Messenger of Death (32 page)

“Yes,” Claude
answered excitedly. He stepped up to the table, unbuttoned his
jacket, and threw the roll of bills down in front of her.

“Wow!” Leila
cried. She glanced up at him, a look of surprise and curiosity on
her face.

“An advance on
a job,” Claude explained, throwing his leather jacket and pants on
the sofa.

“What job?”
Leila asked as she lazily picked up his clothes.

“A very
interesting job,” he said. “And . . . there’ll be something for you
to do, as well.”

He took her in
his arms, a move that made her think he wanted sex. She leaned
forward submissively. Instead of the expected, though, he whispered
in her ear: “This fuckhead Stanley, the one who shot me . . .
Remember?” Leila nodded. “I found out what bar he frequents. You’ll
dance there and take him out to our place.”

Leila’s head
jerked back as she realized what Claude was saying. She stared at
him with round, scared eyes.

“You wanna kill
him?” she asked.

“Sure.”

“What if
someone at the bar hits on me? It’s hard to dodge those guys if
they want a girl, you know.”

“Don’t you
worry. Hans will take you there and tell the owner that you’re his
old lady,” Claude kept whispering. “I’m sure that it won’t take
long until Stanley zeroes in on you. You’ve gotta tell him he’ll
get to fuck only at your place. That’s it.”

“And,” she
nodded toward the money on the table, “that’s the payment for the
hit?”

“This is only
an advance. Much more is coming.”

“They’ll be
after us for the rest of our lives,” she said. She pressed her
cheek against his.

“They’ll never
know who did it,” Claude said with confidence. “Right after that,
we’ll move away, to another place. Maybe we’ll travel for a few
months. Our club will arrange us a place in B.C.—we have a chapter
there.”

“What’s next,
then?”

“I’ll talk to
Hans tomorrow morning. We need a big car for this. Hans will help.”
Claude tightened his embrace. “Don’t worry, Leila. This is the last
job that you’ll ever do. I’m back on my feet. We’ll have lots of
fun together.”

“I’ve never
taken part in a murder,” she whispered.

“This is the
last job, Leila. Trust me. Nobody will ever know who did it. We’ll
live in B.C. or another province. Nobody will ever recognize
you.”

IV

They sat in
darkness; the only light in the room came from some streetlights
outside. It was close to 1 o’clock in the morning, and Leila would
soon finish her last dance and come back with Stanley. Claude took
his metal rod out of the closet and wrapped it in a kitchen towel.
When he returned to the sofa, Hans was fumbling with a pack of
cigarettes. Even in the dark, Claude could see his fingers
trembling.

“What do you
need a sleeping bag for?” Hans asked, drawing in the smoke.

“We’ll wrap him
up in it. I don’t want to kill him here—just knock him out. We must
quickly put him into the sleeping bag and tie him up tight. I have
some good strong rope. In the sleeping bag, we can keep an eye on
him and make sure that he won’t be able to move. We have to take
him out and make him talk. This guy must have lots of money.”

“Something
feels wrong,” Hans said and cleared his throat.

“C’mon, Hans.
Everything’s going well. You see, he hit on Leila the very first
night he saw her. He wanted to fuck her right there in the owner’s
office. But she told him, ‘Not here, Stanley. Only in my place,
nowhere else. And not tonight, ’cause my boyfriend is gonna take me
home tonight. Let’s do it tomorrow.’”

Claude laughed.
“Clever girl, she is. He believed every single word.”

“You threw a
shovel into the car. What’s that for?”

“We have to
bury him, Hans. I know a nice place. It’s a farm, not that far of a
drive away.”

Hans
grumbled.

“Something’s
just not to my liking,” he said, shaking his head.

“Look,
everything’s going smoothly,” Claude went on, “even better than I
expected.”

“That’s what
worries me,” Hans said. “My old buddy, the one I used to take care
of cars for, always told me that if something goes too well at the
outset, expect trouble in the future. He was always right. He’s
dead now.”

The pager on
the table beeped. Claude rushed to grab it.

“I can’t
believe it,” he said in a low voice, looking at the code. “They’re
coming, Hans. Now, take this sleeping bag. We’ll pack him in it
nicely.” Claude stashed the rod under his belt. “Turn the light off
in the staircase. Hold the flashlight, just in case. Let’s go.”

He stood up and
led the way out. Hans followed with the sleeping bag, to the
staircase and then to the ground floor, where they took their
positions on both sides of the rear entrance.

After Hans
turned the light off, almost nothing could be seen inside.

“I wanna
smoke,” Hans said. “Just a few puffs.”

“No,” Claude
said with irritation in his voice. “He’d be able to smell the
smoke. This fuckhead is too fast and could have a gun.”

No single
mistake could be made with Stanley. Not one tiny error. Claude knew
too well how dangerous this Ghost was.

Twenty minutes
passed—for Claude, it seemed an eternity. How does Hans feel? he
thought. Poor devil is scared to death. Not good.

At last they
heard a car coming into the parking lot, and then they heard
approaching voices.

“Please come
in.” It was Leila.

“It’s damn dark
here,” Claude heard Stanley saying.

As soon as he
crossed the threshold, Claude hit the back of Stanley’s head with
the wrapped metal rod. Stanley fell down, not uttering a sound.

“Go home,
Leila,” Claude demanded in a low voice. “Fast—now.”

She disappeared
in an instant. Claude turned on the dim staircase light and began
spreading the sleeping bag on the floor. Hans, it seemed, had
revived. He helped with spreading the bag and putting Stanley
inside it. They pulled up the zipper, quickly wrapped their
prisoner with the nylon rope, and threw the package in the back of
a stolen Jeep.

“Is he alive?”
Hans asked, jumping into the driver’s seat.

Claude studied
Stanley’s face, which was sticking out above the top of the
sleeping bag.

“Yah, he is.
Let him relax a bit. He’ll be having a tough time tonight.”

Hans started
the car and drove out of the parking lot.

“This was a
good one,” Claude said with a contented smile. “Smooth and easy. I
told you so, Hans, I told you so. This is the first time that I’ve
ever liked Stanley. Good chap, he is, isn’t he?”

“Let’s kill him
and throw him into a lake somewhere,” suggested Hans. “Let’s just
finish him as soon as possible.”

“What’s the
rush?” Claude was in a good mood. “I can’t let my friend Stanley go
that quick.” He laughed heartily.

Stanley
groaned.

“You see, he’s
alive. I told you.” Claude was addressing Hans, but had turned his
head to make sure that Stanley heard him.

“What the fuck
is going on?” shouted Stanley in a somewhat muffled voice. He began
twisting, kicking, and shaking, trying to free himself from the
tight rope.

“Hi, Stanley,”
Claude turned in the seat and greeted him. “Did you sleep well? Do
you remember me?”

“What the fuck
you are doing?” Stanley shouted again. “What do you want?”

“I wanna kill
you, my friend.” Claude couldn’t help but laugh. “I love killing my
old friends.”

“You’ll pay for
this, ” Stanley said. “You’d better let me go.”

Claude uttered
his rowdy laugh.

“It’s too late
for making bargains,” he said in mocking regret. “How’d yah prefer
me to kill yah?”

“Stop it,”
shouted Stanley again. “Stop it.”

“He doesn’t
want us to kill him.” Now Claude was pretending to address Hans.
“What should we do?”

“Forget it.
Let’s finish him as soon as possible.” Hans was angry and nervous,
but Claude dismissed it.

“Actually, I
know what we can do . . . ,” Claude said slowly, as if in thought.
“He doesn’t want us to kill him, so let’s not kill him. Let’s bury
him alive. Eh?” Claude leaned back, roaring with laugher.

“Are you
serious?” Hans asked.

“You know me,
Hans. And you know me, Stanley, don’t you?” He turned back again,
as if to make sure that Stanley heard him.

“Let me go!”
Stanley sounded nearly crazy. “Let me the hell go!”

Claude uttered
his rowdy laugh again. He was very excited with this opportunity
for an easy kill.

“Drop it,
Claude,” Hans insisted. “Let’s finish this. My rule is, the
quicker, the better. Let’s not take a chance.”

“You fucking
idiots!” Stanley resumed his shouting. “What do you want? Tell me
what you want. Maybe we could make a deal.”

Claude turned
back.

“You can’t
bargain your way out of your grave,” he said. “But if you tell me
where you keep your money, I’ll shoot you in the head—a nice, quick
death for such a pig as yourself.”

“At home. In
the basement. Let me go, guys, and I’ll give you all my money.”

“Where in the
basement?” Claude asked. To his surprise, the response was
silence.

“I’ll make him
talk,” Claude announced, as if speaking to himself. “He’ll talk.
Stop the car.”

“Hold it!”
Stanley resumed talking. “In the right corner of the basement. The
last three tiles cover a metal case. The money’s there.”

Hans uttered a
gurgling sound, as if rinsing his throat.

“How much is
there?” Claude asked.

“Four-hundred
thousand and something.”

Claude and Hans
fell silent.

“Where do you
live?” Claude asked. This time there was no sadistic note in his
voice.

“187 Parkdale
Crescent. But you couldn’t get in there. It’s a tricky system. Take
me there and I’ll get you the money.”

Claude looked
back at the rear seat, where Stanley was wrapped in the sleeping
bag. Hans drove in silence. In the meantime, Claude was thinking
hard and fast. A new, completely different game had started. He had
no doubt that Stanley was telling the truth. The punishment for
such a lie would be horrific. It was unlikely that Stanley would
want to complicate his predicament further. What Stanley was
probably hoping was that once Claude and Hans had their hands on
his money, they would kill him quickly and painlessly, a much
better end than going through the horrors of being buried
alive.

On the other
hand, Stanley might also be hoping that with such temptation,
Claude and Hans would fight with each other for the treasure.

“Go that way.”
Claude pointed a finger to the left.

“Why?” asked
Hans in surprise. “I know where Parkdale Crescent is, and it’s not
that way.”

“Go that way,”
Claude repeated, irritated. “We’re going to bury this jerk
first.”

Looking back at
Stanley, he warned: “We will bury you—alive.”

Stanley began
shouting again; this time the shouts were desperate and
incomprehensible.

“I can’t stand
it,” Hans said. “I can’t.”

“I’ll calm him
down,” Claude growled. “I know what to do. I’ll break his nose.”
Claude looked back with a hoarse laugh.

“Shut up,
corpse.” Claude was delighted with his joke. “Corpse. Ha, ha! Shut
up!”

He opened the
toolbox between the seats and fished out a dirty rag, probably used
by the owner to wipe his greasy hands.

“Stop the car,”
he commanded. When the Jeep stopped, Claude stepped down, opened
the rear door, and began stuffing the dirty cloth into Stanley’s
mouth. Stanley vigorously resisted, turning his head quickly and
forcefully from one side to the other and trying to shift himself
back and forth.

“He doesn’t
want this rag in his mouth,” Claude said with mocking notes of
regret. He went back to the front seat, took the biggest wrench
from the toolbox, returned to the back door, and raised it,
preparing to crush Stanley’s left eye and nose. The wrench landed
with remarkable accuracy; blood splashed all over the rear of the
car. His terrified shrieks made Stanley’s jaws opened wide enough
to accommodate the rag. Claude used all his force to stuff it
inside his mouth, as far as it would go. Now Stanley was only able
to utter muffled sounds through his broken nose.

“You see,”
Claude said, returning to his seat, “I know how to deal with the
Ghosts.” There was tremendous pride in his tone.

On the way to
the farm, Hans didn’t utter a single word. Claude glanced at him
once in awhile with a smile: The guy was terrified.

When they
arrived, the farm seemed to have been deserted by its owners.
Claude took the shovel and began digging a grave behind the barn,
not far from the place where Stash was buried. The soil was soft
and yielded easily to his shovel. Not accustomed to this kind of
work, he soon grew tired and gave the shovel to Hans. Hans worked
in silence. When the grave was deep enough, they went to the car,
lifted Stanley out, and carried his twisting, shaking body toward
it. After throwing him into the grave, Claude began pushing earth
back into the hole. Stanley worked desperately to get out; he moved
frantically, turning from side to side and trying to get to his
feet. His silent, determined struggle was unreal and terrifying.
His face, distorted by horror and hatred and covered with blood,
looked yellow and pale in the moonlight.

“Son of a
bitch,” Claude growled. He jumped into the grave, stamping his feet
on Stanley’s face.

“Push it,” he
commanded to Hans. “Push as much earth as you can. That’s good. A
bit more.” When the soil covered Stanley’s face, Claude jumped a
few more times to make sure that the surface was hard enough to
sustain the last agonizing resistance of the living corpse below
it. Claude stepped up and out, picked up the shovel, and pushed the
rest of the soil into the grave. Hans was not much help anymore.
His hands were shaking. It seemed that he had lost all his
strength.