T. Bunn - Winner Take All

Sephus’ grinning face looked monstrous from this position, his slender stripe of a forehead creased with foul humor. “Oh, good. I was hoping you’d come around for the show.”

She knew she should be screaming. But the jolt to her skull robbed her of breath, much less a good yell.

Then he picked her up by her hair.

He clamped his free hand over her mouth and dragged her bodily into the Explorer’s backseat. He tossed her inside, slipped in beside her, and said, “If you gotta do it, man, now would be a good time.”

She could not name the bizarre little beast who appeared in her streaming vision. But she knew the electric blue glasses. He did not look at her, not really. Instead he took aim for her arm. Kirsten felt a pinprick, then heard him say, “It is done.”

“What a waste.” The fist in her hair shook her hard. The Explorer slipped into gear and drove off. Then the hand over her mouth rose such that the man’s wrist hovered before her eyes. In the glare of passing streetlights she saw a puckered white scar. “See what you did to my body art? I had all sorts of plans for us, dolly. The slow kind.”

“Enough with the talking.” Reiner. That was his name. Reiner Klatz. Strange how the name appeared at the same time that the pain in her head began to recede. Stranger still how her thoughts all began slowing down. Reiner’s voice slipped further away as he said, “We are approaching the exit. Hide her in the back as well.”

Sephus Jones released her, now that she could no longer feel the grip he had kept on her scalp. She heard a rustling, then from the end of a very long tunnel came the words “Yeah, she oughtta like that.”

Hands lifted and slid and dropped her down into the space behind the seat. “You two already know each other, so I won’t bother with the intros.”

The last thing she saw was Marcus’ face. He looked so troubled in his sleep. Like a bad nightmare had caught them both. She wanted to lift her hand and gentle it away. But her limbs would not work. Then the veil of night was cast over them both, and she could hold herself there no longer.

Voices drifted through Marcus’ fog of pain. Voices and the sound of a rhythmic clanking. “This don’t make any sense at all.”

“I have orders. We both do.”

Something pounded in time to his thudding heart. The pain was enough to compress tears from the corners of his closed eyes.

“Listen, Adolf. This is America. The land of the free, okay? Here we make our own rules.”

“The man giving orders also has the money!”

The metallic clangor halted. Marcus heard the footsteps grind through the sand around his head. He was on the beach. Then he heard the other sound. Waves. Impossibly close.

“All I’m saying, you don’t stake them out, man. A bullet, a knife, you watch the end, you walk away. Job well done.”

“Yes. Fine. This job, your way, it is more important than being paid, yes?”

The clanking started anew. Only this time Marcus was aware enough to feel it resonate down his right hand. “You got a point there, Adolf.”

“My name is Reiner!”

“Whatever.” The pounding stopped. Marcus felt his right hand being hefted as the man pulled on the ropes.

Then his consciousness returned fully. With it came new pains. Four of them. He was staked spread-eagled in the sand. His wrists and ankles were tied impossibly tight. His arms were extended beyond their full reach, to either side of his head. His legs were splayed so far apart he felt the threat of being split down his middle. He could actually feel the blood pulsing down his arms and legs, only to break upon the ropes like hot waves against knotted dikes.

The man named Sephus Jones gripped him by the chin and squeezed so hard Marcus could feel his jaw being dislodged. “Open your eyes, sport. That’s it. Remember me?”

A bizarre little man stood to his right. The moon was rising behind him, casting silver shadows over his sandy legs and arms. The man reached into his pocket. “We must hurry.”

“You’re the one running to somebody else’s clock, man.” Sephus Jones shook Marcus’ head. “Don’t you pass out on me, you hear? The boss man says you gotta stay awake for this performance, else he docks my pay.”

The fat little man stepped forward, and Marcus realized he was still wearing a tie. And a vest. He squatted in the sand by Marcus’ head, drawing so close Marcus could see he was speaking into a mobile phone.

“This is Reiner. All is as you instructed.” He listened a moment, then said to Sephus, “Make him look.”

The man holding his chin could not stop grinning. “And people say I’m the sicko.”

Sephus twisted Marcus’ head to the left. His grip was a probe of titanium and fury. Marcus groaned at the pain, and then again at the sight that awaited him.

Kirsten lay beside him. Her legs and wrists were tied together and then staked. She was utterly immobile. Marcus blinked fiercely, trying to see if she was breathing.

Then he focused beyond her, and saw the sea.

“All right,” the little man said. “Let him go.”

Sephus remained over him a moment longer, savoring the pain he saw in Marcus’ gaze. “Looks to me like you and your dolly made the wrong dude mad.”

The hand compressed his jaw further still, until he could feel the ligaments plucked out taut and screaming. Then it was gone. One moment pain white as desert light, the next and the little man was there. Looking down at him through ridiculous blue spectacles. “There is someone here who wants a word.” He mashed the phone to Marcus’ ear.

The languid voice started in, “For a time I was genuinely morose over missing this final performance of yours.”

Marcus worked his mouth. Open and shut. A breath in and out. Sorting through the pains and the fears. “Kedrick Lloyd.”

“Ah, excellent. You are both awake and aware. I am so glad. Everything seems to be working to my design. Behold my grandest creation, a symphony of sight and sound and operatic tragedy. You will watch your intrusive young woman perish, then expire yourself. Is it not marvelous?”

“Don’t do this.”

“You know, I understand Beethoven’s plight for the very first time, how it must have felt when the poor deaf man could not hear his own creations being performed. Bitterly frustrating, yet at the same time the void holds a certain savor. Were I there, I would most certainly discover some imperfection. Humans are defined by their failings, particularly when it comes to creative effort. But from this distance, I can close my eyes and see the flawless unfolding of my revenge.”

“The DA knows.”

“Of course she does. But my lawyers, that is, my new lawyers, will confound her feeble testimony. Who will a jury believe, a third-rate courtroom turncoat or the ailing board member of the New York Metropolitan Opera? No, my dear boy, there is a grand distance between what is known and what is provable.”

“Your men blew up the boat and killed Charlie Hayes.”

“Most regrettable, that. But knowing as I do what the poor man faced, I take comfort from the fact that he might well have thanked me.”

“What about the baby?”

“Have you learned nothing? Your meddling over the child is what landed you and your paramour in this predicament. But never mind. I shall savor this night as I have few things in the past year of madness and agony. Tonight, even the tide charts work to my favor. Adieu, Marcus Glenwood. Do try and stay awake for the entire performance.”

Marcus started awake. Something had drawn him from the semiconscious state of thudding agony and the distant wash of waves. He had difficulty opening his eyes, which frightened him into full alertness. He straightened his head and understood. His temple was leaking blood, and it had matted with the sand and caked against his eyelid. He twisted his facial muscles and blinked hard and finally pried his right eyelid free.