Castle of Sorrows

by Jonathan Janz

  Ben didn’t answer, merely pivoted so Castillo couldn’t get an angle on him.

  “Two eighty-five,” Castillo said. “You believe that? Most of the groups, they go up in increments of eight, nine pounds. But the guys in one ninety-seven, they gotta wrestle the monsters weighing two-eighty, two eighty-three. You know what those huge guys do?”

  “Drop weight until they’re just under two eighty-five.”

  “Exactly! Now if that’s fair, I’d like to see what their idea of unfair is.”

  “The guy you lost to,” Ben asked. “He one of the monsters?”

  Castillo pooched his lips, nodded. He’d just about completed his revolution around Ben. “You got it. Dude was two seventy-nine, down from two ninety. Son of a bitch shook the ground when he walked. I came in low, meaning to take his legs out from under him. The bastard just sat on me. Felt like there was a Sherman tank parked on my back. Could barely breathe, heard my coaches shouting. The crowd going nuts.” Castillo shook his head, lost in the recollection.

  “He pin you?”

  “Uh-uh. But he beat me on points pretty easily. I couldn’t budge him.”

  “Second place isn’t bad.”

  Castillo had returned to his original spot, coming toward Ben now. “Unless the one in second place dies.” And darted in at Ben’s waist.

  Ben was on his feet one second, toppled onto his back the next. Castillo was scrambling over him, the guy moving like some kind of crazed panther. Damn, Ben thought. He wasn’t lying about the All-American thing.

  Castillo had him down with an arm locked under his chin. Ben flared his neck out and lowered his chin as much as he could, trying to dig it under Castillo’s iron grip, but the agent was bearing down on him, going for the chokehold. Ben crested on a wave of panic. He could hear the others shouting at Castillo and wondered if the man really would kill him. Then it would be the rest of the survivors against the mob guys, with Gabriel—the true threat—prowling the island. Forget rescue. They wouldn’t make it through the morning. And Julia would die with the beast.

  It was the thought of Julia that galvanized him. Ben’s breath was all but choked out. He was able to jerk forward, tuck his head a little in an attempt to roll Castillo off him. But the agent stayed grafted to Ben’s back like another layer of skin, both of them doing a half somersault and ending up with Ben on his back with Castillo under him, the guy’s unshakeable arm cinched under Ben’s neck more tightly than ever. Desperately, Ben shot an elbow into Castillo’s gut, and with a surprised whoosh of air, Castillo let go. Ben rolled off, gasping, and Castillo pounced to his feet looking more energetic than ever.

  Castillo wore a hungry smile. “That was a cheap shot, Shadeland. I didn’t expect you to fight that—”

  Before he finished he lunged at Ben’s waist again, but this time Ben saw it coming. He took a bracing backward step, swung down hard at Castillo’s head. The blow was a solid one, tattooing Castillo in the left temple and making his head do a violent jag. When Castillo again wrapped Ben up, Ben could tell plainly that the punch had stunned the agent. He drove into Ben, but to Ben it felt like he was propping Castillo up as much as Castillo was pushing Ben backward. Ben backpedaled with him, but as he did he tore down at Castillo’s exposed back with three bone-rattling jabs. Castillo grunted and continued forward, but the arms had gone away from Ben’s back. Ben stepped out of the way and Castillo blundered face first onto the dusty studio hardwood. Ben strode over as Castillo pushed to his knees. Ben looped a right hook at the agent, cracked him in the back of the head.

  “What the hell?” Castillo shouted. “You wanna play dirty, Shade—”

  Ben waylaid him the moment he stood up. The punch would’ve knocked out the average man, but Castillo merely went stumbling back. Ben followed him, grimly intent. The darkest corner of his mind whispered that he should end matters once and for all. But that wasn’t who he was. He didn’t kill unless he had to.

  What about Bullington?

  No choice, Ben answered. But he couldn’t get the guy’s doomed expression out of his head.

  Castillo put out an arm to fend Ben off, but Ben thrust it aside with his left hand and heaved an uppercut with his right. Castillo’s jaws clacked together. This time the agent did fall—

  (Kill him too, just like you killed the last one)

  —and Ben was on him, straddling his chest, raining right-handed blows and using his left hand to keep Castillo centered, make sure the bastard couldn’t thrash out of the way. Blood swirled on Castillo’s face. Ben imagined that face as a cut of meat he was tenderizing, his fists the cudgels that would

  (just like Bullington)

  reduce his face to pulp, to something that resembled corned beef hash. Castillo’s hands weren’t even up now, were splayed

  (yes, kill him)

  out like he was crucified, his face a pinkish mess that occasionally spat out a fresh gout of blood, the agent’s features slack now, unconscious and

  (a few more jabs)

  seeming to welcome death—

  “BEN!”

  Ben froze, the reality of the situation racing back to him in a horrid suck of disbelieving gravity. He relaxed his fist, the knuckles of which were flayed open and pulsing blood down his fingers. He stared down at Troy Castillo in horror, the man’s face a blasted moonscape of craters and welts.

  Hands were on Ben, shoving him roughly off Castillo. Ben was faintly aware of Teddy saying something to him, but it was Jessie’s face Ben couldn’t unsee, the red-haired agent with a hand to her mouth and her eyes crammed with accusation. Ben got up unsteadily, moved past Elena and Christina and past Chad Wayne, who looked as confused as ever.

  “Wait a minute!” Jessie shouted after him. “You can’t just leave the scene like this.”

  The scene? Ben thought and fought a wild urge to laugh. What he was walking away from actually constituted a scene?

  He was nearly to the stairs when Brooks pulled up alongside. “This is serious stuff, Ben. You just assaulted a federal agent.”

  “It was battery,” Ben said. “When you actually hit him, it’s battery.” He started down the steps.

  “The hell you think you’re talkin’ to?” Brooks asked, following. “I was LAPD for fifteen years, you don’t think I know the difference?”

  Ben didn’t answer, swiftly crossed the landing and began to hustle down the staircase.

  “Listen, man, no kiddin’ around. We’re talkin’ serious jail time, man.”

  Ben did what he could to remove the afterimage of Castillo’s devastated face from his mind. He needed to stop off at his room, get his gun, extra ammunition—

  “You think you’re helpin’ your daughter by getting arrested? You think it’s gonna do your wife and your little boy any good if you go off to jail?”

  “You think he’s clean?” Ben asked without turning. He reached his room, went in.

  “Man, of course I don’t think he’s clean. But all we got are theories right now and the fact that the man’s an asshole. That ain’t gonna get you anywhere, this thing goes to court.”

  Ben chuckled humorlessly. He plucked the Ruger out of his top dresser drawer, furious with himself for ever having let it leave his sight. He still wore the ankle holster, so he slid the gun down into it, the heavy feel of the nine-millimeter against his flesh reassuring.

  Teddy swatted him on the arm. “Man, you even hear what I’m tellin’ you?”

  Ben shook his head, opened up the box of ammo. “You don’t have a clue, do you?”

  “Enlighten me.”

  Ben pocketed the rounds, palmed several more and stuffed them in his other pocket. “You talk about going to court, about what a judge might do to me. Do you have any idea what’s coming? That thing—the one you think I fabricated to account for all the killings that went on here last summer?—that thing makes Marvin and his men lo
ok like Boy Scouts. I saw the beast climb along the castle façade, moving faster than anything moves on the ground. I saw it make a jump of about twenty-five feet from the top of the castle to the helicopter. I watched it pick up Chris Blackwood and bite his head off, the way monsters do in low-budget movies. Only this wasn’t a movie. This was something that almost destroyed my family. And it’s still trying to destroy my family.”

  In Teddy’s face Ben saw a mixture of pity, uncertainty and what might have been nascent belief. Or maybe he was just stalling Ben long enough for Jessie to arrest him.

  “I’m going to look for Julia,” Ben said.

  Teddy followed him out the door. “If what you say is true, isn’t it possible you’re gonna run into the creature?”

  “I plan to,” Ben said.

  “Well, shit,” Teddy said, moving up beside him.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Comin’ with you,” Teddy said. “I’m damn sure not gonna sit here in the castle waitin’ for those mob guys to come get us.”

  Chapter Three

  Of all the things in the world Chad Wayne might be doing, and especially of all the places in the world in which he might be doing it, standing guard in Castle Blackwood was his absolute last choice. He was doing what Agent Gary had instructed, walking up and down the halls of the first floor, testing the three exit doors every time he passed and peeking into each room just to make sure the windows weren’t being jimmied. After Ben had beaten Castillo to within an inch of his life, Agent Gary had enlisted Chad to lug the federal agent’s heavy body down to Castillo’s room. Conveniently, Brooks and Shadeland—the A-hole responsible for Castillo’s condition in the first place—had taken off and left Chad as the only conscious male in the castle. That meant that he was to be ordered around by not one, not two, but three women, and man, if that wasn’t bullshit, Chad didn’t know what was.

  Then Agent Gary had strapped the damned ankle holster on him, which embarrassed him even worse. It wasn’t enough the thing had some sort of double strap that looked like a freaking garter belt, but she also made him hike up his pajama leg so she could put it on. If there was one body part Chad was self-conscious about—other than his penis—it was his skinny ankles. He never went to the gym in shorts because of this, because when the other guys caught sight of them they made all sorts of jokes, calling him animated character names like Gru and Mr. Incredible.

  And now look at him. Keeping a monotonous watch and holding a gun he had no idea how to use.

  He passed the great hall and threw a quick glance toward the kitchen. He didn’t like to look that way because even though Shadeland and Agent Gary had dragged Jorge’s body to a closet out of the way, there was still a hell of a lot of blood in there, and Chad fancied he could smell it in the air.

  He came to the dining room, reached in and flicked on the light. Everything looked okay in here. The table was barren except for a few place settings at the far end. The ceiling was painted ivory and featured all sorts of inlaid designs. There was what looked like some sort of butler’s station in one corner, with a good-sized table with a blood-red cloth draped over it. Next to that there was a smaller stand with a blue-and-white vase on it, a short stretch of wall covered with flowery wallpaper, then the windows overhung with ivory curtains, one of which was billowing from the storm. Chad continued his scan of the room, wondering if he should go back to the kitchen to get a snack. His stomach was growling, and he couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten. He supposed he could…

  Chad’s thoughts trailed off, his eyes moving to his left again.

  Back to the billowing curtains.

  Oh Jesus Christ Almighty Jumped-Up Jehoshaphat. The freaking window was open. Wide. Fucking. Open. And that meant someone, anyone, could be in the room.

  His mind instantly sought the refuge of rationalization. Ben had opened it. Or Teddy had. Right before the men had left the castle, one of them had opened the window to let some air into the old-fashioned dining room. It was musty in here. How long had it been since anyone had aired it out?

  Last summer, a voice from nowhere whispered. They aired it out right before they all died.

  Holy shit, Chad thought. Holy holy shit.

  He’d never been more scared in his life. Okay, that wasn’t quite the truth. He had been more frightened when the shooting had started up a few hours ago. One of the reasons it had taken so long for him to come out of his room to look for the others—other than the fact that he actually had been under his bed—was that he’d pooped himself after the second or third gunshot. Finally, his debilitating fear of spiders had driven him out from under the bed.

  But now he thought he might fill his drawers again. Holding his breath, Chad gazed down at the long dining room table and beneath it, praying silently to no one in particular that he wouldn’t spot a huddled shape, the toe of a work boot. He didn’t think the mob guys were wearing work boots, but that’s what his imagination dressed them in just the same. Work boots and heavy, grungy work clothes.

  And what else? A fucking hockey mask and a machete?

  He would have laughed at the thought if he hadn’t been so utterly suffocated by fear. He didn’t think there was anything under the table, but he couldn’t bring himself to crouch down to check.

  His eyes drifted to the butler’s table. The red cloth draped over it. That stupid freaking cloth hung almost all the way to the floor, which meant anything could be hiding under it. A mob guy, a ghost, even a machete-wielding psycho. Oh, what the hell had those stupid women gotten him into?

  Not since that police detective had shown up at the club three years ago had Chad been so overcome with dread. He swallowed, thinking of it now, and though he welcomed the distraction of another train of thought he was pretty damned sure this was not the thought train he wanted to climb aboard. He didn’t want to think about Rex Holder.

  But he was. Yes, he was thinking about him all the same.

  Thunder crashed outside, making Chad yelp in fright and perform a spastic air dance. The storm was really howling now, and like the four-year-old Chad used to do, he found his mind irrationally begging the rains and the thunder and the magnesium flashes of lightning to cease.

  But they did not. Neither did the memories of Rex Holder, a nondescript guy who’d shown up at the Chuck’s Gym, where Chad was had been a trainer, and had promptly developed a man crush on Chad. No, the guy hadn’t been gay, though for some reason Chad found the gay dudes seemed to come on to him more than they did other guys. Maybe it was the ponytail. But Rex had come up to Chad and asked if Chad could spot him on the bench. Why not? Chad had answered, it was his job after all. Of course, he hated it when people asked him for a spot because it took him away from his own workout. But he’d stood there behind Rex just the same, knowing right away the man had not a freaking clue about the bench press just by the way he gripped the bar and let the damn thing bounce down off his chest. Plus, as Chad expected, Rex had loaded too much weight on the bar, even though it was only one seventy-five. Rex was barely able to squeeze out two reps with crappy form. Hell, if Chad hadn’t put the clips on for him, the discs would’ve slid right off the bar and injured them both.

  So after damn near killing himself with the bench press, Rex had annoyed Chad further by striking up a conversation. Making small talk. If there was anything in the universe Chad hated more than being interrupted from his workout, it was being interrupted from his workout by some dipshit wanting to make small talk.

  “How long have you worked here?” Rex asked, as if interviewing Chad for the school newspaper.

  “Awhile,” Chad said, eyeing the lat pull machine he’d been on but which was now occupied by another gym member.

  Rex frowned and said, “Oh yeah,” and the way he said it, it was like he and Chad were old friends. Like they’d been at Chad’s house the other day drinking beers together and Rex had forgotten to b
ring something up.

  “I’ve been meaning to ask somebody,” Rex went on. “Why is this gym called ‘Chuck’s’?”

  Chad sighed, looked around. “No idea.”

  “Is that the owner’s name?”

  “His name is Mike Adams,” Chad answered.

  “Is Chuck his nickname? Do they call him Chuck?”

  “They call him Mike.”

  Talking to Rex was about as pleasant as getting a rectal exam. Chad finally got away from him, but the next afternoon, there was Rex asking Chad for a spot on the bench again. Chad made little show of friendliness this time, and when Rex ambled over Chad told him he couldn’t help him.

  “Oh, are you helping somebody else right now?”

  “You’re not supposed to work the same major muscle group two days in a row,” Chad said in a monotone. “Fast twitch muscles are okay. Abs, calves. But not slow twitch muscles like pecs. You do that, your body won’t have time to recover.”

  Rex nodded thoughtfully, as though Chad had just solved all the secrets of the universe for him. “Hey, you sound like you know a lot about this stuff.”

  “What they pay me for,” Chad said, starting away.

  “Do you know anything about steroids?”

  Chad paused, a hundred different thoughts caroming around in his head, none of them charitable. He glowered at Rex thinking, Of course I know about steroids. How you think I got this big? You think I stuck an air compressor up my bunghole, made my muscles stretch like balloons?

  But he said, “Steroids are illegal. They can damage your liver and cause heart disease.”

  Rex favored him with an infuriating Aw shucks grin that indicated plainly that he knew better, that they were old buddies—hadn’t Chad spotted him on the bench, after all?—and that good old Chad needn’t hide the truth from him.

  Rex said, “I’ve been doing a lot of reading, and I understand the risks.”