by David Hosp
‘Boys,’ Cormack starts, ‘I appreciate your helping me out with this.’
‘Like we had a fuckin’ choice?’ Slim mumbles.
Cormack looks sharply at him. ‘No man needs to be here. This is a debt of honor from me to this man’s father. If anyone feels their heart isn’t in this, walk out now.’
Slim looks cowed. ‘Sorry, Cormack,’ he says. ‘Didn’t mean nothin’ by it.’
‘Ignore him,’ Eddie Black says with a scowl. ‘His heart is in it, or his heart’ll be floating in the fuckin’ Charles.’
Slim looks down at the floor. Cormack stares at him for another few seconds before moving on. ‘I’ve given you all a little background, and you don’t need much more. Our target goes by the name NetMaster.’
‘Fuckin’ poser,’ Toby Mickrick scoffs.
‘Maybe yes, maybe no,’ Cormack says. ‘I’ve reached out to our people in Rotterdam, and they say he had some juice over there. He was well known as a bit of a psycho and was making a name for himself when his name was Dieter Schlosser.’
‘So why’d he give that up and come here?’ Toby asks.
‘It seems Dieter has a weakness.’
‘Drugs?’
Cormack shakes his head.
‘Women?’
He shakes his head again. ‘Young boys.’
‘Fuck!’ Toby says.
‘Motherfucker,’ Slim agrees.
‘He was dabbling in the sex trade, among other hobbies,’ Cormack says. ‘Moving lots of bodies, most of them young males. It seems one of them got away and made it to the authorities. He told them a whole lot of sick tales about what Dieter liked to do with the young boys.’
‘And the cops chased him out of the country?’ Slim asks.
‘Not really. They played it smarter than that. They simply put the word out among their contacts. The Dutch are an open-minded people, but the majority of the bosses who control things on the dark side of the street still frown on child rape. He was done after that. Changed his name and headed here.’
‘What do you want him for?’ Slim looks at me. ‘You know one of the boys he raped?’
I shake my head. ‘He and his boss killed a woman I knew.’
‘Sounds like a hell of a guy,’ Toby Mickrick says. ‘So what’s the plan?’
‘I’ve got an address in Brighton for him. We’ll watch, and when we see our opportunity, we’ll grab him up. Just understand: we need him alive. Damaged is fine, as long as he can still talk. We’ll take a car and the van. When I call it, we go. Understood?’
Everyone around the circle nods.
‘Good. With luck, we’ll be done with this by dinner.’
NetMaster’s apartment is in a weather-beaten shingled building just off Commonwealth in Brighton. Cormack is in a Caprice Classic parked a block up from the building, and I can see a trail of cigarette smoke twisting from his window. I’m in a solid-bodied white utility van with tinted front windows with the three other men. It’s only seven o’clock when we arrive, but the day is already heating up, and by eight the van is sweltering. The place reeks of sweat and coffee and anticipation. No one talks; the men I’m with are all business, and I can see why Cormack chose them for this job. NetMaster generally gets to the office by nine o’clock, but the entire company is in turmoil, so there’s no telling what his schedule will be like today.
He emerges from the apartment at eight-fifteen, looking tired and slightly disheveled. There’s a bandage over his nose from the shot I gave him the other day, and he has two black eyes. I take some satisfaction in that. ‘That’s him,’ I say.
‘Big fucker,’ Slim comments.
‘Everyone looks big to you,’ Eddie Black growls. I wonder whether he was the one who gave Slim his nickname.
‘Too big to be buggering little boys,’ Toby Mickrick says quietly.
‘Amen to that,’ Eddie agrees.
‘What do we do now?’ I ask. ‘Do we take him?’
‘Not until the Captain gives us the go-ahead.’ Eddie looks out through the darkened windows in the rear door. ‘Too many civilians on the street,’ he says.
Just then the phone in his pocket chirps and Cormack’s voice comes over the walkie-talkie function. ‘Patience now, boys. Let’s follow him.’
I’m expecting NetMaster to climb into his car and head to the office, and I’m worried that we will be sitting in the parking lot all day waiting for him to come out so that we can get another shot at him. He passes his car parked on the street, though, and heads over to a deli. He’s inside for a few minutes, and emerges with a sandwich and a carton of milk. He stands on the corner for a moment, just looking around. A sheen of sweat covers his forehead, and the perspiration is starting to seep through his shirt.
He walks north slowly, away from both his apartment and his car, gets to the corner and heads east. ‘Where’s he going?’ Slim asks me.
‘I have no idea.’
The phone chirps again. ‘I’m going up two blocks to get ahead of him,’ Cormack says. ‘I’ll let you know where to go when he passes.’ Cormack’s car pulls out and rounds the corner around which NetMaster disappeared. We sit in the wheeled sweatbox, choking down unbreathable air. It feels like hours before Cormack chirps in again. ‘He’s staying on Elm,’ he says. ‘I’m parked two blocks up. Pull past me, and park another two blocks further on.’
Eddie Black is sitting in the driver’s seat and he starts the engine.
‘Crank the fuckin’ air conditioning,’ Slim says. Eddie blasts the blower and pulls out. We round the corner and head up the street. We can see the Caprice parked on the right side of Elm Street, the cigarette smoke still wafting from the window. A half a block on from that we see the hulking figure moving his way up the sidewalk. We drive past him and park on the far side of the next block, next to a small park with a circular fountain in the center. ‘He’s coming this way,’ Slim says. I look out the back windows and I can see that if he continues his path, NetMaster will pass within a foot of the van – an easy grab. I look around, and I see several nannies and young mothers sitting on benches in the park, watching over children as they play in the fountain to relieve themselves from the unbearable heat. ‘Still too many people,’ Slim comments.
NetMaster continues up the sidewalk until he’s a half block from the van. There he stops and takes a seat on a bench at the edge of the park. He unwraps his sandwich and puts it on the bench beside him, opens his carton of milk. He stretches his feet out and takes a bite of the sandwich.
‘What the fuck is he doing?’ Eddie asks.
‘Eatin’ his fuckin’ breakfast,’ Slim replies.
The horrid reality hits me. ‘He’s watching the kids,’ I say quietly.
There is silence in the van as the other three men look at NetMaster, following his gaze across the park to the fountain, where a dozen children ranging in age from six to ten are frolicking in the water, jumping and running and laughing. They are in bathing suits, and the water beads on their healthy, tanned skin.
‘Motherfucker!’ Toby grunts. There is real anger in his voice – the kind of personal anger that suggests the scene has hit a nerve with him.
‘Sick bastard,’ Slim agrees.
‘We should take him,’ Toby says.
‘It’s too crowded,’ Eddie says. ‘And the Captain hasn’t given the word.’
‘Motherfucker,’ Toby says again. I can see that every muscle in his body is tight.
Eddie’s phone chirps again. ‘Patience, boys,’ Cormack says. ‘We need to get him alone.’
NetMaster finishes his sandwich, crushes the wrapper into a ball and rolls it onto the ground. He takes a swig of his milk and goes back to his sightseeing. A moment later one of the older kids – probably around ten – shouts something to his friends and steps out of the fountain. He puts on a shirt and his shoes, waves to the others and heads out of the park. He turns onto Elm and starts walking toward the van. No adult accompanies him, which seems odd, but it’s a quiet residential neig
hborhood, and if he’s been playing with his friends it’s not inconceivable that he’s been let out of his apartment without his mother.
I watch NetMaster’s head turn, tracking the boy out of the park. He looks around to see whether any of the nannies or other adults in the park are following the boy, and to see whether anyone is taking notice of his own movements.
‘He’s going after the boy,’ Slim comments.
‘He wouldn’t,’ I say. ‘He’s sick, but he’s smarter than that. There’s too much attention on the people he works with, and it’s too big a risk.’
‘Maybe, maybe not. If he’s really sick, then he may not be acting rationally,’ Slim says. ‘Stress makes people weak. That’s when they’re most likely to act on impulse.’
‘I’ll fuckin’ kill him,’ Toby comments. ‘I don’t care if he’s actually prowlin’, or just lookin’. Run a fuckin’ skewer through his heart.’
‘Still too many people here,’ Eddie says.
The boy is passing the van now, smiling in the carefree way that only a child can smile, full of pure joy. The giant man is twenty feet behind him, still watching the boy.
‘This is bad,’ Eddie comments, looking through his rearview mirror as NetMaster approaches the van.
‘I’m taking him,’ Toby says.
‘The fuck you are!’ Eddie says.
‘Fuck you!’
As though he can sense the tension in the van, Cormack beeps in again. ‘Not yet, boys.’
‘You heard him,’ Eddie says.
‘And I don’t give a fuck.’
NetMaster has passed the van now, and he’s only a few feet away from us. He’s still watching the boy, his lips curled into a twisted smile. He’s so close I can see him swallow and lick his lips.
Toby opens the back door. He’s wearing a wool ski mask rolled up on the top of his head, and he pulls it down in a quick motion to cover his face. He steps out and heads after NetMaster.
‘Get back here!’ Eddie hisses.
Toby continues toward NetMaster. ‘Hey!’ he barks.
Both NetMaster and the boy turn. NetMaster looks mortified that he’s been caught watching the boy, and it takes a moment for him to register the fact that the person who has caught him is wearing a ski mask in eighty-five-degree weather in Boston. By the time he’s processed the absurdity, Toby is on him. He’s carrying a hand-held Taser, and he brings it up into the huge man’s chest. NetMaster gives a gurgling shout and bends at the knees, but doesn’t go down. He brings his fist up, as though he’s going to throw a punch, but Toby hits him with the Taser again and this time he collapses.
I hear shouting from the park, and I turn to see the adults there looking at us, screaming for the police. Cormack buzzes in again. ‘Go!’ he orders. ‘Take him!’
The three of us left in the van pull our own ski masks down. Slim and I leap from the rear of the van and hurry toward Toby. Eddie pulls the van up so that the rear doors are even with the collapsed figure on the sidewalk. It takes all three of us to hoist the huge man and load him into the van, but we manage it in around three seconds. By then, several of the adults from the park are headed in our direction. They’re moving at half-speed, though, their instincts to help fighting their instincts for self-preservation. We hop into the van with our cargo.
‘Go!’ Slim shouts.
Eddie hits the gas and we pull away. As we do, I look out at the young boy standing on the sidewalk. He still hasn’t made a sound; he’s just watched the scene unfold. I wonder whether he understands how close he’s come to an experience that could have destroyed him, and likely left him dead. Probably not.
Toby reaches out to close the rear door and, as he does, he looks at the boy. ‘You owe me one, kid,’ he says.
The door closes, and we are gone.
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
We are back at the warehouse in the naval yard. NetMaster is still unconscious, but now he is tied to one of the chairs, stripped to his underwear, with a pillowcase over his head. A 120-watt spotlight is set on a tripod three feet from him, pointing at his face. Cormack and his three men and I are standing behind the spotlight, still with our masks on. We’ve discussed how the interrogation is going to go, and it’s been made clear to me that I am to keep my mouth shut. That’s fine with me; these men clearly have done this before, and they know what is effective, and what is not. One key, they tell me, is to keep the subject off-balance – to never let him know what information you are actually looking for. Disorientation is a powerful weapon, even with the hardest men.
We’re standing there, watching him, waiting for him to show some signs of consciousness. Eventually his head starts to bob as the fog lifts from him gradually. Just at the moment when it looks like he may be able to keep his head up, Cormack switches on the spotlight, and Toby steps forward and removes the pillowcase.
The effect is dramatic. NetMaster reacts as though he’s been punched in the face. His head pulls back and he tries to raise his arms to ward off the light. His eyes squint shut as he attempts to figure out what’s happening. The noises coming from his throat are pained and unintelligible grunts. He is still not fully conscious, but his body knows enough to recognize the assault on the senses. Toby steps forward again and waves smelling salts under the man’s broken, fleshy, bulbous nose.
Again, the reaction is instantaneous. NetMaster’s head shoots up straight, and his eyes flap open for just a second before slamming shut again when the light hits the pupils. ‘Wat in hemelsnaam?’
Toby steps forward and slams his fist into NetMaster’s nose twice, causing the man to scream out in pain. ‘Stoppen! Wat is er gaande?’
‘Shut the fuck up!’ Toby tells him, punching him in the face one more time, just for good measure.
‘Good morning, Dieter,’ Cormack says. ‘You don’t mind if I call you Dieter, do you? Would that be okay?’
‘Who are you?’ NetMaster demands, switching to his accented English.
Toby hits him again, this time in the cheek, hard enough to knock his great jowly face to the side. ‘Shut up and answer the fuckin’ question!’ Toby yells.
‘Do you mind if I call you Dieter?’ Cormack asks again. ‘It seems so much more personal than NetMaster, don’t you think? And trust me, we are going to get to know you on a very personal level.’
‘Answer!’ Toby screams. He doesn’t hit the man this time, but NetMaster flinches as though he has been hit anyway, letting out an anticipatory shout.
‘Yes, yes! You can call me Dieter!’ As he gets more nervous, NetMaster’s accent becomes more pronounced.
‘Thank you, Dieter,’ Cormack says. ‘This will all go much more quickly if we’re cordial with each other.’ He nods to Slim, and Slim retrieves a rolling table from against the wall. The table has on it a car battery with several wires running off the leads. One runs to a small hand-held dial. Two others run to small metal clips. A fourth ends in a wire loop the diameter of a tennis ball. Slim rolls it up so that it is next to NetMaster, only a couple of feet away, close enough for him to see it. His eyes go wide with fear. ‘You have probably seen something like this before,’ Cormack says. ‘From what we understand, you were pretty tied in back in Amsterdam, and it wouldn’t surprise me if you’d even operated something similar to this yourself.’
NetMaster turns away from the battery and squints into the light. ‘What do you want?’
‘Answers.’
‘About what?’
Cormack gives a low chuckle that sends a chill through my spine. ‘About everything, mate.’
Slim takes one of the wires with the metal clips on it and fastens the clip onto NetMaster’s left nipple. It takes several tries before the clip will stay, and NetMaster twists and struggles to get away, making pained noises as the metal digs into his skin.
He is breathing hard now, and – truth be told – just watching the scene, my heart feels like it may explode. I’ve always thought that I would have excelled as a criminal, but I’m starting to have sec
ond thoughts about that as I watch what these men are willing to do. I suppose it comes with the territory, and I remind myself that they are doing it for my benefit, but it still makes me feel like I may throw up.
Cormack walks over to the table, where NetMaster can see him in his mask. ‘You understand how this works,’ he says. ‘It will be such a relief to work with a professional such as yourself. It should make everything go smoothly.’ He takes the dial at the end of the wire off the table. ‘This controls the voltage. We’ll start with a low setting. Every wrong answer you give, the voltage will go up. Do you understand?’
‘What do you want?’ NetMaster demands. He is trying to seem tough, but his voice breaks, which ruins the effect.
‘Of course you understand.’ Cormack folds his arms. ‘Your name is Dieter Schlosser, correct?’
‘Yes, yes, that is my name.’
‘You are from Amsterdam?’
‘Yes.’ Sweat is pouring off NetMaster’s body now. The cinderblock storage facility has no windows, and no ventilation system that I can identify, so the place has gotten hotter and hotter. ‘From Amsterdam, yes.’
‘Good,’ Cormack says. ‘See how easy these things go when everyone involved is reasonable?’
‘Yes, reasonable,’ NetMaster says. He tries a smile, but it comes to his face as a grimace.
Cormack leans in toward the naked pile of flesh. ‘You were going to rape that little boy earlier, weren’t you?’ he says quietly, as if he’s trying to get NetMaster to share a secret.
‘No, I was just watching!’
Cormack holds up the dial and presses the button, and the current from the car battery travels through the wires into NetMaster’s body via his nipples. His body goes into spasms that I think may break the chair. All of his muscles contract, and the fat on his belly quivers and shakes. Cormack holds the button down for around three seconds and then releases it. The slight sickly-sweet smell of burning flesh hangs in the air. NetMaster’s body goes limp and his head lolls to the side, a long string of spittle going from his lower lip to his chest. He is still conscious, though, and Cormack leans in to whisper into his ear.