Bitch, I thought. I could kill you.
But her gun was still pointed at my face and I was surrounded by armed men who saw me as nothing but a dumb tourist. I was sure than even the hint of me being a cop would have made me a dead man. And so, shocked and confused, I found myself being picked up by the scruff of my neck and dragged outside.
"Don't fucking touch me!"
Everyone laughed. I had never felt smaller. I just about caught a glimpse of the guy holding me. He seemed little more than a boy but the scars on his body and the weapons strapped to him told me he had lived the life of someone three times his age.
"Pussy is dangerous," he laughed as he dragged me out into the dirt.
He was pulling me toward a rusty pickup truck. Something told me that as soon as I was inside it, I would die. In a panic, I swung a punch at him but he ducked out the way and laughed harder before pummeling his fist square into my nose.
"Idiot," he said. "Try that again and you're dead. Besides, we've got a long journey ahead of us so we're going to have to be friends."
"Journey? I managed to ask as blood ran into my mouth.
I spat into the sand as it sank into my teeth.
"You're going to the border," he said. "Then you're not our problem anymore."
Thank fuck, I thought. Once at the American border they could help an old cop like me. They'd make sure I got a new passport and help me get back to Normont. Then a thought hit me.
"But the border's three days' drive away," I said.
He looked at me as though I was insane.
"What the fuck you talking about? It’s only a half hour drive to Guatemala."
Chapter Four
Lincoln
"So you're both here, ain't that wonderful."
Schiele and his wife were sat on loungers by the pool with cocktails. Cynthia had calmed down at the first sip of her mojito but Schiele was still highly strung as he sweat through his suit.
"Nice place you got here," he said, ignoring me to look around the complex. "You always were a tasteful son of a bitch."
There was no disguising the jealousy in his voice. He sipped on his drink, bitterly. Beside him, the suitcase lay at his feet. I knew he wouldn’t let me just reach over and take it but at the same time, I needed it. At this point I would kill for it.
I couldn't believe that not only had Schiele followed it all the way down here but he'd brought his pain in the ass wife along with him. Why? What did he think she was going to do? Take part in my experiments?
Asshole I thought. He always has to poke his nose into everything.
He noticed me staring at the case and his eyes twinkled.
"So you'll probably be wondering when you can get your hands on it," he said, nodding toward it. "You're looking at it like you're hungry for it, like you're fucking desperate to have it."
"Aw Jesus, language!" squealed Cynthia’s voice.
She lay her head back against the sun lounger and gazed up to the sky.
"Anyway," he continued and turned his back to her. "You never really told me what it was for and the amount of money you were offering was..."
"Too much to turn down?" I offered.
"Suspicious," he replied. "It was a suspicious amount of money and after everything you've been getting up to in the news recently, well I had to see for myself what you were going to do with my invention."
Beneath my calm exterior I was ready to blow. Just give me it, I thought. Fucking give it to me.
For a second, I even contemplated killing Schiele and then his wife but I knew I couldn't. He was a high profile professor and was last seen getting on one of my private jets. It would be obvious where he went, even more obvious who killed him.
Pretending to play it cool, I strode over to him and tried to play it easy, resting my hand on the case.
"So, it would be awesome to take a look at it," I said and reached for the handle.
"Er, not yet," he responded and before I could move any closer, he grabbed the case and pulled it onto his lap, holding it close to his chest.
This was going to be more difficult that I thought.
"What are you playing at?" I asked.
"Look, I came down here with the Tricephthial because I’ll be honest, Bosworth. I don't trust you. Nobody trusts you right now. You're pretty much in exile down here doing who knows what and you left behind this trail of destruction back home. There are so many questions about you!"
I knew I should have tried to placate his worries but if I was being honest with myself, I'd have to admit that I was getting exasperated and just wanted this to end. I wanted the case firmly in my hand and I wanted Schiele and his stupid wife back on that plane.
"You're forgetting the other reason we're here," said Cynthia.
"There's another reason?" I asked.
I turned to Schiele and saw he was looking down at his lap, sheepish and cow towed by his wife.
"Why else would you two be down here?"
Schiele remained staring at his lap.
"Oh for Christ’s sake," groaned Cynthia. "Just tell him."
Schiele huffed and drained the last drops of his glass.
"We're here for business," he said. "Or rather we're in Monterrey for business. Cynthia figured since it was only a few hours away from here we could kill two birds with one stone, so to speak."
He cleared his throat and looked at his shoes.
"And of course kill would be the perfect word," laughed Cynthia.
God, you really are ugly, I thought to myself. With her lipstick smeared around her mouth and her powder blue eyeshadow, she looked like a crushed up mannequin from a seventies horror.
"Okay, guys, you're going to have to spell it out for me. I've not got much time for deadly riddles."
Schiele gave Cynthia a panicked look.
"Well?" she said to him and raised an eyebrow. "Are you going to start or am I?"
He cleared his throat again and finally looked up at me.
"Cynthia is indulging in a new hobby," he said. "It's, erm, rather unusual."
"A killer hobby down in the desert? Nice."
Things were about to get more interesting but somehow I couldn't imagine Cynthia hurting anyone. Not because she was too nice a person, but because it would ruin her manicure. She was just about the laziest, most vain person I'd ever met.
"It's lucrative too," she laughed.
"Ooh," I mocked. "Please tell me you've become a hit man."
The thought of her twisting a silencer onto a gun wearing a balaclava made me laugh until my stomach hurt.
"Not quite," she said.
Schiele was looking more uncomfortable by the minute. He was sweating even more and tugging at his tie. He looked as though she was just about to divulge the most embarrassing secret and I couldn't wait to hear what it was.
"I've an associate down here," she said. "Who deals in..."
She paused for dramatic effect and lit a cigarette.
"Cynthia," I breathed, leaning toward her. "If you don't tell me what you're talking about I'm going to kill you myself."
I smiled one of my most rehearsed dazzlers and she melted. Her cheeks flushed pink beneath her thick layer of makeup.
"Oh, you're such a charmer," she giggled. "Anybody tell you that? That you're charming, in a rather dangerous way?"
"All the time..."
I could almost feel the shame as Schiele turned to me and with large, drooping, watery eyes said, "Cynthia has started collecting...Murderabilia."
"Woah."
"Yeah," he sighed and reverted his gaze to his shoes.
"Great money in it," said Cynthia. "And God forgive me for thinking it’sexciting as hell too. Do you know how amazing it is to hold a letter written by Richard Ramirez in your hands? Or how exhilarating it feels to own an original Gacy painting."
Schiele appeared mortified and stood up. Straightening his tie, he strode into the kitchen.
"Mind if I get another-"
"Go for it," I said, grateful
to have him away from us.
I didn't know Cynthia could be so dark and interesting. So it happens that after all this time she had a thing for serial killers. Who would have guessed?
"Do you own an original Gacy painting?"
I asked, leaning in even closer. Now she didn't seem as repulsive as she used to. She spread her lips into a wide smile and winked.
"Six of them.All originals.All worth a fortune."
"And all painted by the hands of a clown who liked to rape and kill young boys."
She bristled in her seat.
"Well, that's what builds the provenance isn't it?"
She was beginning to worry I thought she was a creep. I could see the look of regret that was spreading across her face.
"I love it," I said. "I really do. You're like an art dealer but... a macabre and wonderful one."
Her smile returned. Suddenly, she looked ten years younger. It was as though talking about this horrific love of hers was infusing her with life and passion that her husband couldn't give her.
"Old man Schiele hates it, doesn't he?" I said, nodding my head toward the kitchen.
He was standing by the central island sipping rum out the bottle.
"He says I'm disgusting," lamented Cynthia. "Says that I'm glorifying the worst people on God's Earth."
"God," I laughed. "Why would he mention such a silly thing?"
She pouted and shrugged, turning her lips down so she looked like a trout in drag.
"He's such a serious man," she moaned. "Has no time for fun."
"And doesn't appreciate true art."
"Exactly."
She shuffled in her seat. The atmosphere in the air had changed. Out of the blue it felt as though I'd been given an ally, someone who could appreciate my killer craft.
"Do you think all killers are evil?" I asked.
She thought for a second and pursed her lips.
"No," She said. "Some are just... I dunno, they have biological urges don't they? They can't help it."
"And some people kill for good reasons," I added.
This really made her think. Her whole face twisted up as she sucked on her teeth.
"Like Dexter?" she asked.
"Like Dexter," I nodded.
"Do people like that really exist?"
"Oh, they must," I said. "Why wouldn't they? Someone clever enough is probably out there, killing not just for fun, but for good."
"Like some sort of avenging angel," she mused.
"Absolutely."
We shared a conspiratorial glance and both smiled.
"I'm sorry your husband doesn't appreciate how amazing you are," I said.
"Amazing?" she swooned. "No one's ever called me that before."
"Oh, I find that hard to believe that."
She bit her lower lip as she became hot and flustered.
"But you are amazing," I said. "You have this appreciation for the arts. You're this marvelously macabre lover of death and you see beauty in murder."
"There's no such thing as beauty in murder, Mr. Bosworth."
Now it was my time to look away, bashful as a schoolboy.
"There's beauty in everything," I said. "Especially murder. I've seen it. Seen just how beautiful it can be."
Her eyes widened with something I first thought to be fear, then I realized it was arousal. She slid her hand up my arm and dug her fingernails into my shirt sleeve.
"You've seen it?"
"I've seen everything."
"Bosworth, you're such a peculiar man. A mysterious man."
I winked and her grip on me tightened.
"Please, call me Lincoln. Or better still, Linx."
She began to breathe heavily. I was enjoying every second of this. She was hanging on my every word and was lost in my eyes. Yet at the same time, seeing her like this made me desperately sad. It was as though I was the first man to pay her any attention and she was drowning in the sensation of someone complimenting her. Then a thought struck me. Schiele wasn't the key to the Tricephthial. She was. She would say anything for a compliment, would probably do anything for a kiss. I wondered what she would do if I promised to hold her tight for a minute and tell her she was beautiful.
"I'm sorry your husband doesn't understand you," I said.
With a sorrowful frown, she averted her gaze.
"But I understand you."
She began to tremble slightly.
"You do?"
"I understand this passion you have because I have it too. But people will talk about us, say we're creeps, say we're disgusting but you and I know it's not true."
"It's not. We're so misunderstood!"
"I know... But we understand each other, don't we?"
She nodded and traced her finger down the inside of my forearm.
"I think so," she whispered. "I feel like..."
"We have a connection?"
She bit her lip again, this time closing her eyes.
I looked over toward the kitchen. Schiele was watching us intently but didn't seem to care. It appeared that any love once present in this marriage was evaporating fast. They'd been married nearly thirty years with Cynthia being nothing but a shadow to Schiele's illustrious career. Now I was going to put her in the limelight.
Chapter Five
Berger
"Hey, how about you just drop me here?"
The words were hardly escaping my mouth as blood distorted my voice. I was in too much shock to feel the pain of my broken nose but knew that as soon as reality hit, it was going to hurt like a motherfucker.
The guy in the driver's seat turned to me, gave me a wry smile then ignored me. He clearly had nothing but contempt for me.
"So, you do this thing a lot?" I asked.
He gave me a quizzical sideways glance.
"You know, go around getting guys robbed, breaking their faces and driving them to Guatemala. Is it like a well-paying job or do you just do it for fun?"
He flared his nostrils like a bull. I'd obviously hit a nerve.
"I get paid by the club to do whatever I'm told. Paid real well."
"Is that so?"
He took a deep breath and slowed down. There wasn't a single car on the road. Above us, the stars were crystal clear. I'd never seen a sky like it.
"Look, like I said. We're stuck together for the next little while so you can either keep your mouth shut and be nice or you can get another one of these."
He raised his fist. Now, with the interior light glistening off his rings, I could see just how big his hand was.
"I'll be nice," I said. "But I gotta tell you. When I get back to America my government will not like this. They'll be looking for me you know."
He burst out laughing and slapped the steering wheel.
"You have got to be kidding me," he chuckled. "Looking for you? You think anyone knows you're here? Everybody passing through here is lost, in danger, on the run. They're all escaping something. No one's down here on vacation, know what I’m saying? What were you running from?"
At this point, I didn't even know anymore. There was too much behind me. But as the truck glided further into the darkness, an image of Etta’s face entered my head and I had to fight back the urge to cry. Then I remembered Miranda and what I had left behind. No doubt I'd broken her heart and abandoned her kids too. She deserved so much better than me. Everyone did.
I even thought of Marcia. Who knew how long she had been planning what she'd done to me back there. Maybe I was just an unlucky guy and fell for her damsel in distress routine. Maybe if it wasn't me it would have just as easily been someone else.
"Do you know Marcia?" I asked.
"The bitch who fucked you back there?"
Strangely, despite what she'd done to me, I hated that he'd called her a bitch, but I got the impression that's what he called all women.
"Yeah, her."
She kept his eyes on the road and shook his head.
"Not really. I mean I've seen her around at the club a few t
imes. She's in with Rondo's crowd. Doesn't really hang with us bikers much."
"You work for Rondo?"
He nodded but there was a bitterness in his eyes.
"You don't like Rondo."
"Nah man. He takes everything. We do all the work and he gets all the money!"
I was getting somewhere. Old cop habits die hard.
"Was Rondo the guy behind the bar?"
He nodded.
"But he's not just a barman though, right?"
"He owns the place.”
"And he knows Marcia?”
“They go way back. Have history you know. I think they even had a kid together at one point but that was a long time ago."
Lol, I thought. Could he have been her dad? I shivered in my seat. Wepassed a sign - Guatemala 10 miles. I only had minutes until I was tossed out into the middle of nowhere, bleeding with no cash or phone. I would die out here. If wild animals didn't find me, bandits would and even though I had nothing more to take, they'd find something.
"What am I supposed to do?" I asked. "When you leave me."
I was trying to hide the fact I was panicking but my voice was betraying me, breaking as I tried to pull myself together.
"Fuck knows, man."
"What happens to everyone else you leave?"
He shrugged.
"How should I know?"
"How many people have you left?"
Again, he shrugged.
"Fuck man, I dunno. Like, it's not important. Besides, we kill most of them."
Somehow, I actually thought that after everything, maybe it was just my time to die. I'd managed to live a full life, do everything I wanted and fuck up everything else. The only thing I'd never managed to do was treat a woman right. It was my only regret. Pictures came into my head of what it would be like to be a family man, to be a nice husband. But it was pointless dwelling on it. I wasn't one of those men. I was a dirty bastard and I was always running. I had problems, real problems and as much as I wanted it to be the case, a nice woman wasn't going to cure anything. Just kill me now, I thought. There's no going back for me. This is the end of the line.
"I'm not gonna kill you, though," he said.
"You're not?"
"You're alright. Done nothing wrong. You're just unlucky."
Countered Questions Page 3