by Jacob Stone
“Satisfied?” Trilling asked.
“Get dressed and get in the car.”
“How about I check you out for a wire,” Trilling suggested with the same smirk he had shown earlier.
“How about you quit being a wise guy before I break both your arms and leave you here.”
The smirk froze on Trilling’s face, becoming something brittle and plastic. Blount could see Trilling considered challenging him, but he made the smart decision not to do so. He walked around to the passenger side of the car, got in, and then looked surprised when Blount backed up and drove out of the parking lot.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
Blount held up an index finger, leaving a clear message: Not another word.
He had to make sure no one was following Trilling, but he also wanted to take Trilling to a remote spot in the Hollywood Hills. He had a shovel and a bag of lime in the trunk, and if things went south it would be a better place to leave his body.
Trilling held his tongue for several minutes before asking where they were going.
Blount was satisfied no one was following them. “Someplace we can talk privately,” he said.
“We couldn’t have done that in the parking lot?”
“Not private enough.”
Trilling smiled at that. “One can never be too safe in your line of work, huh?”
Blount didn’t answer him and Trilling didn’t waste his breath asking any further questions. Blount got onto Mulholland Drive, followed that for several miles, then pulled onto a dirt road. After driving deeper into the hills, he stopped the car and turned off the lights. No one would be able to see them where they were parked. He turned to Trilling and asked him to tell him about the job.
“I want my wife killed,” Trilling said. “And I have specific instructions for how I want it done.”
Trilling handed Blount a carefully folded sheet of paper. The hitman used a penlight to read what amounted to a short laundry list of tortures. He had assumed that the torture would be to extract information, but that wasn’t going to be the case. Trilling simply wanted to inflict terrible pain on his wife before she died. There were only four items on the list. The first three would be cruel, but simple enough to do. The last—the one involving a live rat—was just plain demented.
“If your wife were to die like this, the police would be zeroing in on you. Even if I made her body disappear afterward, you’d be their chief suspect. The smart thing would be for her death to look like a suicide or accident.”
“Her death can’t be that easy, not after what that bitch has put me through.” Trilling’s voice took on a petulant note as he added, “Marjorie’s death has to be exactly the way I wrote it down. I put a lot of thought into it. I know what she’s terrified most of, and doing what I’m asking will make her final minutes a living nightmare. You’re the professional, you’ll just have to figure out a way to do it so I’m not suspected.”
Blount saw a way to do it. It was an awful idea, awful enough that it gave him a moment of pause. He even saw a way to carry out the last item—which was making Trilling’s wife choke to death on a live rat. At first it didn’t seem possible. His fist would be way too big to fit inside someone’s mouth, so how could he shove a rat down a woman’s throat? If he broke apart her jaw like a pistachio shell, she’d either die on the spot or go into shock. But he knew rats could squeeze through small holes. He’d have to do some research, but he had an idea of how it could be done.
Blount didn’t believe in heaven or hell, which was just as well, because if there was such a thing as hell he was already damned. If he carried out his idea and hell existed, he’d be taking an express trip to its deepest, darkest, most demonic level.
“There is a way to do it,” he said. “But it will cost you. Four hundred grand.”
This was far more than his standard twenty grand charge for a hit. Even in the darkness of the car, he could see Trilling opening his eyes wide with surprise.
“Why so much?” Trilling asked.
“I have to hide her death among others.”
“I don’t get what you’re saying.”
“I’ll make it look like a serial killer is on the loose. Others will have to die in the same way.”
Trilling let out an insipid giggle that he had the good sense to cut off. “That’s absolutely brilliant,” he said. “I was wondering how this could be done so I could escape police scrutiny, but that would work nicely. Yes, indeed. How many other women will you be killing?”
“Four in total, including your wife.”
“Make it five. That seems like a better number for a serial killer. Yes, that would keep the police too busy to look at husbands or other family members.”
“Half a million then. A hundred grand a victim.”
“Deal. Can I choose the four other victims?”
“Absolutely not.”
“A pity,” Trilling said, and he sounded truly disappointed. “It would’ve been exciting picking out the other four, but c’est la vie.”
The hundred grand a victim price was beyond exorbitant, even with what was required. Blount threw out that number so Trilling would turn him down. That was what he was expecting, and that would’ve given him an excuse to drag Trilling out of the car and leave his corpse in the hills for the coyotes to gnaw on. Trilling deserved to die for what he was asking from him. But half a million dollars would be a game changer. With that kind of money he’d be able to take Lauren and the boys someplace where Penza wouldn’t be able to reach him—maybe upper Michigan, or a small town in Iowa. He’d then buy a quick oil change franchise. Or a doughnut shop. Or any legit business so he’d be out of the game. He hadn’t realized until right then how much he wanted out.
Five more hits and he’d be done. That’s how he had to look at it. These women were only going to be targets like any of his other past targets, and it didn’t matter how repulsive he found his client.
He made necessary arrangements with Trilling, then turned the car around and headed back to North Hollywood.
Chapter 35
Los Angeles, October 3, 1984
The cutoff age for the youth fall baseball league was sixteen, but Sam Brick guessed the kid at the plate had to be almost twenty. Tall, rangy, big shouldered, already growing a mustache. He obviously wasn’t twice as big as Morris, but it sure felt that way. It didn’t surprise Brick when the kid smoked a shot down the third-base line. What did surprise him was when his son dove to his right and stretched out fully so he could catch the ball, then scrambled back to his feet and doubled off the runner who’d been on first. The poor baserunner probably thought he could score on the play and had reached second before he realized the ball was caught. What fourteen-year-old makes a play like that? That was a major-league play. No doubt about it! Brick was on his feet cheering wildly. So were all the other parents in the stands, even the ones whose kids were playing for the other team. He was also proud of the way Morris handled it. Didn’t even crack a smile. He got back into his crouch and kept his focus only on getting the final out of the game.
Esther, Morris’s six-year-old sister, had been squirming in her seat the last two innings. She tugged on Brick’s coat jacket.
“This is so boring I might die,” she announced in a breathless voice, a hand raised to her forehead, the tiny palm facing outward as if she might faint any second now. “Can’t we leave yet? Please?”
Brick couldn’t help grinning. What was really eating at Esther was all the attention her big brother was getting. While Morris was quiet and reserved, Esther was a natural-born actress, and it bugged her when she wasn’t the center of attention. Like Morris, she was small for her age, with thin pipe cleaner legs and arms. Morris, though, physically took after him. He might’ve been short, but he had a fireplug body. Esther was a redhead like her mom and was going to be a beauty when she grew up.
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“Thanks to your brother’s heroics the game won’t be lasting too much longer. We’ll pick up Mom afterward and go out for pizza and ice cream. How does that sound?”
“I just don’t know if I can stand it another minute,” she said, hamming it up.
Brick tousled her hair. “Give it your best shot, okay, sweetie?”
Esther let out an overly dramatic sigh. “If I must.”
The next batter grounded out to second. Game over.
Brick and his daughter made their way to the field. While Morris celebrated with his team, Esther held on to Brick’s arm and swung around as if she were playing on a jungle gym. The celebration ended, and Morris joined them.
Brick extended his hand. “Quite a game, son,” he said. “You were easily the star.”
Morris grinned sheepishly as he took his dad’s hand. “I did okay,” he said.
“I’d say more than okay. A home run, two other hits, outstanding plays at third.”
Esther let go of her dad’s arm and rolled her eyes with exasperation. “Big deal,” she exclaimed. “All Morris does is fall like this.”
She flopped onto the grass field with all the grace of a duck doing ballet, her thin arms and legs flailing awkwardly.
Morris broke out laughing. “Esther the pest,” he said.
Esther was quickly on her feet, her face animated with passion, her tiny fists clenched. “Morris the booger head!” she shouted.
Morris’s grin became something wicked. “Dad,” he said, “is it too late to trade the little pest for a dog? Even one of those annoying toy poodles? Any dog would be better behaved.”
“Booger head!” Esther yelled.
Brick was struggling not to laugh. Before he could scold either of them, the large cumbersome cellular telephone that he carried for work rang. Morris and Esther stopped their feud to watch him. They knew that calls that came over this phone were serious business. He answered the phone and listened quietly as he was told about the dead woman who had been found and the things that were done to her. The good humor he’d been feeling only seconds earlier was gone. Even though Morris and Esther hadn’t heard the call, they could tell something bad had happened, and their expressions became subdued as well. Little Esther started crying. Brick corralled his daughter and smoothed her hair, trying to comfort her.
“You have to go to work?” Morris asked.
Brick tousled his hair. He lifted Esther with one arm and kissed her softly on the top of her head. “Let’s get the two of you home,” he said. “Mom will take you for pizza and ice cream.”
Chapter 36
Los Angeles, after midnight, October 10, 1984
The client was supposed to be away on a business trip. That was what they had agreed, anyway. Blount cut the phone lines, disabling the security system, and broke in through a patio door. It didn’t surprise him when he found Trilling sitting in the dark on the steps leading to the bedrooms on the second floor.
“Are you having second thoughts?” Blount asked in a whisper.
Trilling’s face was mostly hidden in shadows, but there was enough moonlight filtering in to see that his face was tense with anticipation.
“Certainly not,” he said. “I want to watch, perhaps even help, so I wanted to tell you not to use chloroform on me.”
Blount smiled thinly. When they made their arrangements, Trilling demanded that at least one other victim have a husband, since otherwise it could look suspicious if his wife was the only married victim. It made sense, so Blount agreed, and at the time Trilling asked what he would do when he found a husband or boyfriend in bed with a victim. Blount explained that he’d be bringing chloroform and extra rope along so he could knock them out, then tie and gag them, and Trilling seemed satisfied with the answer. So this was why he was anxiously waiting for him—he was afraid Blount would sneak into the bedroom and knock him out before he could stop him, and then he’d miss all the fun.
“I won’t use chloroform on you,” Blount promised. He held out his hand, and Trilling handed over the crystal glass he’d been holding. Blount gave it a sniff. Bourbon, top quality stuff. “I’ll wash this out. You go back to bed and act as if nothing is going to happen. And for God’s sake, don’t wake your wife.”
Trilling got to his feet and did as ordered. Blount watched his client until he disappeared up the stairs and into his bedroom; then he left his oversized gym bag by the stairs and brought the glass back to the kitchen. He kept his leather gloves on while he washed out the glass. He probably could’ve just left it in the sink, but for all he knew forensics could’ve had the technology to figure out that the bourbon had been poured near the time the Nightmare Man began torturing Trilling’s wife. That was the name the media had given him. The Nightmare Man. Why not? It made as much sense as anything, and at least they were buying into the serial killer angle.
Marjorie Trilling would be the third woman killed by the Nightmare Man. The first two killings had gone off without a hitch, at least in a way. Blount had taken out more targets during his twenty-plus-year career than he could remember, and none of them were anything other than a job. Once they were done, they were forgotten. Just as a butcher would feel cutting a slab of beef into steaks. This was different. Blount found himself haunted by those two women. He tried telling himself that death was death, and what he put the women through didn’t matter, just like it didn’t matter when he had once skinned a target for Penza. That hit was on a guy in Penza’s organization who had started talking with the cops, and as far as Blount was concerned, the guy deserved the hell he went through before he finally cut the man’s throat. But the two women he had chosen were innocents who didn’t deserve what had happened to them. The same was true of Marjorie Trilling. If Trilling had only paid him to turn the light off on his wife, Blount wouldn’t have a problem, but these killings weighed on him in a way he never would’ve imagined possible. If it wasn’t for the half million dollars at the finish line, Blount would’ve gladly changed his target for the night.
The arrangement he made was for Trilling to transfer a hundred grand to a Cayman Island account as a down payment, a hundred and fifty grand once Marjorie Trilling was murdered, and the rest after the fifth murder. Blount discovered that Trilling was very wealthy and had over thirty million dollars in assets. Trilling had been planning his wife’s demise for several years, making sure he had enough money in a tangled web of shell companies so the payments couldn’t be traced by law enforcement.
When Blount saw Trilling waiting for him, he considered forcing Trilling to transfer the remaining four hundred grand that was owed and then doing all the things to Trilling that the smug prick wanted done to his wife. But that was only a nice fantasy. The problem was Trilling might not be able to transfer money from his home. More likely, he needed to go to an office or bank to enact a transfer, and because of that the sonofabitch would be alive when morning came, and it would be his wife who would soon be dying a nightmarish death.
Whenever Blount went out on a job, he brought along a leather sap, a beaver-tail-shaped weapon weighted at one end with half a pound of lead. Doctors have their stethoscopes, surgeons their scalpels, but Blount’s tool was his sap, and he was just as skilled at using it. A flick of the wrist, and he could hit a mark in the kidneys and leave him unable to breathe and helpless. Swinging the sap a little harder and striking right above the ear, he’d knock the person unconscious. Harder still, and he’d cave in a skull. He took the sap from where he had it tucked away under his belt and lightly slapped the rounded end against his palm. He’d keep his promise to Trilling. He wouldn’t use chloroform on him, but he’d be damned if that sick bastard would have a front-row seat to his wife’s murder.
Blount got the nylon rope out of the gym bag, measured and cut the lengths he’d be needing, and shoved those into his jacket pocket. He kept the sap in his right hand and used his left to carry the bulky gym ba
g he had brought along. The bag held not only the tools he’d be using, but a box-like metal trap for catching rats. As he made his way up the stairs, he heard the rat that had been caught two weeks earlier frantically scurrying about.
Trilling had two teenage daughters who were attending boarding school. He also used to have a live-in housekeeper, but he had let her go six months ago in anticipation of this night. So now it was only Trilling and his wife at home. Blount walked silently into the bedroom. He left the gym bag at the foot of the king-sized bed and moved quickly to where Trilling lay in a fetal position, trying to pretend he was asleep. At the last second he heard Blount approaching, and when he lifted his head, the sap struck him above the right temple. The blow made a soft thud and sent Trilling deep into dreamland.
The wife was sleeping soundly on her stomach. Blount lowered the quilt covering her and had her wrists bound before she woke up. He next bound her ankles, then rolled her onto her back. She stared up at him groggily for several seconds before realizing what was happening.
“Please, don’t hurt us,” she begged. “My husband will pay you whatever you want.”
He wanted to apologize to her, but instead he laughed. He couldn’t help himself.
She screamed as she understood who he was. The Nightmare Man. He didn’t need to gag her since nobody would hear her, but he also didn’t need a headache either. He found a pair of men’s socks in a dresser drawer and used that to shut her up. He then used the remaining rope to hogtie Trilling and leave him on his stomach.