Messenger of Death (21 page)

“Be quiet,” he
said. Shifter froze, as if paralyzed. “You’ll do whatever I say,
deadbeat—Understand?”

Without waiting
for a reply, Ogre took him by the collar, yanked him out, and
pushed through the back door into the middle of the rear seat.
Stanley went around the car and jumped in on the other side.
Shifter, squeezed between two gangsters, didn’t utter a sound.

“Go,” Stanley
commanded.

Camilla began
driving, following his turn-by-turn directions. She didn’t know
this part of town and had no idea where Stanley wanted to go. They
entered a huge new housing development that didn’t yet have
streetlights. Under the blinking stars the unfinished homes looked
like ancient ruins.

“What do you
want from me, guys?” Shifter asked at last. “What do you want?
Where are we going?”

“Go a bit
farther,” Stanley kept saying. “To the end of this street.”

“Hey, guys.”
Shifter’s voice began trembling. “Are you crazy?” He made an
attempt to move. Camilla heard a dull sound. Shifter screamed.

“Stop here,”
Stanley instructed when she reached an unusually large, almost
finished house. She obeyed. Stanley got out and in one sweep pulled
the hostage out of the car. Ogre quickly came around. They took
Shifter by the arms and dragged him into the black doorway. Camilla
lowered the window. As in the grip of a nightmare, she listened to
the agitated, muffled voices coming from inside, probably from the
basement. She recognized Stanley’s angry voice, but couldn’t make
out what he was saying. Next, a yell of pain shuddered the walls of
the house; Shifter began shrieking words, very quick words. His
speech kept getting faster and faster, as if he was suddenly in a
great rush to tell something very important for his life. Soon, his
words became unrecognizable streams, and his screams became
intolerable. Camilla had heard this kind of sound in her childhood
when her mother had taken her to a farm—the farmer’s son had been
trying to kill a pig with his knife, but obviously lacked the
skills and experience to do it quickly. At that time, she had
thought it funny to listen to a desperately squealing animal with a
knife in its body. This time, she covered her ears with both hands,
but to no avail.

Then, the
revolting sound began growing weaker and weaker.

Until it
stopped.

In a strange
way, the silence that followed was even more frightening than the
commotion that preceded it. She heard the rustle of steps inside
the house, and a few moments later she noticed Stanley and Ogre
appearing on the porch.

“Give me the
wheel.” Stanley pulled the driver’s door open as Camilla crawled
over to the passenger seat. Ogre climbed into the rear. Stanley
stepped on the gas.

“Did you kill
him?” Camilla whispered. Her vocal cords failed to produce a
sound.

“I told him
that no human could tolerate torture for long. He didn’t believe
me. It could’ve been much easier for him. The stupid ass! It wasn’t
the best time for him to play a tough guy.”

“Who was he?”
Camilla asked.

“A dealer. He
worked with the Devil’s Knights.”

“Take me back
to the bar—,” she reminded him, “I left my car there.”

Stanley nodded.
They drove in silence all the way. When they pulled up beside her
car, she stepped out without looking back.

“I’ll call you
tomorrow,” Stanley said at the last moment.

She didn’t
respond.

Back at home,
she threw herself on the bed and closed her eyes. The terrifying,
muffled shrieks of the tortured man rang in her ears. Her happy,
adventurous world, saturated with love, interesting encounters, and
the joy of being—all of a sudden had become a huge, horrific
battleground, populated by monsters. The memory of a pig’s shriek—a
call for mercy from a terrified, dying animal—caused spasms in her
stomach. She rushed to the bathroom and bent over the toilet,
vomiting violently. Exhausted, she went back to the bed and fell on
it, unable to think, unable to feel anything but angst. She was in
a stupor. Seeking refuge from the world, she hid her head under the
pillows, and closed her eyes, but then the endless darkness became
populated by the shadows of real-world savages and terrified her
even more. She spent the whole night wandering between the fright
of dreams and the horrors of reality. As morning neared, just as
she finally grew exhausted and distanced enough to fall asleep, she
heard the familiar sound of a key opening the lock of her door.
When Stanley came in, she was already sitting up on the bed.

“You didn’t
sleep tonight,” he said gently, sitting beside her. She nodded her
head in agreement and covered her face with both hands. Stanley put
an arm on her shoulders.

“Don’t be so
upset,” he said. “You’re not in danger. If worse comes to worst,
you won’t be involved.”

“I can’t live
like this anymore,” she said. “We have to split.”

“Split?” he
repeated.

“Yes. I love
you, Stanley, but your life isn’t for me. Finish with it and come
back to me. I’d be the happiest woman in the world if you did.”

After a short
pause, he said, “Actually, it’s not a bad idea to split for awhile.
There’s been a lot of heat on me lately. Let the dust settle, and
we’ll talk later.”

Stanley kissed
her, but she didn’t respond. He rose to his feet and left.

Chapter 5

I

“Here. Now,
relax for awhile.” Marcel handed him a thick stack of money as
payment for the last hit. “Stay low, but be ready. You deserved a
rest.”

“I feel good,”
Claude objected. “No need to relax.”

He wanted to
work more so he could rent a condo in a better location and take a
trip with Leila to Las Vegas. In spite of the good pay that Marcel
provided, money was in short supply.

“One has to
have a rest once in awhile,” Marcel insisted. “Make it your habit.
Stress will eventually take its toll. Don’t worry so much about
work: there’s plenty.”

A bit of rest
wouldn’t be that bad, Claude admitted to himself. No matter what
other people might think, contract hits, in his opinion, did take
nerve. The target could easily become a hunter and shoot back; if
the Iron Ghosts caught wind of him, they’d be after him the rest of
his life; there was no way to know what evidence the police might
find after a crime—he could be locked up for good. Twenty-five
years in jail without a chance for parole would be a bitter pill to
swallow.

Leila welcomed
the idea of a vacation with smiles and kisses.

“Let’s travel
on your bike,” she suggested. “I’ve had a few such trips when I
lived in B.C. They were fun!”

Kicking the
hell out of his mighty Harley Davidson, Claude made Leila scream
and squeal on the rear seat. From the driver’s seat, he felt the
warm air of late summer blowing in his face, smelled the aroma of
the pine trees, and saw the fading freshness of the green leaves.
They traveled through the rural part of the province where highways
cut through dense expanses of forest. This was the area of summer
cottages and vacation resorts, scattered on the shores of rivers
and lakes. Sometimes it took them more than an hour to drive from
one small village to another. In the rugged terrain, his bike could
reach the top of a hill at 90 miles per hour. When he looked down,
a breathtaking view of rivers and lakes spread out below him, with
colorful dots of cottages and yachts that made him feel like he was
flying in space. The unrestricted freedom to move in any direction
was unreal and intoxicating.

This was the
first vacation in his life. Yet, even in the midst of all this
wonder, he sometimes wanted to take immediate action without
thought of consequences; to release brutal force; to unleash his
sadistic temper at the slightest suspicion of disrespect from a
stranger. Years at the bottom of society and in jail, where he had
been treated with neglect and humiliation, made his pride the
sorest spot of his being. Revenge against all humanity was the
feeling that stayed inside him at all times.

In the evenings
though, sitting with Leila along the quiet shore of a secluded
lake, he was peaceful and relaxed. They smoked pot, swam in
refreshing lake waters, and enjoyed each other in their motel room.
Leila knew too well how to please him to exhaustion.

“What a good
life,” Leila said once.

“For a short
while,” Claude nodded. “It’s getting boring, though. I already want
to be back where the action is.”

“I wanna piece
of the action, too. Is there anything I can do for yah?”

“Nah. Not, now.
Maybe later.”

“We spend your
money pretty fast,” Leila warned. “I could push lots of stuff in
the bars, if you’d let me.”

“Never.”

“Did you know
we have only $500 left from what we brought with us?” she
asked.

“Shit.
How—?”

“You don’t
count money when you spend it. It’s that simple.”

“We have lots
of money back home. But you’re right. Money goes fast. Let’s go
back tomorrow morning. Maybe a job’s already waiting for me.”

When they
returned home, he found that nobody from the club was looking for
him. Marcel had gone on vacation with his family and had left no
instructions for Claude.

He decided to
visit the Devil’s Knights club, hoping that some of the full
patches would need a gun for hire. Nobody did. In fact, a rumour
was circulating that some of the bosses were secretly negotiating a
truce with the Iron Ghosts. If that ever happened, Claude thought,
he would be in deep shit: Contract killing was the only job he
really liked to do. A truce with the Ghosts would mean fewer jobs
and less money.

In the
evenings, he kept busy assembling his own crew for whatever might
come up. He searched for former inmate pals, and made new
acquaintances, as well. Most of his meetings were in bars, where he
impressed his buddies with the rolls of cash he used to pay for
drinks. Flattered by their respect, Claude nonetheless kept in mind
that the purpose of these expenses was to understand who was who
among them: who was reliable, who was not; who was good for
something, who was good for nothing.

By the end of
the third week, his finances had been depleted more quickly than
expected. He stared blankly out the window of their apartment,
sitting at the table and drinking coffee. It was a late sunny
morning at the beginning of September. The foliage was still green
but had lost its luster of youth and vigor of growth. The fragrance
of the approaching fall was in the air.

“You don’t look
happy today,” Leila observed. She was sitting across the table,
looking at him with the anxious attention of a loving woman.

“Very little
left of my money.” Claude frowned. “I have to think what to do
next.”

“Let’s do
something together,” Leila suggested.

“Again this
crap? Stop it. You get on my nerves.”

“I can do many
things,” Leila insisted. “I like doing things. It’s boring to do
nothing.”

“I’ve already
heard that. What would you like to do? Dance?”

“What’s wrong
with that? If you like, I could sell coke. I’d find people who’d
buy it from us.”

The telephone
rang. Still looking at Leila with wondering eyes, he picked up the
receiver.

“Hello,” he
said.

“Can we meet
today?” It was Stash.

“Sure. Where
and when?”

“In my office,”
Stash said. Claude smiled. What kind of damn office did this biker
have?

“Jot down the
address,” Stash continued in a businesslike tone. “You’ll find me
on the second floor.”

The receiver
clicked. Claude stood up and began to dress.

“It seems that
I won’t need your help for awhile. But we’ll get back to it
later.”

With very
little effort, he found the 2-storey building at the address Stash
had given him. A small plate above the door bore a sign: Business
Center. Claude pushed the handle and stepped into a small hallway
that had a desk placed by the wall. On the desk, an “Information”
sign had been affixed. The man sitting behind it stared at Claude
with a blank face, as if requesting an explanation for his
intrusion.

“May I help
you?” he asked Claude, looking him up and down, as if ready to pick
a fight.

“My name is
Claude.”

“Oh, yes.” The
tone of the information man changed at once. “Please proceed to the
second floor, room 219.”

Claude climbed
the stairs and entered the corridor, which had a few doors on both
sides. At the end, Stash stood waiting for him.

Took two
seconds for the security man to notify him, Claude thought.

“Come in,”
Stash invited. Dressed in a long-sleeved white shirt and
well-ironed pants, he had the appearance of an eccentric
businessman.

“This is my
office,” he said with a note of pride, letting Claude in. After
closing the door, he settled into a chair at the large wooden desk.
The surface was littered with papers, stationery, and plastic cups.
Two large pictures, one with a winter landscape and another with a
summer one, decorated the walls to the left and right. Behind Stash
was a window that overlooked a backyard.

“This building
belongs to me,” Stash said. The pouches under his eyes were a bit
smaller than they had been at the time of the midsummer party.
“Most of it is leased to different companies. I took only two rooms
at this end.”

“What’s up?”
asked Claude.

“You forgot? I
told you at the party that I have a collection agency. Remember? It
is called ‘Comfort Collections.’ Most of my clients are very happy
with the job we do.”

“Yes, I
remember. What do you want me to do?”

“Let’s go out
and talk it over. I like fresh air.”

He pulled open
a drawer, removed a small binder, stood up, and led the way out.
They passed the information man, who gave them a nod of respect,
and then went out to the street. After a short walk, they turned in
to a small park with a few vacant benches. Stash sat on one of them
and invited Claude to take the place beside him.