Proportionate Response

by Dave Buschi

  Early on that fact had eaten at him like a cancer. Knowledge was power. Rudnitsky did not like being in a position of weakness. For a brief period he’d made considerable efforts to find out more information about Client 487, but those efforts had prompted a swift rebuke.

  Cease and desist, or toss in your lot with that of Yaponchik. You will not be given another warning.

  Against type, Rudnitsky had weighed the warning and obliged. Obliging was not in his nature. Rudnitsky had an obdurate personality. He did not take no for an answer and he did not take rebukes kindly, but in this case he weighed the alternative.

  Yaponchik was one of his counterparts. Once a powerful vor v zakone, his outfit had disintegrated almost overnight. The man was currently in jail in the US awaiting sentencing. Twelve hours after Rudnitsky received that warning from Client 487, he also received news of Yaponchik’s premature demise. He was informed by an associate. The news was only an hour old. Yaponchik was killed while inside. A shiv in the heart from a fellow inmate.

  Coincidence? Rudnitsky thought not. Prudently, he made a decision then. He was an American now, and like they said here, don’t look a gift horse in the mouth.

  AS Rudnitsky read the dossiers, he fingered one of the cast-iron figurines on his desk. It was an ode to Thánatos, the deity of Death, son of Nyx and Erebos. Nyx, as in Night, and Erebos, as in Darkness.

  Rudnitsky ran his fingers along the cold metal. It had good heft. No burrs. The metalsmith had ground it smooth. It made a good prop on occasion. His camera man could take anything and turn it into supreme art.

  Such a gift.

  Rudnitsky rubbed the figurine against his scars where his ear had once been; even years later they never ceased to itch. He listened to the message again.

  Their location cannot be verified at this time. We will send you their location shortly.

  Curious. He wondered why Client 487 was so slow with the information. Normally they were quicker. This time not so much. Not that it mattered; he would wait. The marker was still in play.

  Marion Taylor. It was a name, which meant nothing to him. Just like Leonard Markston and Thomas Lipkin. From what he’d heard ‘Marion’ wasn’t young, or like the usual does, but it was what Client 487 had requested.

  Their requests could be unusual, but not this time. It was a simple job. Or at least it had appeared that way at first. A mistake, which would not happen again.

  Rudnitsky did not like losing men. Next time there would be no mistakes. He was very clear with his men. They were like his children. You love them, but must be strict. No mistakes. No second chances. Do this one right.

  The woman had two friends, an ambál—strong and stout—and a soft-faced kozël. Their dossiers, which he’d skimmed just now, were impressive, but also moot. Their remaining time on this earth was to be brief. Not so for the woman, however. For her there were other plans. He hadn’t relayed all the instructions to his men; not yet. The last part he’d savored and kept to himself. It would be another masterpiece, he suspected.

  The client had given specific instructions.

  They’d requested Monster.

  29

  SNOOKS had two barns on her property. Lip drove past the first, which was a newer structure, one of those metal modular structures that looked like a small airplane hangar. There was farm equipment just visible inside. The second barn was further from the house. It was about three quarters a mile down a road that was more grass than gravel. They mowed down the tallest stalks like a combine harvester. Lip kept it slow. All they had were their headlights. There was no moon. Darks shapes in the sky hid the stars.

  In the country, far from the city lights, night was complete. So deep it seemed to swallow you, just like the ruts kept trying to do to their tires. Lip did a good job preventing them from getting hung up. They rode the swells like a skiff on rough water.

  As they got closer to the barn, the road seemed to even out. The terrain became less ragged. The barn was in a fallow. Uncultivated fields stretched on either side. The barn was falling apart. Marks and Lip had been here before, about eight years ago.

  Time collapsed. It didn’t feel that long ago.

  Snooks had always owned this property. It had been passed down from her grandmother. The same woman that raised her. The barn hadn’t been used for sixty plus years. It looked like a good gust of wind would push it over. Somehow though, it stayed up, hanging on. Hadn’t changed at all since they’d seen it last. Still hanging on. The paint on the boards was long gone. The roof, a rusty metal relic, was still there. The big doors hadn’t fallen off, yet.

  Lip parked in front of the opening. The headlights raked the decomposing interior. It was a gloomy forlorn sight. The barn’s floor was hardened red clay. Some weeds, but mostly bare. There were timbers leaning and roof supports hanging down. Cobwebs were thick. Something black flew out a broken window.

  “Bat,” Lip said.

  “Why don’t you one eighty it,” Marks said. “We’ll drop him and then you can swing back around.”

  Lip put it in reverse and did a three-point maneuver. He backed up to the open doors and eased into the barn. There was just enough clearance for the car to fit. He went in deep enough so their doors would open, put it in Park and clicked the trunk. He left the car running.

  They stepped out. The purr of the engine and thrumming of crickets receded as they walked around to the rear. Marks opened the trunk. The cargo lights seemed harsh and unnaturally bright.

  There he was, trussed up, gagged and blindfolded.

  “Hello Vlad.”

  They surveyed the damage. The man was covered with blood. Most of it had dried, but some was glistening and very shiny, redder than red, and then darker in spots. It covered his shirt, neck, and was all around his broken nose.

  “Ready?” Marks said.

  Lip nodded.

  They pulled him out.

  “Sonofabitch!” Lip said.

  It wasn’t easy with him being in the trunk, but they managed it. Got him out without him hanging up on the edge of the trunk. They put him down on the hard ground.

  There was a grunt. Man was still alive. Tough SOB. Must have been like being in a commercial dryer when they’d bounced up and down, driving those roads. Saved them the effort of having to soften the man up themselves.

  Lip went back in the car and did another one eighty. The headlights made it daytime again. He turned the car off, but left the lights on. He pulled out a duffel bag and looked at Marks.

  “Let’s do it.”

  30

  MARKS retrieved a knife from the duffel bag. It was a Strider framelock folding knife with a titanium frame handle. He locked the four inch blade in place and used it to cut the duct tape.

  Man was like a spring. Once the tape connecting the ankles and wrists was sawed through, the man’s legs popped forward. They jerked spasmodically. Took a moment for him to settle down. He was like a big fish, flopping there. His wrists and ankles were still bound.

  Next, Marks ripped the tape off the man’s mouth. The man gasped. Spittle, drool and stringy blood. No words, just gasping. Like a fish, opening its gills, trying to breath in a boat.

  Lastly, Marks ripped off the makeshift blindfold. There was bloody goo all around the man’s nose. His nose must have broken when he’d been rolling around. Imagined it would have been hard to breathe with that blood in the nostrils. He was surprised the man was alive at all. Must have been hypoxic. Trying to suck in oxygen through a broken nose would be like trying to get air through a folded straw.

  Reminder time. Marks went back to what Lip had told him. This man had done things to kids. Bad things.

  He thought of one in particular. The last one Lip read before Marks had him stop. It was a very detailed report. It involved young girls and Vlad.

  Seemed back in Lyubertsy, a small town outside Moscow, Vlad had been brought up on charges from his girlfriend. She’d had a daughter who was eleven years old. She, along with several other girls, w
ere abused over a protracted period. The daughter’s mother had overcome her fears and managed to escape Vlad’s horror show with her daughter in tow.

  She’d revealed details to the authorities, which were written up in the reports. There was an investigation and evidence was found. Two girls, partially decomposed, were discovered behind Vlad’s residence, buried in shallow graves under pallets of firewood. Based on the forensic write-up, they had been killed a few months prior, after suffering injuries first. Neither were identified. There were blood-stained clothing remnants in the house, which appeared to be more recent. The blood didn’t match the DNA taken from the dead girls, nor from the woman’s daughter. Her blood was found elsewhere, on stained sheets.

  The woman’s daughter had been sexually abused. There were vaginal and rectal tears present and she’d suffered internal bleeding. The bruising on her arms, wrists and legs—some new, some older—indicated she’d been bound more than once. According to the mother, Vlad had tied her daughter to the bed where the blood-stained sheets were found.

  In another room were found certain bizarre medieval looking contraptions. These had been used on previous occasions on the mother for punishment purposes. There was other evidence.

  In the records, Vlad claimed to have no knowledge of any of it, including the dead girls. He had alibis. Wasn’t living at the house at the time. People to vouch for him, who swore he was somewhere else for all the dates in question. It was just the woman’s word against his.

  There was another file; a separate file, included in the reports. The dates were less than two weeks apart. It involved another homicide case. It seemed that during the time the first investigation was being done, the former girlfriend (the same one who’d pressed charges) was found dead. Someone had tied her up and gone at her with a welding torch.

  The medical examiner’s notations were included. The person apparently took his time. She’d suffered for hours. Passing out, coming to, according to the reports; the extent of the burns and depth of the charring was described and illustrated in gruesome detail.

  There were notations and photographs. Vlad was the primary suspect. But again, no charges were filed against him. Both cases were subsequently closed. No notations, no explanations.

  Man walked scot-free. Justice glasnost style. This in the new Russia. Was like the Wild West. Money talked, people walked.

  Marks and Lip had had conversations with some of their peers across the big pond, certain folks that were part of the underground establishment. Many of them didn’t like it either. Corruption and crime were a way of life over there. The worst imaginable things lived and breathed in dark places, and sometimes, like in Vlad’s case, wide out in the open.

  MARKS waited till the man’s eyes adjusted. The pupils, those black dots, constricted into pinholes. The man looked dazed.

  “Vlad, I’m going to tell you how this is going to work,” Marks said. “You can either go out the easy way, or go out the hard way. It’s your choice.”

  31

  VLAD looked up. His head was ringing; hard to think. How did he know my name?

  He coughed and bloody spittle dribbled from his mouth. His eyes had adjusted and shapes were becoming clearer. He looked at the man holding the knife. The man was big. Same as before. Off to the side was the other man. Shorter and rounder with chunky glasses on his face.

  Behind them was strangeness. Pitch black and shining light.

  “Who is Vlad?” he croaked. “Name is Jiri.”

  32

  MARKS looked at Lip. “Guess he wants the hard way.”

  Lip shrugged. He took a butane blowtorch out of the duffel bag and fired it up.

  “You want first go?” Lip said.

  Marks shook his head. “I’ll do cleanup.”

  “Suits me. Where should I start?”

  “Don’t know. Your pick.”

  Lip adjusted the flame, making it white and blue. “Weenie roast?”

  “Perfect.”

  Vlad’s eyes went wide. Marks took the knife. He hooked it under the hem of Vlad’s pants and sawed upwards. The blade was sharp and once he was through the hem the fabric gave way easily.

  “What is dis? What do you want?” Vlad said.

  “Did you hear something?” Marks said. He kept cutting, heading towards the inseam.

  “Nah, I didn’t hear nothing,” Lip said.

  Vlad squirmed. Marks yanked the knife and ripped through the fabric. He tore the trouser leg away. Vlad’s leg was a tangle of black hair and coiled muscle.

  Lip brought the blowtorch closer.

  “Stop!”

  Lip was inches away now.

  Vlad screamed as he began to feel the heat.

  “No, I think I just heard something,” Marks said. “Vlad, did you say something?”

  “Who are you?” Vlad said.

  33

  “I’M judge and jury,” Marks said.

  With his free hand he hooked under Vlad’s arm and dragged him to one of the barn’s wood posts. He roughly propped Vlad up so that he was sitting. The headlights were directly in Vlad’s eyes.

  Marks went over to the duffel bag and retrieved some duct tape. He proceeded to tape Vlad to the post. He went around him several times, enough to hold him. Marks didn’t want him jerking too much.

  While Marks was doing the tape, Lip got set up. He put the blowtorch down on the ground and went to the duffel bag. He pulled out a utility laptop. It was one of those models made to take abuse. It had a black metal casing. Lip sat down just behind Vlad, about three paces away. Legs crossed Indian style, he looked like a bespectacled Buddha. His laptop was open. He nodded to Marks to let him know he was ready.

  “I’m going to tell you how this is going to work,” Marks said. “I’m going to ask you some questions. I already know the answers. I’ll know when you lie. Don’t test me.

  “First question. Do you like little girls?”

  “What…?” Vlad seemed dazed.

  “I’ll rephrase. Do you like to abuse little girls? Do you kill them?”

  “What…? No, no. Why you say that?”

  “I thought you were going to cooperate, Vlad. I guess I was mistaken.” Marks bent down and picked up the blowtorch. He fired it back up. He adjusted the flame. Got it so that it was more white than blue. Vlad’s eyes stared at it; half in disbelief, half in horror.

  “I’m going to play a game,” Marks said. “You may be familiar with this game. It’s called follow the leader. I do what you do. Each step. I want to match how you did it. I’m very good at this game, but I’m going to need your help, Vlad. You need to walk me through this.

  “Lyubertsy. You used a welding torch didn’t you? I couldn’t find one of those unfortunately, so this will have to do. I hope that’s okay. This may take a little longer. So bear with me.

  “Lyubertsy. Are you back there now? It’s some of your older work, but I’m sure you remember. The welding torch you used on the girl’s mother? Where did you first start on her?”

  Vlad’s eyes didn’t lie. Even with the light in his eyes, they went very wide. Marks knew all about reading people. There were signs, just like in poker. Marks didn’t play as often as he used to anymore, and as a rule, he never played with friends. He’d played with friends before and it wasn’t a good combination. First time it was pegged as luck. Second time folks weren’t too keen on having Marks join their game. Reason being, a person couldn’t bluff Marks. He read faces like they were billboards.

  Vlad was staring at Marks like he was the devil himself. Marks knew exactly what was going through the man’s mind.

  “How you know dis…?” Vlad said, probably not even realizing he was speaking.

  “I know everything,” Marks said. He clamped down hard with one hand above the man’s kneecap. Like a peeled banana, Vlad’s leg was fully exposed, just a hairy mass of thigh. Marks put the flame to the upper part, inside the groin.

  Vlad screamed.

  Marks kept the flame there. Vlad jerke
d, spastically, but Marks had his leg pinned. The man’s hairs instantly flamed off like filament wires flash burning. The skin turned red, then white. Next it began to peel and char. Vlad kept jerking, trying to move.

  Marks had to be careful here. Too much would make the man go in shock. Vlad would be no good to him then. He took the flame away. Vlad was whimpering—not too tough now. Burns… a good second degree burn like that, hurt like hell. The man’s head would be throbbing now. Pain waves hitting him…

  Probably pretty intense. But in that world of pain, Vlad was also absorbing something else. A realization that this wasn’t an interrogation from a police or federal officer. Nor were military interrogation procedures in effect here.

  Vlad had most likely put that together already. Being bound in a trunk was his first hint. He’d almost died in there.

  And now this. Being burned. Vlad was in a whole new world of hurt.

  “Was that the spot?” Marks said. “Or…” He took the flame and moved it towards the man’s face.

  Vlad recoiled, but there was nowhere for his head to go. He did his darndest, though, trying to move his head from the flame. Marks brought it close to the man’s cheek. He kept it there, so the man could feel the heat. “Was it her eyes? Did you pop them? I’ve never done that. What’s it like? How does it sound?”

  Vlad’s eyes were almost rolling back in his head. Marks lingered, keeping the flame there, just inches away. The man’s cheek was feeling that, beginning to redden like sunburn.