Lustmord 2

by Kirk Alex

  Mrs. Duarte could not help but pick up on it: the larger-than-average size refrigerators at the other end of the kitchen counter and the long bicycle chains that hung from both door handles, the disabled locks on the tile floor.

  There was a white, industrial type freezer against the far wall that had all the coins on it. Freezer lid was being held open by a male member of the posse, as another member of said posse, while holding bolt cutters in one hand, reached down and came up with a frozen, headless chicken.

  “Looks like fowl to me.”

  “Sure it is. There’s a bunch of them in there, too.”

  The IQ-challenged teen, utterly oblivious to what the others were experiencing, sucked on the yolk inside the egg and left for the hallway to see where the live chicken had gone off to.

  Sarah Duarte’s eyes were back on Rudy’s brother. There was a question on her mind, a question she dared not ask: What was it exactly Carlos had attempted to warn her about? And what was Monroe presently trying to convey?

  “Monroe.” She wanted to add something else. Fearing the worst, she simply could not. . . . She moved toward the Admiral nearest the wall of pennies. Reached for the handle. Held it this way. Kept it there. Lord have mercy. She found it impossible to follow through.

  Monroe Perez was looking up at her now. Ached to tell her something, make her aware of something. He shook his head, needed to convince her not to open the refrigerator door and to just leave it alone. Let it be. Leave it. Let go. Door was closed, both were, to both refrigerators. Let them stay that way. Let them remain. You’ll never be the same; you’ll never recover from it. I promise you, ma’am. Please. . . . Mrs. Duarte. Don’t do it.

  Words were not happening. Refused to formulate. All he was able to do was rub his eyes, rub them hard, and stifle tears that he did not want to start flowing—for if they did it would be a flood, a flood and a river of tears that he would not be able to turn off, ever.

  “No,” he finally said. “No. Please, Mrs. Duarte.” Then much louder: “God help us; God help us all.”

  He rose. Continued to shake his head. Made a feeble effort to hold onto the woman, grab her, but it did no good, as Sarah Duarte placed her trembling, pale hands on the door handle and opened the Admiral.

  There were limbs, as well as sections of flesh, well over forty pounds of it, wrapped in clear plastic in deep trays on the bottom packed to overflowing. The wire shelf above the trays was loaded with same. The shelf directly below the freezer held internal organs such as livers, hearts, spleens, kidneys; genitalia even.

  The middle wire shelf was the shelf that contained something else. Sitting on the right-hand side of it was the mutilated, eyeless head of Rudy Perez. Patches of scalp and several teeth missing. There were deep gashes and varied lacerations throughout.

  To the left of the former part-time dog-walker’s dome was the answer to a question Mrs. Duarte had not been able to bring herself to ask a brief moment ago: her own daughter’s head.

  As in Rudy Perez’s case, her eyes had been plucked, her face heavily made up: dark eyeliner about the sockets, brows shaved and painted in exaggerated obscene arches a la Morticia Adams; excessive blush-on drew attention to the cheeks in a less than complimentary fashion, and cherry red lipstick overlapped the scarred lips.

  The hair had been washed obviously and carefully combed out in waves that framed either side of the battered and bruised features (in spite of the abominable and blatant effort to make it appear less appalling).

  “NNNNNOOOOOOOOOO! LIVIAAAAAAAAA! MY BABY, MY BABY!” Sarah Duarte collapsed against the refrigerator door, her body trembling with the incredible, incomprehensible shock of what she refused to accept to be true, what she vehemently refused to accept to be happening to her and her family. She fell back, toppling against the equally distraught Monroe Perez who did what he could to hold the woman up.

  Her son Carlos rushed in to help, as did the husband. Monroe stepped back, leaning against the wall, allowing them this moment, as he dealt with his own grief. The Duartes clung to one another, sobbing this way.

  Yolanda entered the kitchen, saw the limbs in the refrigerator, the faces with the missing eyes, and began heaving over the sink.

  Rafael picked up on it. Moved to assist his daughter, who was in as much anguish as the rest of them. Yolanda clung to her dad and wept against his chest.

  Carlos Duarte helped his mother to a chair. He looked up. With clenched jaw, said to Rudy’s brother: “Come on. Roe! Monroe, come on!”

  He left the kitchen. Monroe Perez pulled himself together, and followed suit.

  CHAPTER 581

  “Somebody watch the back door,” said Stan Tatum from where he stood in the hallway at about where the door to the basement was. “I’m going down.” First thing, though, Flinger, who was in the area and preoccupied with the zig-zagging chicken, had to be dealt with. Tatum warned him to get the hell out of the way. When Flinger failed to pay heed, Mr. Tatum grabbed him by the Mohawk, gave him a hard boot in the ass that sent him flying toward the front. Hen was kicked at as well, and it scurried out in the general direction as Finger-Lickin’, only when it realized more humans were stationed there, it did a quick about-face and doubled back. Dumb-ass Flinger, unable to stop himself, followed after it—and both headed toward the rear of the hallway.

  Stan Tatum and Xavier Duarte kicked at the door repeatedly until it gave. Stan Tatum yelled for light.

  “We need light here! We need light!”

  He got his light: a couple of bright beams that people in the group aimed down at the netherworld that was Biggs’s dungeon.

  Mr. Tatum called out Big Tony’s name, Xavier Duarte called out Fred Yale’s, for what good it did.

  Monroe Perez shouted for Biggs to come out, show his face. “Show some real balls, asshole, and step out.” This effort fared no better. Stan Tatum grabbed a flashlight from someone. There was no putting it off, no delaying it: he headed down the staircase. Had to be done. Every inch of this smelly house was probably going to have to be searched.

  He descended three, maybe four steps, slid on something, and went tumbling down the rest of the way and did not stop until he hit bottom.

  It took him a while to shake the cobwebs in his head, recover the Remington 370 and flashlight. It was then he become aware of sharp, burning-like pain across various parts of his being. Had no real idea what had happened to him, what had gone wrong, how and why he’d slipped and lost his balance.

  He pulled at something stuck to his chin that felt like a thumbtack, another from his forehead. Back of his neck was burning, parts of his back and buttocks.

  He aimed his flashlight up and down the staircase—and it became obvious soon enough: the motherfucker had greased the stairwell, or at least every fourth or fifth step with what looked like shortening, maybe motor oil, or both. That wasn’t all, not by a long shot: he noticed broken glass in there among the oil, roofing nails and thumbtacks.

  “Evil cocksucker.”

  Stan Tatum did what he could to make others aware.

  CHAPTER 582

  His neck felt stiff. Areas of burning pain throughout his body persisted. He withdrew a shard from behind his right ear, several more thumbtacks from various parts of his scalp, neck, and shoulders.

  His hips ached, as did his noggin. Could have been worse. Goddamn. What kind of “preacher” does this to people? The fuck was going on? Sick bastard.

  There were fragments of broken glass imbedded in his back that made it impossible for him to reach with either hand.

  He cursed some more. Swiped at the blood on his chin. Dabbed at the cut by his ear with a kerchief. Tatum rose to his feet. Shone the light in his hand at what appeared to be a door on the floor. Part of the floor? Was it? Over something? Covered something? Couldn’t figure it. Was that a pit in the cement? The hell crazy shit was going on? He braved another step. The side of the door that faced him lifted up an inch or two.

  “WATCH IT, STAN!” Big Tony Valesquez shout
ed. Big Tony was covered in blood and was holding up one of his men who was seriously wounded.

  The heads-up was already too late for Stan Tatum, as Julian “Pinko Punisher” Ionesco squeezed off three gun shots from inside the pit, hitting Mr. Tatum and dropping him where he stood, as well as hitting Mr. Duarte’s brother Xavier, who had made it about a third of the way down the staircase.

  The bullet stunned Xavier Duarte, stopping him. He did what he could to cling to the rail, had both arms wrapped around it. It was a feeble effort at best. All strength left him seconds later, and the wounded man tumbled down the rest of the way, plowing into Stan Tatum’s immobile figure at the bottom of the stairs.

  Big Tony, cursing up a storm in a controlled, hissing tone, shrugged the wounded man off and walked with deliberate intent in the direction of the pit, firing his rifle down at the door over it, drilling bullets right into it.

  The former cabbie laughed the laugh of a madman from inside the pit, relishing the joy of it all. Yelled: “Kurva anyad!” (Your mother is a whore and you can go fuck her.)

  Lifted the door a crack, as he had a moment ago, to fire off several rounds of his own, one of which dug into Big Tony Valesquez’s abdomen, another in the right kidney region somewhere. Big Tony collapsed with a groan, firing a wild shot at the ceiling. Julian Ionesco tried the gun again. Discovered it was empty. Scrambled out of the hole and got to work doing the thing he loved best: breaking arms and necks, craving to hear that sound that breaking bones created: snap, crackle, and pop. Gun was bullshit. Kaput like that. You pull trigger—bang bang—and kurva fall down. He preferred hands-on participation. Hands-on bring joy and much pleasure.

  “Make my pee-pee happy.”

  First, he went to work on Stan Tatum. Dragged the moaning, not-yet-expired gent to the stairwell and broke both his arms against the bottom step, chuckling his usual “Ja ja, kurva” all the while.

  Flipped Stan Tatum over on his belly, and proceeded to jump up and down on his back with both feet until he heard the man’s spine snap. This left the Rumanian in utter and absolute glee.

  Xavier Duarte was next on his agenda. Dragged this unwelcome guest as close as possible to the stairs. The other body, that of Stan Tatum, was annoyingly in the way. Ionesco rolled him off to the side, in order to be able to proceed working on the groaning and gasping Xavier Duarte.

  “Ja ja,” Ionesco promised. “Your turn is coming, Tovarich. You are next.” Grabbed him by the wrists and dragged the man up the steps to about his waist—while holding onto the handrail for support, began to stomp his right foot down against the back of the intruder’s neck until he heard it crack.

  If there had been some doubt as to the man’s demise up to this point, this certainly finalized it. Feeling rather proud of his accomplishment, he looked about. Noticed Stan Tatum’s shotgun lying there.

  Got his sweaty hands on it. Was about to rise to his feet, to discover Greta Otto coming at him from behind with her trusty chainsaw. Felt her cut into his back. He whirled awkwardly in a futile effort to escape the assault. Cocked the shotgun and pulled the trigger without having time to aim or for it to do him any good.

  CHAPTER 583

  Big Greta continued the assault. Had done enough damage to his back in order to have him spin around, thus making it possible for her to cut into his belly, across it, exposing entrails. Then she went to work on the former taxi driver’s knees.

  When she was done cutting through his legs and saw that he was still moving about, writhing, screaming in agony—but alive, how dare he?—she proceeded to carve a large W (for Woman) into his dirty, howling face. Bone and gristle, blood and brains spattered her black sweater, nightgown, and the Cupid mask she wore on her face.

  She ripped the mask off to see better. Looked up. Others were coming in from the same part of the basement, the Workshop/Fun Room, that the one they had called Big Tony had come through. She moved to face them. The invaders were shouting all sorts of things.

  “Look! They shot Big Tony! Over there: Mr. Tatum’s been hit! Stan and Xavier both been hit!”

  Flashlights were being aimed on her. Gasps followed.

  “WHOA! Lookit the mug! What the hell is it? That a woman?”

  “Can’t be. Good God; that face.”

  “I can’t look. It’s horrible.”

  Greta Otto, The Leaper, moved toward voices she heard and men she could not make out among the blinding light beams and shifting shadows. Held her chainsaw out in front, and walked in the direction to confront the enemy.

  Monroe Perez had a question he needed to have an answer to. He was standing at the top of the stairs with Carlos Duarte. “Where is he? WHERE’S BIGGS?”

  Noticed what had been done to Big Tony and that the guys were just about beside themselves. “Don’t shoot her!” Monroe Perez was the one yelling down. Hoped it carried some weight. “She’s gonna tell us where Biggs is!”

  “He’s hiding in the attic, like the coward that he is.” Who would’ve figured? It was Greta with the response: loud enough to be heard over the noisy chainsaw. “UP IN THE ATTIC. When you find him I’d like to finish him off myself.”

  Carlos Duarte was anxious to go down to check on his Uncle Xavier. Monroe Perez reminded him that the stairs were slick and to watch himself. Heeding the advice, he took care to make it without losing his footing by holding onto the banister and being particular where he stepped.

  He reached bottom, only to realize soon enough that his uncle was indeed dead. Chunks of pain came up through his throat the hard way. Tears filled his eyes. He wiped away. He wiped. Rushed back up to the landing, past Perez, and out the basement door.

  “Don’t kill her.” It was Monroe. Requesting once more. “She can be of help to us. Don’t touch her.”

  “Bullshit!” One of the male’s hadn’t cared for it one bit. “They wasted Big Tony!”

  Greta continued to advance toward the men among the bright beams of light, then suddenly charged, waving the chainsaw. Some shots went off. She took a bullet in the right shoulder, another went through her left wrist—but two men lost a limb or more, as she held on to the chainsaw and kept cutting away.

  CHAPTER 584

  There was utter chaos in the basement as well as throughout the house. And with all this going on, Patience McDaniel remained in a corner of the Furnace Room impartial to practically all of it.

  The chills she had been living with for as long as she could remember were inexplicably gone and a burning hot fever had taken over that rendered her immobile and close to delirious.

  She wished the noise would go away, the shouting, explosions that sounded like extremely loud firecrackers, would disappear and let her fade away in peace.

  The fever burned and felt like her brain was on fire, as if her entire body were burning up and being swallowed up by the heat—and yet she found herself unable to take her eyes away from the flickering, dancing flames inside the furnace. Unlike before, what she was seeing was not imagined, and the flames could clearly be made out through the open iron gate.

  She stared at the flames inside the incinerator as though in a trance she did not possess the mental fortitude to snap out of.

  Pearleen Bell remained at her side. Held the back of her hand against her forehead, then the side of her neck. Her friend’s fever was incredibly, unmistakably high.

  They were not alone here. Marvin Muck was in the room with them. He had clown makeup on, smeared and gross, and he held a gun in his fist and was waiting at the door, sweating profusely, fighting his own light-headedness and pain, and waiting.

  CHAPTER 585

  He cracked the door, and peered through, needing to figure out what was going on out there, if he had a chance to make it out alive.

  “Had me a feelin’ it was gonna come to this one day. Knowed it, too.” Marvin looked at Pearleen Bell. “Heard me try to tell him, didn’t you, Peach? Heard me, didn’t you? Mothafuckah wouldn’t pay no mind. I said why we got to ice all them vagina? Never did like
to ice all them vagina like that. Be wantin’ to rape ’em, me. Vagina killin’ punk don’t listen to nobody. I be wantin’ to lay pipe; get them hoe’ to suck my big dick, is all. Now I got to pay for his mistake’. Don’t that be some stupid shit? Don’t it?”

  He dug up a glass pipe and stuffed it with a rock or two. Got it going. Stayed with it.

  “You heard what I said, ho?”

  Pearleen glared at him. She could not explain it, could not figure the feeling: the backbone, brass, that had been there all along, maybe taken a temporary leave of absence, was back. She no longer feared any of them. Biggs and Marvin and their psychotic little club were through. Finished.

  Muck took a hit off the pipe. Limped to where she sat.

  “I got me this idea. All you got to do is go along wiff it—and you can have a hit. I got the key to the Cadillac, too. We can drive down to TJ, live the life. You could be my bottom ho, no lie. All you got to do is tell ’em Bigg’ an’ them crazy geek done all this crazy ass shit on they own; fucked me over, too, like they done everybody else. It was Bigg’ idea to take everybody down. If I took any peep’ down it was Omar made me. Tell ’em Marvin R. Muck ain’t but another victim. Brotha Trusty be the main mothafuckah cause’ all this. It was Brotha Trusty an’ that refugee asshole what can’t talk American an’ was all the time goin’ ‘Ja ja; ja ja.’ Funny way he got of rappin’ damn near put me back in the fuckin’ bug bin.”

  He looked at her. Had a second hit. Held the pipe out.

  “Be on my side. Help me get out. You could be my number one, bottom ho. No shit, Pearleen. Tell ’em I be a victim. All you got to do.”

  There was no denying it: a hit off that pipe was something she could have gone for—after all she’d been through, especially after what she’d been through. She also knew she’d had enough—and slapped the hand he held the pipe in hard enough to send it flying against the wall and the contents spilling out and scattering like the tiny sparks of ash that they were. Pipe was in pieces.