by Steven King
He raced back to his office and telephoned the police immediately, alerting them to the horrific ensemble of torture victims that lay half dead in the room at his seedy motel. Then he hung up the phone and got rip roaring drunk. As the police sirens pulled up into the motel parking lot, he passed out, leaving them to discover the grisly scene all on their own.
Chris was well aware of the fact Henry no longer had eyes to see with nor a tongue to speak with. The French man’s fingers, rendered useless, were incapable of holding a pen, much less writing with one. Jeffery was in the same predicament, sporting empty sockets where eyes should have been and a mouth that could only murmur uselessly. Andre, on the other hand, had at least part of his tongue remaining and eyes to see with, but the police soon discovered that no one was home when they tried putting questions to the holes that were once his ears. The only response they got from Andre was unending drips of drool from both corners of his mouth.
But as the elevator door opened, Chris was well aware that Felder held the key to him seeing Scotland and his beloved mother once more. He listened from inside the mail bag while Peterson wheeled the trolley past the open doors.
“Good morning,” offered Felder’s receptionist, Sally Aspen. “I’m afraid you’ve gotten off on the wrong floor. The mail room is on the fifth floor. The guards downstairs telephoned ahead that you were coming, but we don’t accept mail deliveries here, nor is any of the mail to be sorted here. It has to go to five first.”
Beads of sweat began to formulate on Petersons brow. “It’s a special delivery, a bag of checks. Lots of money in this sack. Felder himself will have to sign for it.” With that saying, Peterson trudged forward courageously, hoping the receptionist would accept his words. She didn’t. Instead she pressed the buzzer under her desk, alerting Felder’s personal body guard, Winston Hawkins, that unauthorized personal were now on the floor and moving past reception. She then picked up the phone to let Felder’s secretary, Mollie Wimbleton, also know that a mail clerk had not followed her instructions about taking a trolley full of mail to the mail room on the fifth floor.
“That’s far enough,” spat out Mollie, racing from her desk to intercept Peterson. “I’ll take this mail from here. You just march back through reception and back onto the elevator and be on your way.”
“Can’t leave this bag of checks here unless Mr. Ethan Felder signs for it. There is a lot of money involved here and if any goes missing I could lose my job. You wouldn’t want me to lose my job now would you?”
“Fine, I’ll sign for them, but you’ll have to leave immediately. No unauthorized personnel are allowed on this floor and Mr. Felder is not to be disturbed.
“Sorry,” managed Peterson, but my work order says that unless Mr. Felder signs for these checks personally, I gotta take them back.”
Winston arrived on the scene. As an experienced body guard he knew that things were either exactly as they seemed or the opposite of what they seemed. Rarely had he encountered a middle ground. To him, that spelt that either Peterson was telling the absolute truth or lying through his teeth. And if he was lying, then it was not his job to find out why, but rather to avert a problem before it became unsolvable. Peterson looked shifty, nervous, and was covered in sweat. Felder had never received bags of checks before, neither been compelled to sign for anything. Add to that, the fact Peterson’s postal uniform was far too small for him, and the alarm bells started ringing in Winston’s head. For all he knew, a bomb could be in the bag.
“If you gotta take ‘em back then you take ‘em back, but you can’t see Mr. Felder. I will escort you back to the elevator with your trolley.”
“Hold on Winston. Not so fast. What’s all this about checks? How much money are we talking son? What’s up with these checks? Who sent them and why?” The sound of Mr. Felder’s voice was extraordinarily loud and booming, echoing throughout the entire floor.
“Could be millions in here. Apparently one of your parts salesman ran some kind of special promo and…and…well look…I’m not sure of the details. I’m just following orders. If you sign for the checks you can have the checks. But if you won’t sign then I gotta take ‘em back and in a day or so you will receive a notice instructing you on where, when and how to retrieve them.”
“I see,” said Felder, his eyes bulging at the prospect of more hard cash flowing his way. “Well then, why don’t you just wheel them directly into my office. I will sign for them there.”
“Very good sir,” offered a relieved Peterson, pushing the trolley past a distraught Winston.
“I don’t think that’s such a good idea sir,” protested his body guard, nervously tapping his fingers on the part of his jacket that hid his holstered gun.
“Nonsense,” boomed Felder, suddenly buoyed by the thought of millions more rolling into his already bulging coffers. “That’s why you work for me Winston and not the other way around. Turning your back on a sack full of money? Why my grand daddy that founded this great company would be turning in his grave if I were to do that.”
“Well now son. You pay my people here no mind at all. They mean well but they ain’t got any head for business. Just you wheel that sack on through to my office without delay. I’ll sign for them at once.”
Peterson did as he asked, wheeling it in past the large double oak doors that led to a spacious room with a giant mahogany desk in its centre.
Once inside, Felder signed for the bag and Peterson was on his way, closing the large double oak doors shut behind him, where he next trudged past Winston and then back through to reception, where he eventually hopped onto the elevator and
smiled at Sally through the closing doors.
Felder took a deep breath and sauntered over to his bar, where he poured himself a large vodka. Counting money always made him thirsty. As he raised the glass to his lips, the touch of cold steel against his temple made him drop the glass.
“Make another sound and you’re dead. Whisper even one word and you’re dead. So much as twitch a muscle without my say so and you’ll get a bullet in your brain. Nod yes if you understand.”
Felder nodded yes, that indeed, he did understand.
“Now, slowly put your two hands behind your back until the wrists are touching.”
“Now, that you’re cuffed, you can move over to your desk.”
“That’s it, now, sit down. When I’m done with you, you’ll do anything I say.”
Chris used one hand to slip the noose over Felders head then tightened it, around his neck, still holding the gun with the other hand as he wound the rest of the rope tightly round and round his chest and the chair. Next he tied it securely around the seat and then bound his feet to the chair legs as well. Then he gagged his mouth.
Next he put cheese on his face, slipped the cage over his head, and got out his rat.
“You paid to have my face fed to Andre’s rat, now you’ll pay to stop that same rat from feeding on your face. Twenty million dollars, to be exact, and…mom? Mom?”
Chapter Eleven
The sky was a dreamy blue, its lofty cloud free majesty holding the usual fall rains in abeyance, eliciting instead a masterful warmth, reminiscent of a time when his mother held him under bright summer suns, where he might fall asleep in her loving arms.
Rockabye baby on the tree top, when the wind blows, the cradle will rock. When the bough breaks the cradle will fall, and down will come cradle, baby and all. His mother’s voice again, singing to him at the tender age of two, as she cradled him in her arms. But hers was not the only image he saw.
He also saw an arbutus tree, illuminated by the afternoon sun, its overhanging branches casting shadows against the jagged cliff face, that jutted precipitously out over a Scottish Moor. A cunning fox played dead by the hidden lair of a field mouse. A mouse head peeped out to see if the coast was clear, only to feel the foxes teeth before being dragged to an untimely death. It was being eaten alive, like Y man, like Andre, like Felder…like…”oh shit, Felder!” He had so
mehow dozed off after sending the rat into the cage. He had dreamed of Scottish moors and his mother’s arms and had forgotten about Felder, about the rat, about the abundance of cheese, sprayed onto his fat fleshy face.
Chris fought hard to stumble back out of his crazed stupor, induced by a brain no longer functioning as it should, a brain void of sanity. He awoke to silence.
The desk clock told Chris that only moments after introducing the rat to Felder, he had somehow managed to doze off and remain asleep for four insidious hours. He had therefore not heard Felder’s muffled screams, neither his desperate muted cries. Undoubtedly, Felder would have paid the coveted twenty million, or even any amount to stop the rat’s teeth and claws, but all that was bloodied water under the bridge now.
The swollen rat rested in a corner, munching on a purple tongue, it’s belly taut after four hours of feasting on puffy cheeks, bulging eyes, a bloated brain and a large double chin. All that remained of Felder’s head was the empty skull, severed from the spinal column and laying on its side.
Chris sighed in anguish at his own stupidity. The plan had been to let Felder squeal in horror for about thirty seconds as the rat began to tear at his flesh. At the end of the thirty seconds Chris was to take the rat out of the cage and give Felder an ultimatum, either transfer the twenty million into his bank account, or allow the rat to eat him alive. But somehow Chris had managed to fall asleep, and thirty seconds had turned into four unimaginable hours of gluttony.
Still, all was not lost. Just before Chris had slipped out of the mail sack, Felder had opened his wall safe, no doubt anxious to put any checks he might find into it for safe keeping. Chris jogged over to take a peek with his one curious eye.
There were a stack of what looked like negotiable bearer bonds, perhaps worth
money, perhaps not. Chris ignored them. He was only interested in cash. There was none. But then he saw it, a yellowy glint in the corner. Gold! A dozen or so giant bars! Each bar was stamped “four hundred ounces.”
Chris lifted one up and was amazed that it weighed about seventy pounds. He
shoved it down his inside overcoat pocket just as Felder’s body guard began knocking at the door, asking if he were okay.
Chris looked around in a panic, looking for another exit and sighed in relief that there was an emergency fire exit stairwell inside the office. He ran for it and slipped down the stairs, leaving behind little more than a flesh free skull and a cat sized rat.
The gold bar netted Peterson $400,000 at a shady pawn brokers, about a hundred thousand less than it was worth, but the serial number on it could otherwise tie him to Felder, and so he was more than happy to settle for whatever he could get.
Chris was happy also, and eagerly pocketed his $200,000 share.
“You’re still off to Scotland with me?”
“Someone’s gotta keep you alive. But I’m curious. How’d you fell asleep like that.”
“Shit happens.”
“But you got enough of them back Chris that such shit won’t need happen again.”
“Not unless I run out of money,” whispered Chris, still clutching the list.
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