by Tom Secret
Brad followed their line of sight over the top of Lilly’s bed to the far side of the bedroom, and the swollen mess of torn and bloody flesh that had once been a man’s face.
“Holy shit! Is he dead?”
Lola’s eyes didn’t blink, but as they stared into oblivion, tears rolled down her cheeks.
Jack and Lilly had bruises and scratches everywhere, but Brad could see from their faces that the real damage was on the inside. He put his hand on Jack’s shoulder, then took Lola’s and Lilly’s hands in his own. “Are any bones broken?”
They shook their heads as Marcus reached the top landing.
Lola whispered, “They came back, Brad.”
Brad stroked the hair back from her face and ran his fingertips over the swollen cheek and the puffy lips. “The same two men from before?”
She nodded.
Jack’s face looked battered, and Lola and Lilly bore reddening finger-shaped marks on their neck and throat. “Darling, you all need medical treatment.”
“No hospitals.”
“You need pain meds and anti-inflammatory drugs at least.”
“No doctors.”
Marcus came out of Lilly’s room, then crouched down in front of Lola and the children. “Does anything feel broken?”
“I already asked them that.”
“And?” Marcus said without looking at Brad.
“My throat hurts, Popski!”
“My whole body hurts,” Jack said, “but nothing feels broken.”
Lola took her hand away from Lilly’s shoulder and touched her own face. “Ow! Maybe my cheek…”
“Brad’s right, Lola. You need x-rays.”
“Can they do anything if it’s broken?”
Marcus looked at Brad for an answer.
“If it’s just a small fracture—which is likely, given you can still talk—then they’ll administer pain meds, but are you feeling pressure in your sinuses or eye sockets?”
Lola gave Brad a withering look. “Eyes are okay, but I could murder painkillers.”
Brad tried to calm his breathing and unclench his teeth, but the fury was growing now. “Did you call the police?”
Lola shook her head. “No police.”
Brad glanced into Lilly’s bedroom. “But he’s… you know… isn’t he?”
“I suggest you inspect the damage, Son, before you get the authorities involved.”
“But Lola said those two came back, so the law is on our side, it was self-defense.”
“Check out his face, Brad.”
Brad clambered to his feet and stepped back into the room, forcing himself to look at the mangled remains of the man’s lips, the broken teeth, the crushed, amorphous mass that was once a nose, the fileted cheek, and the dark, caked eye sockets. A chill ran up his spine as he looked from Marcus to Lola’s bloodied right fist. He returned to her side and crouched down. “Darling, what are you holding?”
“He said they were IRS,” Lola whispered
“I know, baby, I’m sorry, I should never have left you alone.” Brad picked up the phone from the carpet beside her. “Now, please, show me your hand.”
Lola looked down. “He said they watch us all the time…”
Brad glanced at Marcus for a clue but got nothing. “Who does? What do you mean, watch us? Watch us how?”
Lola kept her head bowed. “Create a web. Connect TV, phones, CCTV.”
“But how can they watch us through the phones? Darling, please show me what’s in your hand.”
“He said mal… something, even in the TV.”
“Malware,” Jack said.
“Malicious software,” Marcus said. “Specialist government departments have always used it, but now it’s ubiquitous. They hack in through the Internet and cellular networks and record everything using cameras and voice-recognition software. That’s the tip of the iceberg now, though.”
“Something about a matrix,” Lola muttered.
Brad threw up his hands. “I don’t understand what all this means, but I’m calling nine-one-one.” He hit the buttons on the cell and held the phone to his ear. “Hello?”
Marcus grabbed at the phone, but Brad pulled away.
Lola raised her head until her blue eyes locked with Brad’s. “They came for our babies… to sell them to pedophiles!”
Brad felt the blood drain from his face as he processed her words.
“Nine-one-one emergency services, how may I direct your call?”
Lola opened her hand. “But he can’t watch anymore.” There, side by side on her palm, lay two eyeballs, each trailing the curled remains of an optic nerve.
“Philadelphia nine-one-one, what is the nature and location of your emergency?”
“Oh, my God!” Brad caught his breath and moved to cover the eyeballs from Lilly’s and Jack’s view, but Marcus snatched them away.
“I’ll take care of these, Son.”
Brad returned the phone to his ear. “Um, sorry, ma’am, a false alarm. Thought I saw an intruder, but it was a dog in the garden.”
“I’ll send a patrol car, sir. Please confirm your address.”
“No need, ma’am. It’s gone now.” He ended the call.
“You know they’ll send a car anyway,” Marcus said.
Brad kept his eyes on Lola. “Darling, what was the name of the other guy?”
Lola’s head moved back and forth. “Not one…”
“There were more of them?”
“He said… Cilcifus and Michaels will come for us.”
Brad reeled back. “Michaels? You said, Michaels. Michaels who? First or last name?”
Lola’s voice grew faint, “just Cilcifus and Michaels.”
“It can’t be… Michaels the Revolution investor? Is he insane? I’ve been in his frigging house!”
34. PROOF
Monday, 6:00 p.m.
Donatello rested his head against the back of his antique burgundy-leather chair and put his feet up on the matching ottoman.
The squabbling neighbors and hum of traffic usually formed a constant backdrop at this time of day, but for once, he could hear a feather hit the floor.
He let his eyes drift around the fourteen-foot, by fourteen-foot space that comprised the living room, dining room, and kitchen, he called home. The antique marquetry-inlaid walnut console table by the door was clear, and so was the matching coffee table next to his wingback chair, except for the single manila file. The deep-polished white-oak floor reflected what little light made it past the neighboring apartment blocks.
Opposite his chair, a prehistoric kinescope TV that he seldom watched, was surrounded by the first-edition collection of hardback books that had become like old friends over the years. Why people wanted to read on their phones or tablets when the rich grain and heavy aged scent of quality paper, printed with a Heidelberg press could transport them to another time and place, was beyond him.
He shifted position to pluck the folder from the table, and the thick leather squeaked beneath him. Lance had told him the notes said that both Cilcifus and Stark were IRS special investigators and that countless complaints had been filed against them and their department, over the years. Accusations ranged from abuse to embezzlement, and even one attempted kidnapping. That last one seemed far-fetched even to Donatello, but as he stared down at the file, waiting in the silence for his instincts to guide him, the knot in his solar plexus tightened. Of all those complaints, not one had seen daylight. Each time, someone in the precinct had stepped in to block the investigation. But who? Lance said the name and signature had been blacked out in each case file.
Donatello’s phone buzzed in his pocket. He squinted at the text on the screen. Inspector Wilkes was summoning him to an early morning meeting, which meant only one thing; the proverbial had hit the fan.
He refocused on the file. Colby let Cilcifus go, so the odds were, it was his name hiding beneath the black stripe on each of those reports. But how to prove it? Without proof, he was on a fool’s errand
, and if he so much as suggested it at a judicial review, he would be out on his ear for sure. No, he needed to stay centered and let the truth reveal itself.
Donatello tossed the file back on the table. For now, he needed a different proof—the kind that came from a bottle.
35. THE CLEANUP CREW
Monday, 6:06 p.m.
“I told you,” Lola whispered, her eyes still fixed on the bloated purple face of the body beneath Lilly’s bedroom window.
Brad crouched closer. “Told me what, darling?”
“Those investors were… evil.”
“Did he mention Black and Walton?”
“Evil.” Lola’s eyelids closed.
“I hate to break you guys up,” Marcus said, “but we need to get moving. The police could arrive any minute.”
Brad took Lola’s hand. “Moving on what, Dad? I still say it was self-defense.”
Marcus cut his eyes at the remains. “You’re not thinking straight. How will the police or a jury react to that mess?”
Brad considered Lola, Lilly, and Jack’s injuries then looked up at Marcus. “They broke into our house and tried to take our children, and if it hadn’t been for Lola’s bravery, they would have succeeded.”
“Look, Son, trust me. Either we get rid of that one pronto, or when the police get here, the first thing they’ll take away is Lola.”
Brad clambered to his feet and held out his hand “Can you stand?”
She gave a faraway nod and took his hand as the kids, too, struggled to their feet.
“All right, first things first,” Marcus said, looking at Lilly and Jack. “You two look like you already got washed and changed.”
Jack and Lilly nodded.
“Good,” Marcus said. “Finish your packing while your mother gets cleaned up. Lola, make sure you scrub all the blood off; scrub hard, and use bleach on your hands and fingernails. Leave your clothes outside the bathroom door. We can burn them later.”
Brad entered Lilly’s room to collect the broken toys and lamp from the once cream-colored carpet.
Marcus’s voice droned on from the landing. “And get makeup over that bruised cheek, Lola. You and the kids will need to stay up here when the police arrive. If they come upstairs, we’re sunk, but if we get through the next couple of hours, you can lie low at my place. Jack, run around and close the curtains.”
Jack grunted, his footsteps padding away as Marcus called after him, “And keep the lights off.”
“Right,” Marcus said, appearing in the doorway behind Brad. “Help me get the bed out so we can roll him into the carpet.”
Brad straightened up with an armful of toys and glared at his father.
“What?” Marcus said. “The cops could roll up any second, so snap to it.”
Brad threw the toys on the bed. “Snap to it? Who elected you sergeant major?”
“Someone needs to take charge.”
“Well, it doesn’t have to be you, does it?”
“I don’t see you doing it.”
“Give me a damn chance and I will!”
“All right, go ahead, take charge.”
Brad gritted his teeth, scooped up the toys, and tossed them into the closet. Then he went to the far side of the bed, positioned himself to avoid engaging his bruised left shoulder and lifted with his right arm.
Marcus heaved his side off the floor and shuffled back to the door, then put it down and squeezed past the bed to join Brad at the window.
Brad pulled the bloodied duvet to one side, crouched down, and rolled the body away from the wall as Marcus removed the carpet from its tack strips along the baseboard.
“You thought of where you will bury him?” Marcus picked up an empty juice bottle from the floor and rubbed it in his sweater. Then wiped the man’s bloody fingers on the duvet and pressed them against the bottle. “I’ll take this along with the folder tomorrow.”
“I was thinking of the old sawmill, remember?”
Marcus smiled. “Where I taught you to shoot. Good choice. Make sure you strip him and burn his clothes along with the carpet, the duvet, and Lola’s clothes.”
“Okay, Dad, let’s roll him in.”
“And bleach the body.”
Brad nodded “On three. One, two, heave!”
Four turns later, the stuffed carpet lay butted against the bed. Brad wiped the sweat from his brow and studied the bare floorboards. “We were lucky—the duvet caught most of the blood.”
* * * *
Five minutes later, stuck on the half landing at the corner of the stairs. Brad, on the lower steps, was dripping with sweat, while Marcus stood above, holding his end of the carpet and looking cooler than the corpse.
“You need to lift him higher to get over the post, Brad.”
“I can see that! How come I’m down here with a bad shoulder, carrying most of the weight?”
“You looked like you needed the exercise.” Marcus smiled.
“Thanks a lot. I’ve got—”
“Brad, hush!”
“What?”
“Quiet! Listen.”
“To what? All I hear is the shower and Lilly… oh, crap is that—”
“Police radio. Don’t move.”
Brad held his breath and tried to shuffle the carpet into a less painful position as the crackling voice grew louder.
The red and blue strobe lights appeared through the frosted glass of the front door, casting a glow across the hallway and lighting Brad up like a Christmas tree as the cruiser crawled past the house.
Lola appeared with Lilly and Jack at the top of the stairs. “We’re ready.”
“Stay there!” Brad whispered. “Jack, run into your bedroom and see which way that trooper goes.”
The carpet was slipping, and sweat was stinging his eyes, as Jack disappeared. He shuffled beneath the roll and wiped his face with his sleeve.
“They’re gone, Dad,” Jack said.
“You’re sure?”
He nodded. “They turned onto Swanly and took off.”
Brad sighed and looked up at Marcus. “On three we heave it over. Okay, three!”
The hefty roll sailed down the ten-foot drop and landed with an almighty thud on the hall floor.
“What are you going to do about Michaels?” Marcus said, squeezing past Brad and crossing the hall to look through the glass.
“I hadn’t thought so far ahead.” Brad approached the carpet roll to be sure its contents were secure. “Figured I’d bury the crime first, then swing by his house and see what I find.”
“Sounds risky.”
“Just promise me you’ll take care of Lola and the kids if I end up on death row.”
36. RANDALL’S DAY
Monday, 6:22 p.m.
Turning off Fairfield onto Dragon Street, Randall caressed the holes the Fairweather bitch had punched in his scalp as he covered the last hundred yards to Michaels’s warehouse.
It was a good spot, perfect actually. A deserted out-of-town area built over the divergent boundary of tectonic plates. Over the years, the ground had opened and swallowed a few police cruisers, and that made it a no-go for cops.
Michaels had paid nothing for it, being the skinflint he was, but it served them well. The lack of windows made it impossible to see inside unless the metal roller doors were open as they were now. The lights blazing out and reflecting off the wet parking lot made the place look like a football stadium on game night.
Eight men stood in silhouette against the light, their long shadows clawing across the ground. Parked at the side was the buyer’s refrigerated meat wagon.
Randall’s men were easy to identify even in the semidarkness because their jackets weren’t bulging with an arsenal of weapons. Michaels, Castro, and Walton stood beside the heavyset men, no doubt praying that Randall had grabbed the last two brats and saved the day. He didn’t mind admitting he was proud of his mean streak, but he was a pussycat compared to the buyer. The official rumor was that Dimitri, the buyer, had sent a dozen p
eople to the bottom of the Danube wearing concrete boots, and Randall didn’t want to be number thirteen.
He shut off the engine, took a moment to steady his nerves, then stepped out onto the wet concrete and approached until he was looking straight into Dimitri’s dark, sunken eyes. He glanced at the four heavyset thugs flanking him, their lips blue from waiting in the cold. “Evening, Dimitri. Have you loaded the cargo?”
Dimitri held out his hand for Randall to shake.
He took it and winced as the man’s viselike grip cracked his knuckle joints.
“You keep me waiting, Cilcifus! Where is missing two?”
Randall tried to pull his hand free, but the man tightened his grip. “In the trunk.”
Dimitri motioned to a goon on his right. “Sergei!”
Sergei moved to the rear of Randall’s car, opened the trunk, and lifted out the two sedated kids, holding them off the ground like sacks of potatoes. “What you give them?”
“Chloroform.”
“How long?”
“Twenty minutes ago.”
“Humph!” The big one licked his lips. “Fresh meat.”
“Put them in the truck, Sergei,” Dimitri said, releasing Randall’s hand.
The man lumbered out of sight, and a double thud followed.
Randall searched for some sign on Dimitri’s face. “Are we good, then?”
Dimitri stood motionless, staring at him like a bug on the wall, and making Randall shuffle and glance at his posse for support; but Castro and Walton looked ready to piss themselves, and only Michaels appeared unfazed. He faced Dimitri and swallowed hard. “Are we good?”
Without a word, Dimitri strode to the truck, swung open the door, pulled out a dirty black rucksack, and held it out.
Randall inched forward, reached out, took one strap, and tugged; but Dimitri held fast to the other strap. The parking lot swirled as a wave of nausea washed over him, forcing him to close his eyes and take a deep breath. He tugged once more, but the rucksack didn’t budge, and now he was staring into Dimitri’s soulless gaze that seemed hunted by the congregation of lives the man had stolen.