THE CHARM OF REVENGE

by Tom Secret

  Oswald’s arms unfolded and dropped to his sides. “I want twenty.”

  “Fifteen’s my limit.” Fool.

  “Ha, done!”

  Randall smiled. “Good.”

  “Hang on.” Oswald frowned. “What if Snyderman refuses?”

  “I’m sure you’ll think of a way to persuade him.”

  “Okay, but what if we don’t see the kids or Fairweather’s there?”

  Randall looked out the window at the gathering storm. “That pervert in Child Protective Services—what was his name?”

  “That injured the stock?”

  “Hmm, he still owes us for that.”

  “Gary Clairmont it was, but he’s doing time for abuse.”

  “Fuck.” Randall rubbed his eyes.

  “But Sylvia and that guy Barislov are still there.”

  “In that case, if the little shits aren’t at school tomorrow, tell Barislov to visit Fairweather’s house and take them into protective custody. Tell him to call Judge Seymour to get it signed off.”

  “Do I still get the fifteen if Barislov goes?”

  “Yes Oswald, you’ll get fifteen.” Lashes. “Happy now?”

  “Wilco, boss!”

  “Will what?”

  “It’s pilot speak for ‘will comply.’”

  “Well, pack it up. You sound like a faggot. Remember, Michaels is using the Dragon Street warehouse now, so take the kids there. The judge wants a bit of slap and tickle tomorrow night.”

  43. SCHOOL

  Wednesday, 11:15 a.m.

  Brad stood holding the breakfast tray, watching Lola sleep fitfully beneath the heavy duvet. Whimpers escaped her lips as her head rocked from side to side rippling her hair. She needed to rest, but would never forgive him if he went ahead without consulting her. He placed the tray beside her and perched on the edge of the bed, stroking her undamaged cheek with the back of his fingers until her eyes opened. “Hey, Babe, I brought you breakfast.”

  Lola blinked, pushed herself up and shuffled back against the headboard. Her eyes took in the breakfast then settled on Brad. “Coffee,” she croaked.

  Brad poured a cup. “How do you feel?”

  “Like I killed someone.”

  “Do you feel… different?”

  “I was protecting my children. Any mother would have done the same.”

  Brad added cream, sugar and stirred. “You were very brave, fighting off those men.”

  “Jack was brave, I was pissed.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.” He tried to smile as he passed her the cup. “We need to talk about the kids.”

  Lola put the cup aside and stared out the window, but said nothing.

  “Dad says we should take them to school tomorrow.”

  Tears welled in her eyes. “Why?”

  “To not draw attention, and to keep them occupied, so they move past… what happened.”

  Lola shook her head, releasing the tears. “Where are they?”

  “Playing shoot-em-up.”

  “Are they… different?” She pulled on her fingernails.

  “Probably still in shock. Sometimes it delays the reaction, and children are better at letting the subconscious deal with trauma.”

  “No.”

  “They are, it’s a well-known—”

  Lola shook her head again. “No school.”

  Brad took her hands, but she pulled them away, making his heart pang. “They can’t stay here forever, Babe, and if we keep them away, the school will ask questions. If that Cilcifus has reported it, any change in our routine will sink us.”

  “They’re staying here, where I can protect them.”

  “For how long, a day? Two? Three? Or until Child Services turns up at our house and we’re not there, so they call the police and put us in a mess we can’t crawl out from.”

  “What do you call this?”

  “Sweetheart, we’re just trying to keep this contained.” He retook her hands.

  Lola pulled them back and shrank into the bed. “Who will take them?”

  “Dad and I will take turns.”

  Lola searched his eyes. “Promise me you’ll protect them?”

  Brad reached for her hands again, hoping he could keep them this time. “I don’t think we can go back to the house for a while, but I’ll swing by later and pick up more clothes.”

  “Promise me, Brad!”

  “I don’t know an alternative that won’t bring more trouble for us.”

  “You mean for me.”

  He let her hands go. “We’re in this together, remember? It’s us against them, but I need to find out who’s behind it.”

  “I’ve told you all along; those investors,” Lola hissed.

  “I know, and I’m sorry I didn’t listen, but I’ll find them now, I swear.”

  “What if the children say… something, in school?”

  “I’ll speak to them, and then we need to pray they don’t.”

  Lola turned her face toward the darkening sky. “You don’t believe in prayer anymore. So, what happens if they try to retake them?”

  “They’d be crazy to try anything at school; besides, one of us will be there waiting when they come out.”

  Brad followed her gaze across the bare treetops. He wanted to take her in his arms, hold her close, and make her pain go away. “Babe, I promise we will get through this.”

  Lola gave him a look that sent a shudder down his spine.

  “Brad… I want to kill them all!”

  44. HELLO COWBOY

  Thursday, 1:55 p.m.

  Brad squeaked the brakes of his pickup and crawled past Walton’s house, already confident that the silver Lexus on the driveway and slightly open living room window had told him what he needed to know. He squeezed the gas and took the second left, first right, then cruised until he found an unmetered parking zone and pulled up beneath a row of gnarled old oak trees. The street was clear except for the solitary old lady in a brown coat across the street, clinging to the lead of her poodle as she dodged the potholes and swiped trash aside with her cane.

  Grabbing his old medical bag from the backseat, he flicked up the collar of the raincoat, donned his gloves, and plucked up the smart gray trilby his father had given him. He held the hat down until he was a hundred paces from the truck, then slipped it on and tugged the brim, so it concealed his eyes. Pace steady, taking care not to swing the bag and draw attention, he retraced the route to Walton’s house. To anyone watching, he was just a doctor on call.

  Almost there, he stole a glance around, unclipped the latch on his bag, reached inside, and flicked the switch on one of the two Tasers he had purchased en route. He walked on to Walton’s driveway as if it were the most natural thing in the world, casually approached the front door, grabbed the snout of the boar’s head knocker, pounded twice, and withdrew the Taser from the bag.

  As the footsteps approached, he kept his head down so the trilby would obscure his face, and hoped Walton wouldn’t spook.

  Walton swung the door wide open. “Howdy, partner!”

  “Hello, Walton.” Brad squeezed the trigger and stepped forward to shove him clear of the door as the man’s face contorted and he collapsed with a thud.

  Brad closed the door and peeped through the glass at the lifeless street. Straining his ears he tried to detect movement within the house, but the only sound was his heart pounding in his chest, and echo thumping in his ears.

  Stowing the Taser in the medical bag, he removed two plastic ties and a cloth, flipped Walton onto his front, and crouched beside the twitching body. A minute later, he had the man trussed and gagged.

  Breathing hard, Brad clambered to his feet, slid the chain on the door, then straightened his coat and hat, collected his bag, and went through the house, checking each room, like a doctor looking for a misplaced patient.

  The sunny kitchen at the back of the ground floor had cream cupboards and a snazzy round central island unit. At the rear, a door led to a small bedroom with e
n-suite bathroom, and decorations that were straight out of Bates Motel. The bed had a faded flowery comforter draped over it; in the corner, beside the matching curtains, were a lime-green chair and a bedside table. Perfect, Brad thought as he placed his bag on the comforter, closed the curtains, and returned to Walton, now wide-eyed and writhing on the floor.

  Brad crouched and withdrew a needle from his jacket. Holding it up so Walton could see, he removed the green protective sleeve.

  “Hello, Walton. Remember me?”

  Walton thrashed and kicked against his restraints.

  “I thought so. Now, I will take you to the back room where we can have a private chat; the question is, are you going to play nice, or do we need a little sodium thiopental?”

  Walton’s pupils dilated as he focused on the needle and made a puzzled noise.

  “Sorry, where are my manners! It’s a drug administered on death row.” Brad squirted a thin jet of fluid into the air as Walton squirmed and thrashed backward. “Okay, needle it is!” He jabbed it into Walton’s thigh, depressed the plunger, and replaced the sleeve as the fast-acting anesthetic coursed through the veins.

  45. NO SWEET GOOD-BYE

  Thursday, 2:10 p.m.

  Ten minutes later, Brad sat on the edge of the bed and watched Walton’s eyes open, and his pupils dilate, as the drug-induced fog lifted and he found himself gagged and taped to the chair.

  “Welcome back, Walton.” Brad picked up the needle off the bedside table and recharged it. “Sorry, I didn’t give you much, but your leg will sting a little. This stuff is meant for intravenous injection, but you were thrashing about like a lunatic. I will take your gag out now so we can talk, but any screaming, I’ll stick you again, and this dose will kill you. Blink twice if you understand.”

  Walton blinked. Brad leaned forward and snatched the gag away.

  “You fucking fucker! I’ll fucking—”

  Brad lunged forward and jabbed the needle into the skin at Walton’s jugular vein. “Last chance.”

  “Okay, okay.” Walton grimaced. “What the fuck you doing!”

  “No swearing, please, Walton. It’s offensive and makes you sound like a hoodlum.”

  “What… are you doing here?”

  “Alright, I can see you want to dispense with the pleasantries, so let’s start by you telling me who Cilcifus is and why was he trying to steal my children?”

  “Go fuck yourself, Fairweather!”

  Brad drove the two-inch needle into the muscle above Walton’s knee.

  “Ow! That fucking hurts!”

  Brad left the needle sticking in Walton’s thigh and leaned back. “You know, my father’s a huge trivia fan, but he abhors swearing. I don’t much care for either myself, but to lighten the mood I’ll share a trivia fact with you. Did you know, doctors administer sodium thiopental in small doses during childbirth? In larger doses, it acts as a truth serum, and in a large dose, such as we have in this syringe, is a lethal injection used on death row? Kind of a cradle-to-grave product, you might say.”

  Walton’s eyes flashed to the surgical instruments shining in the open med bag. “How do you know this shit?”

  Brad ignored him and partially depressed the plunger. “Okay, Walton, you’ll feel hyper in a few moments, so before we get to the meat, I’ll ask you again; who’s Cilcifus?”

  “Whoa! Okay, man! Easy. Cilcifus, yeah. Works for the IRS, Special Investigations Division.”

  “What did they want with my children?”

  “Needed to complete an order. He… I mean, Cilcifus, chose you, man.”

  “An order for what? You said he’s IRS.”

  “Sex slaves, man!”

  Brad felt the blood drain from his face. The one at the house had told Lola the truth. “Why! Why us?”

  Walton’s eyes glazed as the injection took effect. Brad kicked his shin. “Why, Walton?”

  “Ah, who cares?”

  Brad grabbed the syringe and shoved the needle deeper into the muscle.

  “Ow! Shit, man! Cilcifus has a thing for you, all right?”

  “Thing? What thing?”

  “Like a grudge, dude, only his is, like, eating him alive. That’s why him and Black hit it off. They’re, like, your fan club, except Cilcifus, needs help. I told him only last week. I said, ‘Man, you—’”

  “Shut up!” Brad pressed his thumb and forefinger against his eyes. “You said, Black.”

  “Sure. Black’s the banker to all the IRS gangs.”

  Brad rose and paced the tiny room. “Damian Black?”

  “Dude, why are you repeating yourself, I’m the one you stuck with magic juice. Shit, I feel weird.”

  “You’d better start talking!”

  Walton blinked. “Talk, shut up, talk, make your mind up will you? Anyway, what’s there to tell? Cilcifus and his cronies buy kids from South American cartels, and I sell them and keep the accounts. It’s dead simple. Most of the buyers are Eastern European brothel owners, and they collect them from Michaels, who warehouses them.”

  “What about Black?”

  “He launders money and invests it for the gangs. Did I mention Michaels hates your guts, too; but he’s just vindictive. Black set you up though. That’s why he didn’t invest that second round in Revolution, ’cause he knew Michaels would go bat-shit crazy when he lost his money. Whoa, I feel funny! Oh, and Cilcifus pimps them out in between—before the buyers pick them up, I mean. He’s connected, man. I don’t mean connected like Black. Black’s like the Godfather, but Cilcifus, shit, he knows everyone.”

  “Who’s everyone?” Brad sat back down on the bed, facing Walton.

  “Man, everyone is everyone, least everyone sick and bent!”

  “I said who!” Brad yanked the needle sideways.

  “Ow, ow! Easy dude! Cops, politicians, lawyers, judges, organized crime, child services—you name it.”

  Brad let go the plunger and sat back.

  Walton stared at the needle in his thigh. “What are you doing, man?”

  “Shut your mouth!” Brad tried to fit the pieces of the past seven years into what he’d just heard. “You killed my daughter, Walton.”

  “Do what! I never met your daughter!”

  “You made us homeless.”

  “How is that my fault?”

  “You were Revolution’s head of accounts. You lied about the figures, then joined Black and Michaels in their lawsuit against me!”

  “So what? Gimme a fuckin’ break? Black wanted your head on a spike no matter what you did with that piss-pot company, and I work for Black.”

  “Why? I took it from losing a hundred and twenty-five K a month, to making fifty-five K a month before I had to close it for lack of stock. I could have got money from any VC firm if you’d told me we were in profit. It would be worth a fortune by now!”

  Walton shook his head. “You’re so naive, dude, we make that in a week. Black probably makes it in a day. Nobody gave a toss about Revolution. You were Black’s pawn to get at your father, and he saw a way to use you when your mama introduced us to invest. Dumb bitch didn’t have a clue what she’d done. But you found out, didn’t you? I heard she blew her brains out afterward. ‘Course, all of them thought your kid dying was a bonus.”

  “A bonus!”

  “Chill out! You still got two kids, don’t you? Not that you’ll keep them long if Cilcifus and Michaels have anything to do with it; they’ll have pimped them out already if I know those two. Judge Seymour likes fresh meat. Partial myself, come to that!”

  Brad reached forward and grabbed the syringe.

  His jacket buzzed behind him. He hesitated thumb on the plunger, but something was urging him to take the call.

  He pulled out the phone. “Dad… Dad, calm down, I can’t understand what you’re saying. The school said what?”

  46. LIVER MORTIS

  Thursday, 8:20 p.m.

  Donatello flashed his badge and ducked under the crime scene tape stretched across the driveway entrance. St
riding past the silver Lexus, he offered a perfunctory smile to the officer guarding the front door, then headed down the hallway, toward the voices.

  He pushed the swing door into the kitchen and was almost blinded by the camera flash. As the white spots faded from his eyes, he took in the object of the snapper’s focus: on the cream circular island unit, an oval chopping board; in the middle, impaled by a black-handled kitchen knife, was a whole fresh liver.

  The shutterbug continued to snap away as Donatello scanned the scene, noting the detail and position of everything in the room. Through the door on the other side of the kitchen, a gaggle of uniforms in the bedroom annex muttered in hushed tones while barring entry to what he guessed was an en-suite bathroom.

  Donatello hesitated. He should see what they were seeing, speak to the medical examiner, and prepare to direct his team. But somehow, after Inspector Wilkes’s little speech, his heart just wasn’t in it. He looked at the cutting board, at the nonchalant photographer and the unperturbed uniforms doing a grim job on another brutal day, as the reality dawned that he needed to escape this hell on earth. “Has Captain Colby been here?”

  Snappy looked up from his viewfinder. “Haven’t seen him, Detective.”

  “And the M.E.?”

  The man pointed his latex-clad finger at the uniforms.

  “Thanks.” Donatello forced himself to enter the bedroom, stood for a moment scanning the details, then shuffled sideways through the uniforms, into the bathroom.

  Inside, he recognized the round, shiny bald patch on the man crouched over the bathtub. Steve, the M.E., was inspecting the crude stitching of a foot-long gash below the rib cage of the naked man in the tub.

  One arm dangled over the side, with a plastic crime-scene bag over the hand, tied off at the wrist. The other arm rested on the far edge of the tub, against the wall. That bag contained water droplets, so the hand must have been submerged.

  Donatello looked between the officers back into the bedroom, confirming his initial observation. There was no sign of the victim’s clothes except for a cowboy hat in the middle of the bed.

  With his nose just inches from the wound, Steve peered through his half-moon spectacles and plucked something with the tweezers. “Got it!” He turned, grinning as he displayed his find to the expectant officers. “Oh! Hi, Lieutenant! Didn’t hear you come in.”