15 Signs Of Murder (Fifteen thrillers)

by Luis Samways

  Fifty-One

  The first slap around the face didn’t hurt. It just made me jump. I was caught off guard by the force of it. The mere fact that I had been slapped at all was surprising. Everything went south in a matter of two seconds. I had made a mistake coming back to the bar. It was a stupid mistake, a mistake that would cost me my freedom down the line. If only I had known. But, as they say, hindsight is always 20/20, whereas reality is myopic at best, and blind at worst.

  “You should have just taken the money, Derrick. You should have just gone on your way. You see, curiosity killed the cat, but I’m a fat motherfucker who likes the taste of knowledge. I want to know everything. I am curious about you. In fact, I’d go as far as to say I’m enamored by you. I want to taste your secrets. I want them to roll on the tip of my tongue and drown in my stomach acid,” the man in the white suit said, kneeling down on one knee, looking me square in the eye as he hung his right arm on my shoulder. “Now, tell me why you are here,” he said, squeezing my shoulder hard.

  “You seem like you already know,” I replied. It was no good. The answer I gave him wasn’t the one he was looking for. I got another squeeze on my shoulder. He must have been pinching at a nerve. A shooting pain went screaming up my neck and came to a pulsating stop in my right eyeball. I tried to hold back my whimpering, but it was no use.

  “I will give you one last chance to tell me what you want, or I’m going to knock every tooth out of your mouth.”

  I hesitated for one split second. I felt like telling him everything. Maybe he’d help me out. But my hesitation had cost me again. I saw the goon named Hector come from the left, holding his AK-47. He swung the barrel, hitting me in the face with the edge of the muzzle. I felt another shooting pain hit my right eyeball. I cried out. I didn’t mean to. I was trying to stay strong, but fear was overwhelming me. The fear of them finding out what I was had been a worse thought than the pain itself.

  “Now, you listen here, Derrick. I know that a cop killer like you is worth some money. I know the authorities will want you back with them as soon as possible. I know that I’ll be able to secure some sort of payment for you. But, as I said, I’m a curious cat, and I’m just itching to know what exactly would possess you to walk back into this bar and try to demand answers of somebody like me. Those sorts of balls only exist in two types of men: men who don’t have anything to lose, or men who have lost everything already. Which one is it?”

  I didn’t answer. I just closed my eyes and waited for another blow to come crashing against my face. Sure enough, I didn’t have to wait too long. The muzzle of the AK hit me a second time. I nearly fell out of the chair this time around. But the strength of the man in the white suit kept me pinned to the chair.

  “Which one is it?” he screamed, slapping me in the face.

  “Fuck you!” I yelled.

  He stood up and broke into another smile. “I must say, I think you just confirmed my suspicions,” he said, walking back around his desk and sitting down.

  I wiped at my wounds and noticed I wasn’t bleeding. They hadn’t noticed. I was glad of that at least. “What have I confirmed to you, exactly? That I’m tougher than you? That if it was me and you alone in this room, I’d seriously fuck your shit up? You have your goons, and I have myself. Believe me when I tell you, buddy, if we were alone, it would be a different story,” I said, not quite believing the words that were escaping my lips.

  The man in the white suit must have thought the same thing. He was surprised, yet at the same time visibly impressed. “I was wrong — I had you down for option number two. I thought you’d lost everything, and that’s why your balls are so big. But in fact, I just realized something. You’re about to lose so much more than that.”

  Fifty-Two

  “I’ll give you one last chance, Derrick. I know you are a good kid. I can see it in you. Apart from your constant lies, I could grow to like you. To even tolerate you. But this lying cannot and will not go on. I am a man of the people. I hold the gift of life in one hand, and the curse of death in the other.”

  I was now on my knees. He had his two henchmen holding my arms back. Both of their boots were dug deep into the backs of my knees, effectively immobilizing me. A third man had entered the room. This one was wrapping a rope around my neck. He pulled on the knot, and the rope clamped down around my throat. It was enough to make a point, but not enough to kill me. If only they knew I didn’t need to breathe.

  “So what will it be? Death or life? The gift or the curse?”

  At that moment the rope got tighter. Not tight enough, though. They were still trying to scare me. I was scared. But not of dying. I knew that my actual curse of rising from the dead had made breathing an unnecessary action. I knew I could hold my breath for days. I just didn’t know how they would react. Would they flip out and shoot me in the head? Would that kill me?

  “I don’t know what you want me to say. I’m not hiding anything!”

  That’s when the man in the white suit lost his composure and jumped out of his seat for the second time. He didn’t slam his fist on his desk, though. He just casually reached under it and produced a shiny metallic handgun. It was a large gun. It gleamed in his hand as he cocked it back.

  “Last chance. If I was you, I would take it. There is no coming back from a bullet in the brain,” he said, aiming his weapon at me over his desk. The shadows his body was projecting rode up the wall behind him. It looked cartoon-like. It was over-exaggerated in size, just like the villain-like persona that oozed out of him. I closed my eyes and came to terms with my fate. A few seconds passed, and I heard him laugh.

  “Man, you are one stupid gringo. Who would give up their life for a secret?” he asked.

  “I told you — I don’t have any,” I replied.

  That’s when I heard the gun go off. My eyes were still tightly closed. I didn’t even wince the first time. But when the sound of the second shot went off, I scrunched my eyes up in fear. Another gunshot went off. But I was still there. I opened my eyes to a pale look on the fat man’s face. He was muttering something under his breath.

  “El Diablo,” Hector said from behind me. I turned my head to see the complete look of awe in his eyes. The fire and hatred were gone. All that remained was a primal fear. A fear that everybody in the room was feeling…including myself.

  “Shoot him again!” one of the other goons said.

  The man in the white suit unloaded eight more shots. None of them pierced me. None of them killed me. No matter where they were pointing their guns, not one bullet had found its mark.

  “I don’t…I don’t…understand,” the fat man said, lowering his gun to the desk, the sound of it clinking off the surface and rattling off the walls, much like the previous sounds of gunshots. “You aren’t human,” he finally said to me.

  I shook my head and nearly let a stream of tears flow down my cheeks. “I don’t know what I am,” I confessed.

  Fifty-Three

  “He is cursed, boss,” Hector said, making his way around the table, nearly hiding behind the fat man in the suit.

  The other goons remained still and silent next to me. I could hear their breathing. It was shallow and rapid. Mine would have been, too…if I needed to breathe. On the inside I was panicking. Fear was racing through every part of my body. I was sure I would overload and burst into a brilliant flame, and an ash pile would be all that remained in the room. Fortunately for me, I didn’t overload. I just knelt there, searching for answers on the floor.

  “It can’t be, though. It is not possible. I shot you!” I heard the fat man say. He was pacing behind his desk.

  Hector was staring at me in wonder. I saw that he was curious. He wanted to know more, naturally. As did I, but I didn’t know what to say. I mean, how do you convince somebody that you have risen from the dead — only to find that you possess the ability to live on without any natural explanation for your body still being intact? It’s madness just to think of something like that, let alone
be the living proof of it. Or the burden; depends which way you look at it. I, for one, wasn’t too happy about my situation. I had attempted to flee to Mexico to escape the clutches of U.S. law. I was afraid of what they would do if they knew I had risen from the dead. I even thought that maybe they knew. But I couldn’t be too sure.

  “I died two days ago,” I finally said.

  Both the fat man in the suit and his goons were giving me their full attention now. They looked at me in anticipation, beads of sweat forming on their faces. I could see their eyes light up as they listened. I went on to tell them absolutely everything. By the time I got to the part about me jumping the border, they had sat down around the table and were shooting curious glances at me. I could tell that they had many questions. I only wanted to know what would happen to me.

  “So here we are. You know everything now,” I said.

  “I was right. You had a secret. I just didn’t know it was something this big. Something this strange.”

  Another short silence followed. I remained kneeling on the ground, staring at the dirty floor below me. I could see shell casings from the gun that had been pointed and fired at me. I wondered if I would ever find out my actual fate. Was the universe playing some sick trick on me?

  I felt defeated. I no longer controlled my fate. The powers that be were in control. If it wasn’t the U.S. government, it was now the drug cartel boss who sat behind the desk. It seemed that everyone around me was attempting to rob me of something. I didn’t know if it was my dignity or my future. To be honest, it was most likely both.

  “What are we going to do with him?” one of the goons asked.

  The man in the white suit shrugged. He was speechless. I could tell that his anger had subsided, and he was a lot more subdued. “What can we do with somebody like him? I mean, he is immortal. We can’t shoot him. We can’t do anything,” the fat man said, his eyes still fixed on mine.

  “How about we cut him up into little pieces? See if he survives that. I’m pretty sure that if we take every damn piece of him away, there wouldn’t be much of him left to be walking around. Then we’d know if he is truly immortal,” Hector said.

  The man in the white suit casually got up and reached behind him. He pulled out something shiny. It was a serrated knife. It was about six inches long and three inches wide. He didn’t say a word. He walked up behind Hector, who was still giving me the evil eye. The man in the white suit winked at me, and then out of the blue stuck the thick knife into Hector’s right ear. Hector’s eyes rolled back into their sockets. Blood sprayed out of his nose and mouth. Seconds passed, and the man in the white suit pulled the knife out of the henchman’s ear. A chunk of something fleshy hung on the end of the knife. Hector face-planted on the desk, making a large cracking sound on impact.

  “I told him to shut the fuck up at least ten minutes ago,” the man in the white suit said.

  The other two henchmen didn’t flinch. They were too busy staring at me. One of them even smiled at me. I couldn’t tell what was going on, but I did know that these men were animals and I would have been better off dead. God only knew what they were planning.

  “Now, let’s get back to business,” the man in the white suit said.

  Fifty-Four

  We had been waiting for ten minutes after the man in the white suit had made the phone call. I didn’t catch what he said to whoever was on the other end, but it sounded important. The man in the suit was short on the phone. He had yelled a few times and then, as if by a flick of the switch, had begun to talk in a calmer manner. The phone was then slammed on the desk, and the fat man went quiet.

  We remained silent until somebody knocked on the door behind me. By then I had been given the luxury of a chair to sit on. The hostility in the room was still ever present. I could see that the fat man was angry at me. I had no idea why, but I guess I had gone and ruined his day. Hector was still face down on the desk. By the time this new person entered the cellar office, Hector’s blood had coagulated on the wooden surface. It was dripping into pools on the floor. A dark tinge of red glowed off the lampshade’s light.

  The person who entered the room was a well-dressed man of about fifty years. He was tall and well-groomed. He was carrying a little doctor’s bag. It didn’t take much brainpower to guess who he was. And, judging by the expression on his face, he didn’t like dealing with the fat man. He saw Hector draped over the desk and immediately went to his aid.

  “It’s too late for that one. That’s not why I called you here,” the fat man said.

  The doctor was visibly shaken and confused. “So why did you call me at all? You said it was a medical emergency. I don’t see anybody else in this room who has blood pouring out of them!” he snapped.

  The doc had an American accent. I immediately felt on edge, knowing another American was in the room. It was stupid of me, really. I shouldn’t have cared. I was surrounded by a Mexican drug lord and his two badasses. Americans were the least of my problems.

  “This one here,” the fat man said, pointing at me. I was staring at the doctor, trying to mask my fear.

  The man took one look at me and laughed. “He looks fine!” he said, half annoyed.

  “Well, he is not. NOW, DO YOUR FUCKING JOB!” the fat man yelled.

  It caught everybody off guard, including me. His outburst was powerful and rang in our ears. He was the stereotypical gangster boss, heavy-handed, with great big fists and a set of lungs on him that could tear down the walls from their foundations.

  “What exactly is wrong with him?” the doc said, leaning down on one knee while rooting through his bag. He pulled out a stethoscope and some other instruments I didn’t recognize. They were all metallic and glinted with a sterile gleam.

  “This one here has no heart rate,” the fat man said.

  The doctor shook his head in disagreement. “He looks just fine to me. If he was suffering from a heart attack, he’d be much like the other gentleman on the table there, minus the blood pouring out of his skull.”

  The fat man put a heavy hand on the doctor’s shoulder and squeezed down, much like he did to me earlier on.

  “Listen here, you piece of trash. Do as I say, or I will dissect you!”

  The doctor nodded his head emphatically. I could see a hot flush run through his face. He was nearly crapping himself. I decided to intervene.

  “The fat man is right,” I said, to the surprise of everybody in the room. “I have no heart rate. Go ahead and check.”

  The man in the suit let the doctor’s shoulder go and glared at me. “I’m not fat,” he snapped.

  “Well, you don’t look thin,” I replied.

  The man’s face grew red with anger. “How dare you call me names? Do you not know who I am?”

  I shook my head. “You haven’t told me your name. How else am I supposed to know who the fuck you are?”

  The fat man pushed the doctor away from me. He toppled to the floor face down, knocking the contents of his bag all over the place. The man in the suit grabbed me by the neck and squeezed really hard.

  “You listen here, you little prick. You aren’t to know who I am. It isn’t of importance to you. Would you question God as to His name if He stood in front of you?”

  I didn’t answer.

  “No, you would not. You see, I am God. I am your God, and you will do as I say. And I’m telling you to SHUT THE FUCK UP!”

  He released his grip on my neck and wiped his hands on his sides. He looked down at the doctor, who was reaching for his instruments.

  “Let me know what you find. I will be back,” he said, signaling one of his other men to follow him. They walked out of the office, leaving me and the doctor in the company of a henchman looking on from afar. This one didn’t say anything. He just stood there and watched.

  The doctor looked at me with an apologetic half smile on his face. “I’m sorry about this. It will be over before you know it.”

  Fifty-Five

  “I need you to take
a deep breath in and then exhale on my count,” the doctor said to me as he placed his stethoscope on my back.

  I did as he asked, even knowing what I knew. There was a moment of silence, and then he twitched a little.

  “Breath in again, please.”

  I did as he asked. Suddenly he walked around the chair and looked me in the eyes. He parted my eyelids and shone a light into my retina. I was a little dazed by the bright light, but I didn’t complain. He then placed his fingers on my neck and felt for a pulse.

  “Impossible,” he muttered under his breath. He felt for a pulse again. I could tell by the expression on his face that he wasn’t happy with the results.

  Without saying anything else, he ripped my shirt open.

  “Hey, man!” I protested.

  “Shut up!” he yelled. “I’m trying to work.”

  A minute or so passed. He did more tests on me. He listened for my heartbeat. He poked me with a sharp stick. He hit me on the kneecaps with a rubber hammer. Everything he did seemed to reveal a look of disbelief on his face. He was nearly speechless. The more he did, the whiter his complexion got. Before he finished prodding me with sticks and whatnot, he was as white as a ghost. He looked as dead as I felt.

  “I don’t understand. This isn’t possible,” he said, taking out a syringe from his bag.

  He pricked me with the needle and attempted to draw blood. He pulled back on the plunger and nothing came out. His complexion went an even whiter color.

  “Have you taken anything? Beta blockers? Adrenaline? Have you got any chest pain? Tightness? Shortness of breath?”

  I sat there and started laughing uncontrollably.

  “What? What’s so damn funny?” he asked.

  “Can’t you see that I’m dead? You did your tests, and I’m dead. Why don’t you just say it and be done with it?” I snapped in reply.