by Richard Long
Michael timidly stepped through the doorway. Paul gripped his shoulder and pushed him out of the way. He was holding an Uzi in the other hand. Bean fell to the floor. His legs snagged Paul’s ankle, tripping him. By the time Paul disentangled himself and clomped down the kitchen hallway, the buzzers had stopped ringing. He turned into the living room and got a surprise more disconcerting than the buzzer concerto. Martin was awake…and he had a shotgun pointed at Paul’s face.
“Drop it,” said Paul, leveling the Uzi at Rose, who was crouched behind Martin and the Barca. “I’ll spray her with a dozen bullets before your slug even tickles my nose.”
“Shoot him!” yelled Rose. “He was going to kill us while you were sleeping.”
“He wasn’t sleeping, dear…he was unconscious,” Paul corrected her. “And I had no intention of doing you any harm, lad, though I must confess my young protégé here was thinking of relieving you of all those Spanish doubloons.”
“Drop your weapons and walk to the door,” Martin said, glaring from Bean to Paul.
Michael dropped his pistol instantly. Paul groaned in disgust, not lowering his weapon an inch. “You know I’m not one to back down from a challenge, boy. Do you really think this is the best time to get into a firefight—with the cops standing right on your doorstep? Or did you think those buzzers were from the Girl Scout cookie drive?”
“I’m giving you a chance to leave,” Martin said. “I’ll deal with them later…and you too, if that’s what you want.”
Paul looked at Rose and then at Martin’s trigger finger. It was already squeezing.
He could scarcely believe what he was seeing. Martin was awake and had the drop on them to boot. Only an hour earlier, he had rescued Martin at the last possible instant from being gunned down in the street, and now Martin had awakened from his semi-coma just in time to prevent Bean from bushwhacking him. This was incredible. Preposterous! It was destiny.
God is good! he thought, his eyes glued to Martin’s trigger. Then he rephrased his mental exaltation more suitably to, God, he’s good!
Yes, it was time to give credit where credit was due, and not to himself for once, though he felt a swell of pride at all his contributions. But no, this was Martin’s victory. He had saved himself. He knew Martin had absolutely no awareness of his accomplishment, or why his buzzer had been pressed so propitiously, but that didn’t matter in the least. It all happened anyway, at Martin’s silent, cataleptic command—by the power of his will.
“Hhmph!” Not even Loren could rival such a synchronistic display. Martin’s life had been threatened while he was unconscious and he had done something about it. The final omen had arrived and conveyed with it all his greatest hopes.
Martin was ready. By sunset tomorrow the Turning would transform them and…
But what if it wasn’t Martin bending the quantum field? What if Johnny was protecting Martin and that little bitch in preparation for their own ascension into glory? Could his power have eroded to the point where such an outcome was possible? No. He refused to accept that. Martin belonged to him.
Rose and Michael stared at Paul like he was crazy, standing there so motionless, squeezing his trigger, his eyes locked on Martin’s like a Star Trek tractor beam, his red-cheeked grin threatening to split his lips.
“Get moving,” Martin said, breaking the spell, still squeezing, every bit as perplexed as the others, but a thousand times more baffled by the look on Paul’s face.
Get moving? On any other occasion Paul would have called Martin’s bluff, disarmed him, confronted the intruders, and dragged the girl away for a much needed spanking. But not tonight. Not after an omen like this. So hopeful. So threatening. No, he had much bigger fish to fry, and a risky struggle was not on the agenda. Just one stray bullet and…
“Unlock the door,” Paul grunted to Michael.
“But what about the gold…?” Michael whined, his voice wimping out even faster than the rest of him when he saw the glare in Martin’s eyes and the arc of his shotgun inching in his direction. Bean scuttled over to the door, hiding behind Paul’s bulk like a hermit crab. He unlocked five of the seven bolts before Paul spoke again, this time to Martin.
“Where’s your emergency exit?” he demanded. “And don’t even think about fibbin’.”
“Use the roof. It’s a short hop down to the building next door.”
Paul looked into Martin’s eyes, probing him. Satisfied he was telling the truth, he moved backwards through the door Michael had so clumsily opened. Bean was already out the door and sneaking up the staircase. Paul lingered for a moment in the doorway, then spoke with an ache in his voice Martin had never heard before.
“Join me now and all is forgiven. Your fate lies with me…not her.”
Martin shook his head almost imperceptibly, his silence more cutting than words. Paul glared back, first at Martin, then at Rose. In the heat of his rage, he almost pulled the trigger. It took every ounce of restraint to remind himself how much was at stake. He paused one more instant, until he heard the sound of buzzers braying from all directions again. Then he shrugged his shoulders, gave a doomsday grin and took the stairs three at a time like an Olympic hurdler.
The pain in my chest is still incredible, the ache in my heart even more excruciating. Why did I do it? Why did I go back? Because I had to. What were my options? Run away? That was my initial plan, after our first meeting: buy a plane ticket and fly off to Pago Pago. But what would I do there? Lie in the sun with all my beautiful black ink fading into a sickly blue color? With three metal implants nailed into my chest?
Besides, if I ran away, I knew what would be waiting for me if I ever came back—an FBI Most Wanted picture taped to every customs agent counter, complete with a detailed description of my so-called crimes. No, I had to go back. They knew it too. Because…and this is as crazy as crazy gets…they knew I couldn’t stand to leave my implants unfinished. That’s why they didn’t show me the site until the first ones were attached.
As much as I felt compelled to return, every cell in my body was filled with dread. When I finally managed to push myself out the door and made my death march back to The Striker’s, I wasn’t particularly shocked to see Paul open the door. What did surprise me was the reception I received. When I walked in the door, the two of them welcomed me like one of the family. Given the dearth of those specimens in my life, it felt almost…nice. When we settled in for the main attraction, the attachment of two more implants, Paul was every bit as gleeful as his lanky pal, leaning over the table, his chin nestled in his meaty fist, oohing and aahing and chuckling with every whack! and clang!
The Striker really put his heart into it today. Bang! My chest was getting slammed so hard it felt like I was being resuscitated by a CPR trainee.
“You’re crazy as a bedbug for doing this,” Paul said, “especially when you could be doing it to someone else and having twice the fun. Even so, it tickles me pink to watch!”
“Glad you’re enjoying yourself,” I grunted between clangs, both annoyed and amused by his jolly commentary. After The Striker finished, I had to lie down for a long time. When I finally stood up, Paul put his arm around me and said, “Good work.”
I felt proud when he said it, which made me cringe. It was confusing. Disturbing. How could I have any positive feelings at all for these psychos? What’s the matter with me? I feel sick just writing it down. The only shred of self-respect I can cling to is that I’m still trying to figure out how to fuck them back even harder than they’re fucking me. Which is not going to be easy. They’re both smart as hell, but I know there has to be a way out of this, if I can only keep them talking. So far that’s been surprisingly easy. What a couple of chatter bugs. It seems the only thing they enjoy more than hammering is yammering.
I kept asking questions and they kept answering. After The Striker bandaged me up, we all went online together…so they could, “more effectively illustrate the situation.” How can they be so cavalier about the most indicta
ble criminal evidence on the planet? Then again, why not? I had everything to lose. And they, or at least Paul, were untraceable.
The members are divided according to a ranking system. The Striker is in the top tier, along with the Turley Twins, Morris Keifer, Alexander Pate, half a dozen creeps named Kelly, and in a category all by himself…Johnny the Saint. Profiles are scant or nonexistent for the big shots. My profile is lumped in with the peons, all of them trying to outdo each other with video clips of their crimes that go on and on and on. Ick. Notably absent from the site, in any category, is Paul.
“How come you’re not on here?” I asked, genuinely baffled by his absence.
“Modesty prevents,” Paul answered with a sweeping bow. “The Striker rules this roost, but I offer my support in other less tangible ways. There’s no need to give such gullible types as yourself any superfluous information to distract you from the mission at hand.”
“The murder mission?” I asked, posing the question that had been burning inside me. “You wouldn’t go to all this trouble just for that. This can’t be just an experiment.”
“Oh, you’re a sly fox Billy. Of course it’s about more than that. I did all this for The Striker…and you.”
“For me?” I was so bowled over by his statement that I had a hard time paying attention to his explanation. Little snippets registered: “…a part of you that’s missing…another part of you…still asleep…your love affair with death…when you fully awaken…unimaginable power…help you see your true nature…help in other ways…a loyal army of enforcers…terrorists…sworn allegiance to The Striker…they think he’s a daimon…their Lord of Darkness.”
“Lord of darkness?” I blurted out, feeling like I was going to faint.
They both looked at me like they didn’t know what I was talking about. Like they hadn’t been saying any of the shit I heard. Like all of it was coming from inside my head.
“Ahem…as I was saying, they come in quite handy,” Paul continued, rolling his eyes. “Let’s say we need some help around the house, you know, move the couch a few inches to the right…get a lift to the airport…it’s always nice to know there’s a helping hand ready to pitch in, without the grumbling you’d expect from someone less burdened with a proper sense of duty. And because our membership includes some rather aggressive personality types, we’ve found them to be quite useful when any security issues pop up, or if we require a convenient scapegoat. When you’re as busy as we are, it helps to keep the wolves far away from your door…forcefully when necessary…and knocking at someone else’s.”
“So we’re all slaves for you,” I grumbled.
“Indentured servants would be more apt. But we also provide a valuable service.”
“Indeed,” The Striker chimed in. “Through the miracle of modern technology, they don’t have to suffer in solitude. We even have our own clubhouse…The Dead End. They can have a friendly chat over cocktails, hone their craft, and best of all, get support and encouragement. And after they’ve submitted proof of their first unassisted murder, we charge no additional membership fees!”
They both doubled over in laughter again. Incredible. Now that I was part of the club it seemed like they were having the time of their lives. Which gave me another opening.
“Your social club, The Dead End…can you take me there?” I asked as casually as I could after putting on my T-shirts. I thought if I knew the location of their serial killer saloon, I could leave an anonymous tip at the nearest police precinct and then…
“Oh, I’m afraid you wouldn’t enjoy that field trip very much,” Paul chortled. “At least not until you have a firmer grasp on your role in this grand tradition.”
Grand tradition? “I’m listening,” I said, trying to remain reasonably calm in the face of my mounting anxiety. I had no idea what his response would be, but I remember physically bracing myself against the back of my chair.
His response was extremely anticlimactic.
“I’d prefer a more intimate setting for that discussion,” Paul replied dryly, denying my curious prodding for the first time today. Then he turned his back on me and The Striker, and with a tiny wave that looked more like a salute to himself, he bade us both farewell.
Forgot all about me, didn’t you? Don’t feel bad. I’m used to it.
The Striker dragged me down the street in long, swooping strides. I had to take two steps for every one of his to keep up. Not that I had much choice. His fingers gripped my arm with so much strength that I was trotting along just to keep the painful pressure of his squeezing, tugging hand to a tolerable level.
He was wearing a slick 1950s black suit and a white shirt. As we crossed the street and turned up Avenue B, I looked at the shiny fabric and wondered what he was dressed up for, given his more casual, though every bit as eccentric attire on all our previous encounters.
“Where are we going? What’s the rush?” I shouted, trying to shake off his iron grip.
“Our little clubhouse,” he answered in that deep, hollow voice. “For members only…”
Oh, God. We were going to The Dead End.
The outside looked like a boarded-up saloon, which it was, I soon learned. The plywood was painted black. A rusty gate blocked the entrance. The door was a dark, sickly red. The color of dried blood.
“Open up,” The Striker hissed in a raspy whisper. What, no secret password?
A shadow passed in front of a small peephole and the door creaked open. The man who opened it didn’t look as creepy as my host, but he was no slouch, with a bristly flat-top, two barely open slits for eyes and a tattoo on his neck with three neat rows of boldface letters, written in the language I’d most recently studied: Gaelic. The man said nothing, but nodded to The Striker with obvious deference. The gate parted with a loud metal screech that made my teeth hurt and before I could slow the pounding of my terrified heart, we were inside.
On the stoop outside Martin’s apartment, O’fficer O’wen O’Donnell folded his arms across his chest after pounding on all the buzzers and waiting almost a full minute for someone to answer the intercom so he could feed them his long-practiced but thus far never uttered line: “Open the door, this is the police!”
All he wanted to do was ask a few people if they’d seen who was firing all the shots outside, and nod his head gravely while they all replied, “No.” Then he could wait for the ambulance, have a cup of joe while they shoveled the bodies inside and head back to the precinct with a lot less paperwork staring him in the face. He would have turned around and done exactly that were it not for the faint shouting he heard, coming from the lone window in the building with a light on inside.
Something was wrong. He knew it. He waited another minute for someone to answer the intercom. But nobody did. Nobody did because the only three remaining tenants were Rose, Martin and a stone-deaf old biddy with thirteen cats up on the top floor. All the others had been booted out by their pragmatic landlord, who, having had the foresight to anticipate the inevitable wave of gentrification sweeping the neighborhood, bought up every building on the block, while refusing to renew the leases of every tenant inside them.
After a few more seconds, Owen waved to his partner, Pete, who slowly ambled over. “I think we got some trouble inside,” Owen said, puffing his chest out like he was Kojak or something. “I heard some shouts, and no one’s answering the buzzers.”
Pete glared at Owen like he always did, with a “Who does he think he is…Kojak?” look, then whipped out his pistol and broke the glass of one of the narrow ornamental windows on the side of the door. “Jeez, you’d think we had all day,” Pete scolded him, and reached his hand inside to turn the doorknob.
Martin was watching their every move. As soon as Paul departed, he told Rose to relock the door while he turned on the television. He flicked an A/B switch resting on top of the TV set and suddenly the image changed from the donkey-dumb weatherman promising another sunny, humid day, to a grainy black-and-white image of Owen and Pete standing in
the doorway. Just two of them? He switched channels to another camera mounted on the building facade and scanned the street in both directions. Except for the lone squad car, the street was eerily vacant.
Martin thought about how easy it would be to kill the new intruders as he followed their progress up the stairs with more hidden cameras he’d installed on every landing. Then he thought of something even better. He grabbed his two-way intercom microphone, held it up to the TV speakers so it would generate plenty of noisy feedback and made a brief announcement: “Squawk! Crackle! Screech! Intruders are on the roof! Request immediate back-up! Do you read me? Squawk! Crackle! Screech!”
The cops looked frantically in every direction, trying to determine where the sound came from. Then they scrambled up to the roof, where Paul had fled only seconds earlier.
“You have to go now,” Martin told Rose as he watched them on his monitor.
“Go where?” Rose asked fearfully.
Martin handed her a wad of hundreds from a cookie jar on the kitchen counter. “Somewhere nice,” he said.
Rose thought about the backpack full of cash she left upstairs. “I have lots of money left from the gold. I’ll get it.”
“No, you need to leave now,” he insisted. “You can come back here when it’s safe.”
“I’m staying here with you,” she said firmly.
“Not a good idea,” Martin argued. He had to settle things with Paul. If that didn’t work out well—an almost certain likelihood—he didn’t want Rose anywhere nearby.
“You’re gonna let me walk around on the street with all of them still out there?” Rose protested, her arms crossed stubbornly across her chest.
Martin thought about it. “No,” he finally said, and walked into his closet.
When he came out, he wasn’t carrying another bag of gold. Instead, he was shoving a little pillow and a stuffed dog into a shopping bag.