by Jeff Klima
“No, sir.” I add the “sir” because I feel like I should be officious in the presence of this important-looking man. “Your son attempted to saddle me with that task against my will.”
“And how were you to do it?” he asks, unwavering in his tone. I glance around, noting that the door to the office is open behind us, the guard standing in the hallway, always alert.
“With this,” I say, and produce the bottle of aconite from my pocket, setting it on the desk and then sliding it forward toward him. Ivy is, impressively for her, silent. “I was to slip it into your scotch tonight at the Biltmore.”
He does not reach for the bottle, but lets it sit on the desk between us. “Why did he recruit you for this . . . murder?”
“He framed me for a different murder and then used it as leverage against me. He thought I would be smart enough to pull it off.”
“I see,” George responds, drawing his fingers to his chin to mull over my words. “You know my son well?” he asks finally.
“We’ve become acquainted,” I say.
“Why did you come to me with this revelation?”
“Mikey might have had an accident last night. He might have been killed. Then again, he might not have been. I thought that you should be made aware in either case.”
The man takes the news as he has taken everything so far—with silent indifference. “And I saw you had a bag with you. What of that?”
I take the skull carefully from the bag and place it on the desk as well. “I believe this is your wife’s skull,” I say. “Mikey had a collection of skulls. I thought you might want this. As proof.” I do not slide the skull forward, nor does he reach for it, but I have positioned it on the desk with the blunt-impact wound facing toward him. “I know your wife disappeared years ago. I think this demonstrates she might have instead been murdered. By Mikey.”
“I see,” George says, staring at it. He slides the bottle of aconite to him now, holding it in his hand, but not looking at it. “I see now why my son chose you for this task. You’re very direct.” Using his thumb, he uncaps the aconite, its metal top dropping off below his desk.
Sidelong, I glance at Ivy. She looks as equally concerned as I feel. “Well, I must say,” George says, lifting the bottle to his nose, smelling it. “It’s good to see Anjali again.” Sighing, he puts the poison to his lips and drinks it all.
Chapter 29
“No!” Ivy and I both yelp, but the poison is gone. George Echo calmly sets the bottle back on the table and looks at me.
“Now was that so hard?” he asks.
“I don’t understand,” I say, staring at the man, expecting the symptoms of the aconite to kick in at any moment. Neither he nor his guard in the hallway seem particularly concerned.
“Had that gotten into my good Macallan, it would have killed me,” he says, matter-of-factly. “It’s water.”
“Water?” Ivy asks.
“Yes, my dear,” George Echo says, rather sympathetically. “Perhaps I can explain . . .”
“I think you damn well better,” she snaps.
“I was going to say, perhaps I can explain,” George says, cross, “but I think my son would do a better job.” He gestures to the doorway behind us where Mikey now stands, smirking.
“Hello, Tom, Ivy,” he says, sauntering into the room to take a place next to me. “Did you really think that you could kill me that easily?”
“I kind of hoped,” I admit.
“Me too,” Ivy adds.
“I’m glad to disappoint you, then. If it makes you feel better, your little siege got Doug killed. Poor bastard.”
“How did you escape?” I ask.
“Well, since you stole my elevator, I had to go to plan B—I have a panic room.”
“We don’t even know what that is,” Ivy retorts haughtily.
“I do,” I say to her, quiet.
“Well, I don’t, so what is it?”
“It’s like a secure hidden room that he can hide in that no one can get into,” I explain quickly.
“Oh wow, they have those?” she says, momentarily forgetting where we are.
“They’re pretty useful if someone breaks in . . . or a gang of Mexican bandits is ushered in,” Mikey agrees pointedly. “Once inside, I called my father who dispatched his men to take care of them. My security cameras actually caught all the footage—pretty brutal stuff. The Internet is gonna love it.”
“Why the whole spectacle? Why did you want me to think I was trying to kill your father?” I exclaim.
“My son and I have a little bet in place,” George says. “He thinks that my security team is an unnecessary extravagance and that no one is trying to kill me so I don’t need them.”
“Well, the bet was that you’d be easy to kill with or without your guys,” Mikey explains to him. “I got the right guy to prove it, he just got too clever for his own good.”
“How much was the bet?” Ivy asks, caught up in it.
“One buck.” George laughs. “Just like my favorite movie, Trading Places. Speaking of which, pay up.” He extends his hand to his son, who thumbs through the bills in his wallet, selects one and hands it over. I feel a swath of anger flare up on my neck, heating it, and I have to remind myself that there is an armed man right outside, capable of lethally stopping me from effectively unleashing my rage.
“So what happens now?” I snap, interrupting the father/son love-in, disgusted at being neutered by their armed guards. “The bet’s over, can we go?”
“Oh sure,” Mikey says. “You’re totally just gonna let this go, right? You’re not the type to, I don’t know, seek revenge, are you?”
“We can totally forget this ever happened,” Ivy promises.
“They’re not going to let us go, sweetheart,” I explain to her.
“Tom’s right,” Mikey says to her sweetly. “He has caused me considerable trouble—especially what he did to my skull collection. That you saved my mother’s skull is the only reason I haven’t used this”—he pulls the gold Desert Eagle from the back of his waistband—“to beat your own skull into a pulp right now.”
“That’s an odd sentiment, considering you killed her,” I point out.
“I think you should understand that my wife sacrificed herself to allow my son to become a strong-willed man,” says George. “Wherever she is, I am sure she is looking down upon him with pride for his many successes . . . and the successes still to come.”
“And, believe me, I grieve for it every day in my own special manner,” Mikey says pointedly. “I think my house is a shrine to that moment. And what you tried to do to me and my shrine, Tom, well that was sacrilege. And just so you know, I am paying a small fortune for that cleanup. You missed out on some lucrative work.”
“So if you aren’t going to let us go, what are you going to do? Kill us?” Ivy persists.
“That’s exactly what they’re going to do,” I tell her.
“No! Over a one-dollar bet?” she asks, horrified.
“Now you see why I don’t like this town,” I say quietly.
“Good for you, son,” George says to me. “I never cared for Hollywood either. The Echo name, it belongs in Los Angeles though. We were land developers, helped start this town. Movies became the dominant industry and we went in that direction. We should have stayed in land.”
“No, no, Pop,” Mikey says. “Movies are more glamorous. If you ever went out to Echo Park, you’d see why the land is terrible to have our name attached to it. We have much more control over the end product with film.”
“I’ve seen some of the movies you’ve attached our name to, Mike, don’t use that line on me,” George Echo admonishes his son.
Mikey opens his mouth to retort, but I interrupt. “Can you just do whatever you’re going to do with us and then argue? I’ve heard all the speeches I ever want to hear from you two.”
George Echo bristles at that. “People don’t ever speak to me that way in this town, boy. I ought to have you shot
just for that.”
“Now we’re getting somewhere,” I say.
George signals the guard in the hallway, but Mikey puts a halt to that. “No, Dad. Tom has earned a good death scene. He’s mouthy because he knows he’s going to die anyway. What Tom fails to understand is that death doesn’t have to be instantaneous. It can be slow, protracted, and painful. Really painful.”
“Well, it’s your show,” George says, splaying out his hands. “What do you suggest?”
“It’s such a nice day. Why don’t we all head out on the water?”
Chapter 30
Ivy and I ride in George Echo’s touring car, a large beast of a Rolls-Royce with the rear seats inverted to face one another. George sits between two of his commandos, facing us, their guns pointed at our chests, with two more guards up front. Mikey has run off to get some supplies, taking his Ferrari from the garage, and will evidently meet us down at his boat slip in Marina del Rey. At the house, George took his time changing into a light linen suit. The rest of us have to make do in our street clothes.
“I’m pregnant, does that change anything?” Ivy asks George as we cruise the 405 freeway, heading south to the water.
“My son killed his mother,” George remarks thoughtfully and not unpleasantly. “Of course I knew. I took it as a sign that he was ready to be a man, to carry on the Echo name. I was worried initially that he’d be strong enough—my own parents were not pleased that I’d taken an Indian woman for a wife, but they were old-fashioned. As you can see, despite his theatrical tendencies, he’s quite iron blooded.”
“I feel like my child should get the chance to make up its own mind if it wants to kill me, right?” she tries again.
“You’re a pretty girl,” George says. “I want to see you naked before you are killed. I haven’t been with a woman since my wife. Never thought any other girl could ever measure up to her. True love, you see.”
“I will let you see my tits right now if you let us go,” she offers. She doesn’t notice, but the two guards share glances.
“Just stop, Ivy,” I say. “He isn’t going to let us go.”
“Well I don’t want to die. So it never hurts to ask.”
“I don’t want to die either, but this old fuck is just delighting in you begging. It’s the sort of thing that gets him off,” I snap. “He likes the power.”
“You talk about me as if I have no feelings at all. I’m not a psychopath,” George assures us. “But death interests me. It’s like witnessing art made in sand. It lasts only briefly, but the beauty of the act lasts forever, up here.” He taps his temple sagely as if he’s just spouted a secret of the universe.
“If you’re not a psychopath, you’re definitely insane,” Ivy says, and I nod.
“Success is the only antidote to insanity.” George smiles.
The guard up front lowers his window when we hit a less populated stretch of road and discreetly drops mine and Ivy’s confiscated phones from the car and down onto the highway below. I turn my head to watch them bounce into pieces, annoyed. “Damn it, I just bought that,” I complain.
“Don’t worry,” the man says in his choppy accented English. “You will not need them again.”
When we get to the marina, the guards hide their weapons, but walk two in front, two behind us. “Don’t call out to any of the other captains or entertain notions of escape,” George says, giving a polite wave to another elderly man working on a boat. “There’s no reason anyone else should have to die with you. Maintain a sense of quiet dignity throughout and you will earn my respect at least. I promise you, there is a great sense of pride in having the Echo name vouch for you, even in death.”
The guards evidently know where they are going and steer us toward Mikey’s yacht, a large silver vessel, maybe ninety feet in length and gleaming brilliantly in the sun. “The Oneida,” I read the name, written in elegant script across its bow. “Isn’t that a potato?”
“That’s Ore-Ida, Tom,” Mikey says, extending his head over the side of the ship.
“I thought you had to get supplies,” I say, surprised.
“I got ’em already. The old man drives slow.”
“Hey, I stay alive,” George snaps back. “People in this town are dangerous behind the wheel.”
“Welcome aboard,” Mikey greets us as we are herded up the stairs and onto the opulent cruiser. A silver Zodiac inflatable boat is anchored to the back, behind a vacant landing pad for a helicopter, and with the below-deck portion, there appear to be five levels to the massive yacht.
“The captain is on his way,” Mikey says, more to his father. “Scrambling for short notice.” He then turns to the guards. “Take them below and make sure they are comfortable. Not too comfortable though.”
We are firmly moved down the stairs by two of the men and into an impressive lounge area made up of black linen couches and matching chairs. The interiors are red and more of Mikey’s haunting, twisted art makes up the decor. “Christ, this guy is a weirdo,” I say and one of the guards lets out a snorting chuckle. If I think that might endear us to him though, I am wrong. He is the first to pull out zip ties and roughly bind my ankles and my wrists in front, the sharp plastic biting tightly into my skin, doing damage when I try to move against them. Ivy gets the same treatment and yelps in pain when they cinch her wrists. Before her guard pushes her down on the couch, he reaches inside her shirt to expose her breasts for his friend. They leer at her, delighted.
“Get a good look, creeps,” she snarls. “You just signed your death warrant. When we get out of this, my boyfriend is going to cut your throats.”
They look at me and my slim frame and laugh. Even I blush, ashamed by the reality of the situation. Her tits tucked back away by a different guard, Ivy is pushed down next to me, and we are left alone to think of a way out of this mess.
As soon as the guards have gone topside, I begin working on the wrist ties. They are thicker than normal though, and no amount of working on them does anything to give me more mobility.
“Are we going to die, Tom?” Ivy asks, wilted.
“We very well might,” I promise her. It isn’t what she wants to hear, but I’m not going to sugarcoat it. “But, hey, no matter what, let’s not make it easy for them to kill us. I want you to try like hell to be the most obnoxious person they’ve ever killed, okay?”
“I can definitely do that,” Ivy agrees, morose.
Around us, the boat’s massive engines fire to life, sending an ominous rumble through the furniture. “Well, whatever happens now,” I say, “it looks like it’s going to happen in the open ocean.”
I hop to my feet and begin the process of working my way over to the curved bar set up in the corner of the boat, the bottles of alcohol anchored into wooden cubbies. “Hopefully there’s a knife or something sharp back here,” I tell her. “Or if nothing else, I can break a bottle and use the glass like a saw.”
“I’ll check those drawers,” Ivy says, nodding toward a set of them below cabinets along the side wall. She too begins a sort of hop-step toward them and it does my heart good to see her not just giving up and wallowing in self-pity.
“If we were to get out of this . . . and that’s a big if . . . I might have to kill some people. I know I told you I wouldn’t, but—”
“Jesus, Tom, please,” Ivy snaps. “Kill them all. Just get us the fuck out of this.”
“Will do,” I say, chastened. At the bar, my fingers dig around in the cupboards but come up empty.
“Did you two think I’d leave a knife or a corkscrew just lying around for you to find?” Mikey says, entering the lounge from above. He drinks a glass-bottled Coke and smiles. “Ivy, hopefully you got a chance to look at Virginia Rappe’s grave the other night? Poor girl. Must have hurt her a lot the way she died.”
“Don’t you fucking dare,” I threaten him.
Mikey takes one last swig from the glass bottle and smiles, positioning the bottle on the counter by the stairs. He then yells out to the guard
s on deck. “Hey, can we get someone down here to anchor these two better?”
Ivy and I, now tied together, sit under the watchful eye of an Israeli guard who casually sits, one leg crossed atop the other, in a chair across from us. The boat slightly dips and rises with the motion of the waves.
“If I show you my boobs again, will you let us go?” Ivy asks the man. He laughs and then shakes his head.
“They are . . . old news. They were lovely though,” he admits with his heavy accent.
After an hour of hard churning, the motors cut out. A moment later, the sound of chain being unspooled sounds toward the front of the ship. “Anchor,” I say quietly when Ivy lifts her head away from mine at the noise. Mikey walks down the stairs, his brown hands extended in front of him, stained red with blood. “I think we’re just about ready,” he says to me as he walks toward the sink behind the bar to wash.
“What did you do?” Ivy asks, horrified. “Did you kill your dad?”
“These?” he laughs, holding his hands up briefly before dunking them into the running water in the sink. “No, I’ve been chumming—throwing fish guts off the side.”
“Why?” she persists.
“It attracts sharks,” I say quietly.
“I don’t like sharks,” Ivy says. “They’re probably my least favorite animal.”
“Oh, don’t worry,” Mikey says, staining an Egyptian cotton hand towel with the residual blood. “You’ll be dead before you go in the water, Ivy. You will, at least. Tom, I think, will have to suffer a bit more. Sharks though. How fucking James Bond villain of me right?” He turns to the guard. “Cut their legs free and bring them upstairs.” Mikey disappears topside, leaving us alone with the guard again.
The ex-commando holsters his pistol and produces a stiletto. The military-grade blade pops up from the handle with an eerie snap and looks razor sharp. He stands before us, menacing. “I can kill you with just my thumbs,” he warns, swinging the weapon artfully across his fingers. “Do not test my skills with knife.” Slicing the zip ties on our legs in two broad swipes, freeing us, he hauls Ivy to her feet. “Get up,” he says to me, less considerately. Rolling forward, I am able to push my fists off the couch and rise to join them. “We walk,” he says, taking pains to move Ivy forward, placing his hands on her body with me bringing up the rear behind them. My eyes are less focused on what he’s doing to my girl and more focused on the glass Coke bottle sitting on the counter near the stairs. From my perspective, it’s our best chance.