Dead Bait
Page 16
Finally the line went slack. He started to reel in when he saw a pair of hands come up out of the water and grip the boat’s gunwale. To George's complete surprise, a man hauled himself up and into the boat, causing it to rock gently as he did so.
The man stood at the boat's bow, naked and dripping wet. A Mexican, George thought, another damned illegal crossing the border. His anger flared and he almost said something, but then noticed the naked man reaching for his own mouth. A fishing line led between his lips and the point of a hook protruded from the man's cheek. Despite the lack of any blood, a sickening feeling of horror gripped George as he realized what he had done. The naked man pried the hook out of his cheek and pulled both it and George's finest bass lure out of his mouth.
"I-I'm sorry," George stammered. "I didn't know. Are you hurt bad?"
Stepping around a cooler and tackle box, the dripping, naked man moved toward George. A prickly sensation of fear seized George Bishop, as he stared into eyes of deep, blazing intensity.
"Let's find out how you like it," the stranger said in perfect, unaccented English. He pointed his right index finger straight at George's mouth and thrust it in.
Surprise had just turned to revulsion at this odd action when George felt an explosion of unspeakable pain. It felt like he’d swallowed a porcupinefish that had just inflated and driven its spines throughout his mouth. Opening his mouth as wide as possible hurt his jaw, and closing it hurt much worse. Reaching up, he tried to pull the Mexican's finger out, but the spiny barbs dug even deeper into his flesh, taking him to a higher threshold of pain.
George screamed in terror and agony. Tears ran down his face. He wanted to beg for mercy, but with his jaw locked open, only inarticulate crying noises came out. Through his tears, he saw the nude man smiling at his misery.
He felt suddenly weary, overtaken by fatigue. Unable to keep his eyes open, his body sagged and George Bishop gave in to the overpowering drowsiness.
*
Sam stood and towered over the seated Ribeiro. “All right, punk, time to cut the cr—“
I stayed him with a raised hand and Sam sat back down. Good-cop/bad-cop is just a role-playing game, but I sensed that Sam and I were no longer pretending. As bad cop, he really didn’t believe Dennis’ story. As for me -- God help me -- I couldn’t see any other explanation that fit the facts.
Some bodies, like Rita Crespo’s, still awaited autopsies. For the rest, results showed they’d all lost a lot of blood with no external wounds. George Bishop, for example, had “extensive lacerations within the oral cavity.” If Ribeiro wasn’t a vampire, then he’d picked a really difficult way to kill people when there are so many easier ways.
“So, Ribeiro,” I kept to my smooth, caring voice, “how many people have you killed, in all?”
“Five hundred and twenty seven,” he replied without hesitation. “Of those, four hundred and sixty three were part of the curse. The rest either got in the way, or else I did ‘em for fun.” He smiled. “You two will add to my total, and will be just for laughs.”
It bugged me that he rattled off those figures with all the emotion of a tax accountant. “You’re pretty exact with your numbers.”
“For a dumb-ass spic, you mean?” He sneered. “Look, I’ve been around for almost four centuries, but I’ve got the mind and memory of a twenty-one-year-old. To do my mission, I’ve got to keep track of dozens of family trees. I’ve killed in thirty-three countries. I speak eleven languages, each with no accent. I could tell you the name, date, and place of death for every one of my curse victims.”
I took out my pen and dared him. “I’m listening. Start with the ones in El Paso and work back.”
Damned if he didn’t actually start reeling off a long string of killings. I stopped writing after the first twenty, but he kept going.
“...and the one before that was on February 17, 1913 in Santiago. Hey,” he looked back and forth at Sam and me. “I know what you’re doing. You’re stalling for time until moonset, four minutes from now. You think that when I turn into a fish I’ll die.”
“I wasn’t thinking that,” Sam said as he made a fist. “I was thinking how much fun it’d be to—“
“Well, it won’t work,” Ribeiro interrupted. “I told you, I’m invincible. If I change here, I’ll just crawl on my fins. It’s only two blocks to the Rio Grande.”
I pictured an eight-foot fish flopping its way through doors and down the streets of El Paso at dawn. Something you don’t often see. Then I thought how he said that moonset would occur in four minutes. He wore no watch; he hadn’t glanced at mine or Sam’s; and the interrogation room contained no clock. I guess after hundreds of years of being synched to the moon’s cycle, he’d gotten to know it pretty well.
“What I still don’t get, Ribeiro,” I said, “is why you’re doing all this. You said some gods ordered it, but why listen to them? Why not just stop? I mean, what’s in it for you?” Here’s where suspect’s stories often broke down -- the motivation part. And if the kid was really a vampire, this just might give us an angle...
Ribeiro looked at me like I was the lab rat that couldn’t find the cheese. “When two gods save you from death and want a little something in return, you do it,” Ribeiro said, as if that explained it. “Besides, when I’m done, I get to live in ywy mara-ey, the Guarani land-without-evil, where I’ll live with the gods, dance and eat all day, and live as a human forever.”
“I’ve heard about enough of your creep-show fantasies,” Sam stood again and approached Ribeiro. “I’m gonna get the truth out of you if it kills you.”
“I’ve had enough as well,” said the suspect. “This has not been as amusing as I’d hoped. But before I go, I did promise to kill you both, and it’s time.” His shoulders flexed slightly and I heard a loud, metallic snap. He raised both hands up and, I swear, each handcuff had a half-length of high-strength steel chain dangling from it. While Sam and I gaped at him, Ribeiro reached over and pried each handcuff off the opposite wrist, letting the twisted metal drop to the table. He then bent down and forced off the leg-irons. No human could possibly do that.
I realized then that the vampire had wanted to be caught, since he could avoid capture whenever he wished. No fetters or cage could hold him. He must have allowed it, as he’d said, for amusement.
The vampire rose and walked toward Sam. Sam stood a head taller and outweighed Ribeiro by sixty pounds of gym-toned muscle. Even so, my partner shrank back with dread in his eyes. He groped about near the neck of his shirt and withdrew a small gold cross on a chain. This he held out toward Ribeiro, his hands shaking.
The shorter man laughed. “You’ve been watching the creep shows, Detective Samuel Beaumont. I’m a vampire by Guarani curse, not because of some Christian burial problem. Happen to have any Guarani Indian icons on you?”
Ribeiro paused while Sam reached for his handgun. “No? Sucks to be you.” He reached forward and grabbed Sam around the ribcage.
With a clear shot at Ribeiro’s side, I raised my Glock Model 22 and fired twice. One hit the side of his left shoulder, and the other struck an inch above his ear. That noise should bring the whole building in here, I thought.
Without seeming to notice, the vampire flung Sam against the far wall in a blur of speed. Sam struck the cinderblock surface back-first and crumpled to the floor, his skull split and a couple of limbs bent wrong. Two of the butterfly pictures fell and crashed near him.
Aw, Sam, Jesus, I thought.
Looking at Ribeiro, I saw a .44 Smith & Wesson bullet worm its way back out of the hole above Ribeiro’s ear and drop to the floor. The skin sealed around the hole like nothing had happened.
He turned to face me and suddenly the interrogation room seemed to shrink in around us. I’m alone with an invincible monster. And it’s pissed off.
I holstered my useless handgun and rushed to the side of the table opposite Ribeiro, as if the table posed an obstacle to him. We feinted in opposite directions for a moment.
I said nothing to the sick hell-creature that had killed my partner. Circling the table between us, I reached down low under it as I passed one corner and grabbed the table leg. Giving it everything I had, I pulled and snapped the inch-thick wood. The table slanted, and cups, files, photographs, and handcuffs spilled on the floor. In my hand, I held a two-foot wooden rod with one nicely jagged end.
Ribeiro looked at me with a quizzical, bemused expression. He’s got no idea, I thought.
Grasping the shaft two-handed, like a saber, I let out a yell and rushed him. I plunged the splintered end into the left side of his chest and kept going until his back hit the wall. I twisted and drilled it until I felt sure that it had passed through his back and scraped against cinderblock. His head hung down and his body sagged against the wall. I backed away. In a slow, deliberate manner, Ribeiro raised his head to look at me. He broke into a twisted grin and straightened up his body. He reached for the improvised stake protruding from his chest and pulled it out. So help me, there was not a drop of blood on the stick or his shirt.
He regarded the table-leg with apparent interest. “Stake through the heart. Nice, but sorry. Won’t work. Another vampire myth debunked.” He dropped the stick on the floor. “You don’t quite get the meaning of ‘invincible.’ Another word with too many syllables, I guess. Still that smarted a little, so your death will be slow, Detective Ken Monroe.”
“My name,” I said with the only thread of defiance I had left, “is Kendis. Only my fellow cops call me Ken.”
“Kendis,” he corrected himself, no doubt mentally adding me to his long list. In a flash he moved in front of me, pinning me to the wall with an iron-hard grip on my arm. The index finger of his other hand pointed straight at my mouth. “Open wide, Kendis.”
I clamped my mouth shut tight. He was going to drain me like George Bishop, and hundreds of others like him.
“Perhaps you’d prefer my dick up your ass,” he said. I could feel his finger pushing, pushing between my lips, ramming like a sharp, iron poker between upper and lower teeth.
He was in. And then, sudden, incredible pain like a hundred pins driven deep into every surface of my mouth. I opened wide to relieve the stinging, jabbing sensation, but it didn’t help. The barbs must have just extended farther in response.
Any movement of my head brought the agony to a new height, so I held steady. In my panic, I swept the room with my eyes, searching for inspiration – some idea, something I could use. What was keeping the cavalry? Someone on the night-shift must have heard the shots.
The chill began in my mouth. Somehow I knew it meant a loss of blood, and I found myself hoping I’d fall asleep soon.
Ribeiro shifted his finger slightly and I yelled as the stabbing pins drove deeper on one side. “Yes, you’re going to go slowly, painfully,” he said.
The first sensation of fatigue set in. My thoughts became fuzzy, less panicked. The vampire wiggled his finger again and that snapped me awake once more with an excruciating piercing of flesh.
Looking around again, I saw Sam’s lifeless body on the floor. Lucky bastard, he got to die quick...
There’s the remaining butterfly pictures lining the wall. If he thinks those work, our staff shrink should have his head examined...
My son, Tyrell, will be woken up with a phone call about my death...
The pain vanished. At first my muddled, foggy mind thought I’d gone beyond pain at last, crossed the final line.
No, the barbs had retracted; the vampire’s finger was withdrawing from my mouth. What the...?
I looked down at him as my sore, aching jaws closed. He was changing, morphing, oozing into a new shape. Head lengthening, neck widening, arms shrinking, legs joining, skin turning a gray, translucent color. The room reeked of fish.
The transformation was mesmerizing, eerie. His legs merged and he could no longer stand, so he collapsed to the floor. The man-fish-thing writhed and flopped, its jaws snapping at me. There was something – what was it? – something about change...something important...
The door burst open. About damn time. My gun in my hand. Two shots...
*
“Ken, wake up.”
“Wha?”
“You gotta tell us what happened in here, man.”
I opened my eyes. Bill was shaking my shoulders. “Alright, alright. I’m up.”
The interrogation room. “Jesus, the fish!” I sat bolt upright and looked around.
“You mean that thing?” One of the others pointed to the floor. The vampire lay there, unmoving, a half-transformed fish-man wearing Ribeiro’s clothes.
“Stay away from it!” I shouted. “It only looks dead.” But it can’t die. It’s invincible.
Invincible as man or fish. But I’d shot it halfway through its change. And the thing about change, I realized, it takes energy. No free lunch, my high school science teacher had said. Caterpillars can become butterflies, but only after being in a chrysalis for a few days, conserving energy. Children can change into adults, but only by eating a lot of food as teenagers and using that energy for growth.
The vampire’s only low-energy time had been while he was changing, his only vulnerable moment. And that’s when I’d shot it.
“God, what’s happening to it? Ken?” Bill pointed to the monster.
Dark blotches appeared on the vampire’s skin, each one growing, spreading, merging. Holes appeared within the blotches, holes that widened and deepened.
“Aw, that’s rank!” said someone, and we all smelled an overwhelming stench of death and rotting meat. Still, nobody left. We all held our noses and watched, unable to tear ourselves from the sight.
The thing that had once been Dismas or Dennis Ribeiro began to collapse, as more of it fell into the holes. It shrank, settled, withered. In minutes, nothing remained but a slimy, black stain.
“Ken, what the hell?” Bill’s voice sounded nasal while he pinched his nose.
“Shoulda died over three hundred years ago,” I said. “I guess he had some decaying to catch up on.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I’ll file my report, Bill, but you’re not going to believe it. I mean, someone spends over three centuries fighting slavery and he’s killed by a black guy?”
PIRAYA
By
Tim Curran
As they pushed deeper into the Amazon Basin, following a winding series of tributaries, their guide told them one randy tale after another of what he called the piraya. He was a kind old Yagua Indian from the Javary named Rico Uara Valqui and had come highly recommended. He told them wild stories about the old Conquistadors who’d made the unpleasant mistake of wearing blood-red trousers in piranha-infested waters. About swimmers getting their nipples bitten off and skinny-dippers who’d gotten more than their nipples bitten off.
At that last one Jack chuckled, wiped sweat from his face, and gave Elise a jab with his elbow so she’d see it was a joke, too. But Elise did not think it was funny. The others in the low-bottomed boat—Cutler and Basille—just smiled thinly.
“And all true, I swear,” Rico said, crossing himself after telling a particularly lurid tale of a madman named Crazy Lupo who’d caught his limit of piranha by using his murdered wife’s corpse as bait. Rico grinned, ran fingers through his stubbly white hair. “But it not all bad, eh? You wait, we catch our limit, conk-conk-conk, we knock the fight out them sumbitch pirayas, then we clean ‘em out, slit-slit-slit, some the garlic, the salt, the spice root, then cook ‘em up over the fire. Taste real good. You see, eh?”
“That’s what I’m looking forward to,” Jack said. “I heard they taste like catfish.”
“Sure, like you say.” Rico looked at him and grinned. “Hey, maybe Rico show you how to make piraya-head soup, eh? It make a man more a man. You eat the soup,
Jack, your wife she not enough for you! You need ten wives!”
Elise sighed, waving flies away from her face. She hated fish in general. It was Jack’s idea that she’d come. He told her that she’d never know Peru, the real Peru by hanging around the hotel in Pucallpa. And her answer to that was she did not want to know the real Peru. Pucallpa was bad enough with the bugs and the stench coming in from the docks, she didn’t need to get devoured by man-eating fish to boot. But Jack had explained that there was nothing to fear. There were twenty-five species of piranha in the Amazon and most fed on other fish, on insects, on fruit that had fallen into the water. Only six species were true flesh-eaters and of those six, only the Red-Bellied Piranha and the larger Black Piranha were dangerous to man.
So here she was, deep in the backwaters of the Amazon with a guide who kept telling one raunchy tale after another, showing off the stump of the finger he’d lost taking a hook from a piranha’s mouth. There was absolutely no breeze. The air was damp, the river stank like something dead. They had rubbed Vick’s Vapo-Rub over their faces and arms so the clouds of mosquitoes wouldn’t drain them dry. As it was, she was drenched with sweat, her eyes were burning, and Cutler kept staring at her.
From the moment they stepped into the boat—a flat-bottomed motorized skiff—Elise was aware of his eyes on her. His gaze was perverse. Something about it made her stomach roll. Not that she hadn’t dealt with men like him before, but the way he looked at her, sizing her up like a tasty slab of beef, was just too much.
“Why don’t you take a picture, it’ll last longer,” she told him.
Cutler grinned. His teeth were yellow, tobacco-stained, there was a sheen of sweat on his face. “Was I staring?”