by Dan Padavona
“I won’t let you down. I’ll find her.”
“Your ambition is to be commended, but I need you to be a team player. We are too divided, and a nation divided is easily conquered.” He sighed. “War is such dirty business.”
“What if I promised to bring her to you by the end of the week?”
“If you did, you would be making a promise with little hope of fulfilling it. And if you were to fail me again—”
“I wouldn’t.”
“Iowa, Jacob. This is not up for debate. There are others waiting for you there. It’s time that we organize. We still own what we used to call in the field of high finance, first mover advantage. I mean to exploit that advantage and raise an army before there is an enemy to defeat. Do you understand?”
Jacob stared back at Lupan with blank eyes.
“Don’t worry. You will. Eventually, you will have Tori Daniels, and it will be a great victory for all of us when it happens. But for now, you will go to Iowa and join the others who await orders. Do we have an understanding on this Jacob?”
“Yes.”
“I hope we do. I would be very disappointed if you went back on your word. You do not want to disappoint me. So are we in agreement?”
“Yes.”
“A black Mercedes will be waiting for you curbside in front of this courthouse at 7 AM sharp. Not that you need the vehicle’s description, as it will be the only one in Red Oak.”
“Who is the driver?”
“That information is on a need-to-know basis, and you don’t have a need to know. He is a supporter of our cause. There will be many like you in Iowa. I think you will like it there.” Lupan moved his hands through the air, and the candle went out. “And now it is time for me to go. Don’t let me down again, Jacob.”
Lupan and the beast faded into shadow as they passed Jacob through the open door. Jacob felt a frigid breeze on his shoulder, and then the chill of the office was gone, replaced by the stored heat prevalent in all of Red Oak’s buildings. Jacob rushed through the door and found the hallway empty. They were gone.
Impossible.
Jacob’s mouth went dry. He didn’t want to think about a man who could force thoughts into his head or disappear into thin air like a dark magician.
He ran for the exit door and burst onto the courthouse steps.
He didn’t know why it was so important to Lupan that Tori die. But the reasons didn’t matter. Tori belonged to Jacob. He would have her, Iowa or not. He needed to be careful, of course. He couldn’t let Victor Lupan discover he planned to go after Tori. He shuddered to think what Lupan would do to him if he found out Jacob intended to betray him.
Under a twilight sky, he hurried through Red Oak toward Tori’s house, where he would sleep in her bed and breathe of her scent before it evaporated off the blankets. He had come so close to making her his forever.
When he caught her, she would not escape him again.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Mickey's Game
Tori couldn’t see out of her left eye. The purple swelling closed it off. Through her right eye, the room slowly came into focus.
She might have believed the events of the last few days were part of a strange dream, after seeing the familiar orange glow of lamp light flooding the living room. She sat upon an old wooden table chair. A beaten throw rug covered the hardwood flooring in the room’s center. Propped upon an entertainment center in the room’s left corner, a flat-screen television played a DVD of a bloody horror movie she didn’t recognize. In the right corner sat a dormant wood stove and a four-piece set of iron fireplace tools.
Her eyes centered on a toolbox on the floor, propped open a few feet away. It was no ordinary set of tools within the box—no multipurpose Phillips head screwdriver or socket set. But she did see needle-nose pliers, stained by troubling flecks of red. The rest were scalpels, razors, and knives of various shapes. Many of these implements, too, were crimson-streaked.
She uttered a low moan stifled by a gag tied over her mouth. The cloth stretched the corners of her cheeks into a joker’s grin. When she attempted to stand, she found her ankles bound by rope—triple-wrapped from her ankles to her shins, then looped twice around the chair legs. Testing the strength of the loop, she tried to move her legs; the ropes held them tight. Her wrists were similarly bound behind her back, the rope looped through the slotted chair back.
When she attempted to scream, the cloth smothered her voice, as though a pillow was pressed over her mouth.
Tori heard him in another the room. The kitchen? She heard a drawer slide open, followed by the tinkle-rattle of silverware. A cupboard door slammed, followed by the chime-like mixing of spoon and glass. From the kitchen, he hummed and sang giddily, stirring a drink and stomping across the floor. To the old Mickey Mouse Club theme, he sang—
“Who’s the killer of the town that’s known by none but me. M-I-C, K-E-Y…”
More forks and spoons rattling.
She tugged her arms against the rope, straining, eyes bulging, mouth swelled with held air like a puffer fish.
He’s going to kill me.
As Tori bucked her hips out, she discovered a third rope around her waist, binding her to the back of the chair. The chair hopped, and when all four legs came down at once, they made a hollow thud that reverberated through the floorboards.
“M-I-C…see ya real soon. I’m coming to see you. Right after I finish making my tea.”
No. First he is going to cut off a finger or a toe. Then maybe he will fish out an eyeball with one of those curved blades.
Then he’ll kill me.
She wiggled her wrists, and as she tried to slip her hands out of the knot, the rope burned crevices into her skin.
“K-E-Y…Why? Well, who’s gonna stop me?”
Laughter.
Her eyes caught something in the toolbox she had missed before. Under a silver utility knife, shriveled up like a carrot left to wither in the sun, lay a blood-crusted pinky finger.
Tori screamed, and the gag swallowed the scream.
The sky was alight in a sea of starlight sparks, as though a match had been struck against the heavens. When Blake regained consciousness, his first impression was that he was dead and that heaven was a faraway galaxy where he would drift eternally. He lay spread-eagle in the parking lot, arms stretched wide as though making snow angels.
Tori. Where is she?
The bullet Mickey thought had killed Blake had only knocked him unconscious, grazing his forehead. He tried to sit up too quickly. His head swam heavy, leaden. Rolling onto his hands and knees, he waited out a bout of dizziness. He pulled himself up onto shaking legs, surveying the travel plaza lot. The sky was dark with no hint of departing or arriving sunlight on either horizon. It was late. Other than that, he had no idea what time it was or how long he had lain asleep. Tori’s Civic, silvery in the moonlight, sat to his right.
Stumbling toward the Civic, he pulled the car door open and slipped inside. The keys hung from the ignition.
“Please start. Just this one time.”
He turned the key, and the motor purred to life.
Blake pulled out of the parking lot, the car lights turned off so he didn’t attract attention. He barely discerned the shadowy decline of the exit ramp, and when the Civic jolted over a pothole, he was sure the car had drifted off-road into a ditch. Coasting to the rural intersection, he turned left, passing the dark shell of a Burger King on his left and a rectangular diner on his right. As he inched toward the sleepy graveyard of a village at the base of the hill, he remembered.
I’ve got a little ranch on the west side of the village.
But Blake didn’t need that tidbit of information, for Tori’s hidden location screamed to him like the baying of wolves.
Blake edged down on the accelerator. The Civic was a shadow among shadows, idling south toward a one-horse town with one block of commerce. Houses of pre-1960s construction stood erected within the square perimeter of the tiny village’s
borders.
In the darkness, he couldn’t read the welcome sign at the edge of the village. But the town name didn’t matter to him. All that mattered was he find Tori. At the corner of the main intersection, with a five and dime to his left and a desolate shoe store visible through the passenger side window, he turned west under a dead traffic light.
He came to save Tori and to kill Mickey.
Mickey’s house wasn’t difficult to locate. There existed no more than a few dozen houses scattered along an unmarked gravel road beyond the village’s western border. Only one house—a gray-sided ranch perched upon a sheer rise, fifty yards west of the gravel road—glowed incandescent yellow through the window panes.
But Blake could have found Tori with or without the lights of Mickey’s house to direct him. He felt her in the night, drawing him around corners and through intersections, pulling him toward her. He shook his head, recalling his panic when Tori’s vehicle had closed in on the travel center. It was as if he had known danger awaited them, just as he now sensed Tori’s location in the shadowy maze of village roads. Am I going insane?
Before reaching the gravel road, Blake pulled the Civic to the curb and tucked the car behind a 4x4 truck. He rolled down the window, shutting off the engine so nothing came between him and the sounds of the night. A chorus of crickets swelled out of the rural west. Quietly, he opened the car door and slipped behind the bumper of the 4x4, listening. Craning his neck around the passenger side bumper, he saw nothing but cement squares of sidewalk leading out of the village. At the intersection, where the gravel road began, a jungle of tall grass replaced the sidewalk, growing westward along a dirt road that bisected the gravel. Heart pounding, he ran with his head lowered, ducking beneath a train of vehicles along the right curb. Then, when he had reached the intersection, he rushed from behind the vehicles, crossing the gravel road and slipping unseen—he hoped—into the meadow grass.
Snap-snap.
Mickey snapped his fingers, and Tori’s eyes opened to narrow slits.
“There you are. I was afraid you were going to sleep all night and miss out on the fun.”
Mickey’s face came slowly into focus. His grin spread from one end of his face to the other, showing his pearly-white teeth.
“You must have passed out while I was making tea.”
Mickey untied the gag from behind Tori’s head and let it drop away. He lifted the mug to her lips, raising his eyebrows as he offered her a sip. She pursed her lips and twisted her head away.
“No?” He looked between the mug and her face. “Green tea is one of the best teas you can drink. Didn’t anyone ever tell you? The Chinese think it is the secret to a long, healthy life. I happen to agree with the little bastards. Did you know that the Chinese, despite having one of the most backward-thinking governments in the modern world, have one of the highest life expectancies? No? It’s true. Well, what’s left of them, that is. Tea antioxidants fight cancer, keep your skin looking young—and you do have beautiful skin, I must say—and prevent heart disease. Really. I drink seven, eight, nine cups a day.”
He pushed the mug to her lips. Tori twisted her head in the opposite direction.
“Oh, I get it. You probably think I put something in the tea. Now why would I do such a thing? If I wanted to kill you,” he said, grabbing a surgical scalpel and holding it before her face. “I wouldn’t need to poison your drink. Besides, poisoning tea would be bad karma. Now, would you like a sip of my tea, or would prefer to die of thirst?”
She watched him through the slits of her eyes. When he pressed the rim to her lips, she nodded. As Mickey tipped the mug, she sipped the tea. He lowered the mug, pleased with himself.
“It’s good, isn’t it? Loose leaf tea—that’s the secret. Not tea bags. That garbage you buy off the shelf at the local Wal-Mart doesn’t have half the taste or benefits of the real deal.” He set the mug next to the toolbox. Tori’s eyes fell over the severed finger again. She squealed. Tears rolled down her cheeks.
Following Tori’s line of vision, Mickey threw his head back and smiled.
“I see you’ve met Jillian. Such a pretty girl. Not as pretty as you, though.” He placed his fingers under her chin, steering her face to look into his. “That’s it. Don’t look at Jillian. Look at me. We’re going to play a little game tonight. But before we begin our game, I need you to tell me your name. And no lies. I will know if you are lying. Are you ready to play?”
Tori shook her head.
“That’s a shame. Jillian didn’t want to play either. You don’t want to be a loser like Jillian, do you?” Mickey propped his hands on the chair arms and leaned forward on his knees, leering over her. With his teeth bared, he looked like a panther ready to pounce. “Tell me your name, pretty one.”
“No,” Tori said.
“No?” Anger flashed across Mickey’s face and drained away, replaced by a look of amusement that frightened Tori even more. Insanity lurked within his eyes. “Did you really say ‘no’ to me? That won’t do. Don’t worry. I’m not angry. I understand that you’re just a little tired and confused. You probably haven’t eaten in hours, and your head isn’t right.”
Mickey reached into the toolbox and snared the severed appendage between his thumb and forefinger. Grinning, he pushed the finger toward her lips. Tori sobbed, twisting her head away.
“Tell me your name, or I will feed Jillian to you.” He crawled up into her lap. She felt his hot breath on her neck. As she twisted to the side, trying to ward him off but helpless to do so, he buried his nose into her neck. He inhaled deeply. “Such a pretty girl,” he whispered.
He grasped her shoulders and plunged his tongue into her ear. He licked across her ear, submerging his tongue deep into her ear lobe, as though he wished to taste her brain matter. As he licked and probed, he moaned. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw his hand groping inside his pants. She cried, begging him to stop. With his free hand, he dug his fingers up and down her legs, moving between her thighs.
When he finally ceased, a filthy wetness muted the hearing of her ear, as though she had been swimming in swamp waters. He leaned back, kneeling on the floor in front of her.
“Shall we try this again? Or shall I sample…other portions of you?”
Her eyes, swollen and watery, met his. “Fine. My name is Melanie.”
“Liar.” He slapped her hard. Her ears rang, and her face stung with a thousand bee stings. “Tell me your name. So help me, if you lie to me again, I will hurt you in ways that you cannot imagine.” He grasped the scalpel. As she watched with full moons for eyes, he sliced a long, deep groove into the severed finger.
Tori leaned over and gagged, spittle extending from her chin to her lap, like a liquid rope. “Fine. Just stop, okay? I’m Tori. My name is Tori.”
He lunged at her. His hands gripped her thighs. His face was inches away, his eyes searching hers. “You’re telling the truth, aren’t you? Why, yes. Yes. I can see that you are.” He pressed his lips to hers, and as the tip of his tongue prodded for her mouth, she clamped her lips together.
“Stop.”
His tongue ran along her parched lips. “I like it when you are honest with me, Tori. Because when you aren’t—”
He put the scalpel in the corner of her eye and began tracing a circle in the air just outside her cornea. Suddenly he stood up. He smiled, as though he was acknowledging a neighbor who had come out into the driveway to pick up the Sunday paper.
“How about something to eat, Tori? I could sure go for a snack.” Before Mickey bounced off to the kitchen, he placed Jillian’s finger on Tori’s bare thigh. “You two keep each other company. I’ll be right back.”
As Tori screamed, Mickey screamed, too. His cry trailed off into the kitchen, like a runaway train going off its tracks.
Blake panicked upon hearing Tori’s scream. When he heard Mickey scream, his skin erupted with goosebumps, as though a swarm of spiders crawled across his flesh. I’m too late, he thought.
Crou
ched in the meadow just beyond Mickey’s property line, Blake parted the grass. Light spilled out from the ranch, illuminating a short, wooden deck and a row of bushes along the front of the house. He didn’t detect movement within the front room. If Mickey killed Tori—
Don’t think that.
Along the right side of the house, a spectral shadow moved across the grass. Blake lowered his head, listening, hearing only night sounds. Staying below the tips of the meadow weeds, Blake crept toward the ranch for a closer look. An owl hooted. He froze.
The stars and moon seemed impossibly bright, illuminating the meadow as though spotlights were following him from above.
A man’s face drifted past the ranch’s side window.
Mickey.
Mickey moved back and forth through his kitchen. He grinned wide while opening and closing cupboards like a man gathering snacks to entertain a few friends. He carried a tea kettle across the room and placed it on an electric stove burner. He twisted a knob, and a red, fleshy glow radiated out from under the kettle. Mickey turned toward the front room and stopped. Suddenly his head turned toward the window.
Blake ducked down.
It’s too dark outside. Mickey can’t see me.
Can he?
The grin was gone from Mickey’s face. In its place was a burning hate.
He knows I’m here.
Mickey stepped toward the window. The kitchen lighting washed over his scalp and died at the cliff of his forehead. Shadows encircled his eyes, giving the impression of hollow sockets on a fleshless skull. Blake shivered, fading back into the meadow. The right side of Mickey’s face curled into a half-grin, and then he turned away from the window and disappeared down a hallway.
Blake exhaled, unaware he was holding his breath. As his head swam with oxygen, black spots gathered in his eyes, like buzzing bees.
Praying he was not too late to save Tori, he threw his fear aside and ran out of the meadow’s concealment. He climbed the embankment at the edge of Mickey’s property, his sneakers slipping on dewy grass.