADY POINTS OUT. "WHAT'S HER state? Can she take the flash-bangs?"

  Kirby's received the business end of the picana three more times. She hasn't broken, but her smart mouth is gone, the surest sign that she's hurting. Only her eyes remain defiant.

  "She can take it."

  The house is in Reseda. It's an older ranch style home from the 1960s that hasn't seen much updating since. The blue and white wood trim is crack
ed and peeling. The lawn is full of dead or dying grass. The windows are dirty and the curtains look old. The Murphys don't care about this home; it's just a place to camp between murders. Brady jabs a finger at the picture windows that lead into the living room.

  "No finesse. On my go we're going to toss flash-bangs through the windows, and simultaneously smash open the front door and throw in a few more. Then we breach and take them down. My team will enter, we'll call you in when it's clear."

  Brady's voice is low and urgent. His men are silent and still, but it's the tense motionlessness of a track runner waiting for the starter pistol to go off.

  Kirby screams for the first time and we hear it in stereo; it plays from the computer speakers and filters out from the house.

  "Wait for the next scream," I say. "That's when they'll be the most off guard."

  In the end, the monsters are all the same. They live for the screams.

  Brady looks at me and frowns.

  "It's her best chance," I say. "Better another shock than a bullet. She can take it."

  Brady processes this in a heartbeat; he nods and then signals to his men in the front to be ready. One is poised at the picture window. Another stands by the front door with a battering ram, while yet another waits next to him, flash-bangs in hand. Brady has his HK53 at the ready.

  My team and I stand back by the cars. Everyone has their weapons out. The moon hangs above us all, silver and unforgiving. We'd just arrived, so the neighborhood hasn't yet woken up to our presence. That will change in another heartbeat. There is a sense of time passing by the second, or the millisecond, or the nanosecond. Everything hangs, a tremendous waiting. Kirby screams and the world explodes.

  Flash-bangs crash through the window. The battering ram hits the door once, the doorjamb is destroyed as the door flies open. More grenades are tossed inside and again that stereo-echo as they detonate. I see it happen from the outside, I hear it happen from the inside, and it all happens in the blink of an eye. Brady rushes into the home, followed by his men. There's no hesitation in their motion; everything they do is committed, decisive, swift. The camera has fallen over and now faces a wall. I can't tell what's happening inside.