Jeffery Deaver - The Burial Hour

Through brush, over fallen trees, they moved steadily toward the building. Insects streaked toward them, mosquitoes and gnats. Not far away a dove exhaled its breathy call, mournful, comforting and eerie. The smells were of smoke and something pungent, perhaps the decaying olive oil fertilizer.

They followed the driveway to the left, where the unattached garage was located. The home was even bigger than it had appeared from the road, a rambling structure of several buildings, connected by windowless hallways.

‘Gothic,’ she whispered.

‘Like Gotico ? Spooky? Stephen King.’

She nodded.

The garage was locked and there were no windows. It was impossible to tell if anyone was inside.

‘What do we do now?’

‘Do you know Peeping Toms, in Italy?’

‘Yes, yes. We know the term. From a movie, many years ago, that was popular here.’ He gave a harsh laugh. ‘And curious. The movie is about a serial killer who films his victims. The English title is Peeping Tom .’

‘Well, we’re going to peep.’ She drew her weapon. She turned to Ercole to tell him to do the same but saw that he already had. They circled the house and began looking, quickly, through the few curtainless windows. At first it didn’t seem like anyone lived here but then she caught a glimpse of clothing in a pile. Some empty soda cans.

Was there a light on? In a distant room? Or was the illumination from the sun falling through a slit in a curtain?

Sachs saw inside a large wooden door that, she believed, led down to a cellar. It was closed. Could Khaled be down there now?

Stephen King...

They had nearly completed the circuit of the house. One window remained. It was to the left of the front door. The curtain was partially askew so she lifted her head quickly and glanced inside.

Well.

The room was unoccupied but there was plenty to seize her attention. Above the fireplace was a hunting rifle. She couldn’t be sure, but it might very well have been a .270-caliber.

And sitting prominently in the middle of a table were a half-dozen musical-instrument strings. One had been tied into a noose.

Khaled Jabril woke to fear, pure fear.

He found himself in a dim room that was, damp and fetid with mold and rotting food smells. Perhaps sewage too.

Where, where?

God, praise be to Him, where am I?

Nothing made sense. He had no memory of the past... well, how long? An hour, a week? No memory at all. A vague recollection of being in a tent. It was — yes, it was under the sun. Hot sun. A tent, his home. Why was he in a tent? Had something happened to his home in Tripoli?

No, their home.

He and others. Someone... Yes! His wife! He could now picture her. Ah: Fatima! He remembered the name, praise be to God! And their child.

And she — he believed the child was a girl — was named... He could not recall, and this made him want to cry.

So cry he did.

Yes, yes, she was a girl. A beautiful curly-haired daughter.

Although was she, the girl he pictured, in fact, their daughter? She might have been his brother’s. Then another thought came to him. Italy. He was in... in Italy.

Wasn’t that right?

But where was he now? Here? He’d been in a tent. That he was pretty sure about, though for what reason, he had no idea. A tent, then nothing, then he was in this place. That was all he could recall. His memory was so bad — the result of some drug? Or had he been suffocating, his brain cells dead? Maybe. His throat hurt. And his head too. Dizzy.

A dark room. Cold.

A basement, he believed.

Who had done this? Why?

And why was his mouth gagged, sealed with tape?

Something brushed his bare feet and he screamed, loud to him, soft to the world, because of the gag.

A rat! Yes, there were several of them. Skittering, twitchy.

Were they going to devour him alive?

Oh, my God, praise be to You!

Save me!

But the half-dozen — no, dozen, no, more! — creatures passed him by on their way toward the wall to his right. They weren’t interested in him.

Not yet.

All right. What is happening here? Hands bound, feet bound. Kidnapped. Gagged. But why on earth? Why would God — praise be to Him — allow this? Now more pieces of memory returned — though none recent. Recalling being a teacher in Tripoli until education in Libya became so fraught that his secular school was closed. Then he managed an electronics store, until the economy in Libya became so fragile that the shop was looted.

Only his wife’s salary as a nurse was left to support them.

And life grew even worse. No dinars, no food, the spread of the fundamentalists, ISIS or Daesh, taking over Derna, Sirte and other cities and towns, like an infection. Were they behind his kidnapping? Those men would certainly abduct and torture. Khaled and his family were moderate Sunnis, and believed in secular government. Yet he’d never vocally opposed the extremists. How could the mullahs and generals of ISIS even know he existed?

And the Libyan government?

Well, governments , plural. There was the House of Representatives, in Tobruk, along with the Libyan National Army. And then there was the rival General National Congress, based in Tripoli, whose questionable claim was enforced by the Libya Dawn militia. Yes, Khaled favored the House of Representatives but did so discreetly.

No, this kidnapping could not be political.

Then a bit of memory returned, like a kick. A boat... rocking on a boat. Vomiting frequently, burning in the sun...

The image returned of the tent...

And his daughter. Yes, his daughter. What is her name?

He carefully scanned the place where he was being kept. An old structure. Brick walls, beams overhead. He was in a cellar. The floor was stone and well worn, scarred and uneven. He looked down to see what kind of chair he was seated in and felt a pressure at his neck. A cord of some sort. He looked up.

No!

It was a noose!

The thin cord rose to a beam over his head. It continued to the far wall, over another beam then down to a weight, one of those big round ones that are attached to the ends of barbells. It was upright and resting on a ledge about five feet off the ground. The ledge was at an angle, and had the weight been free it would have rolled off and tugged the noose taut, strangling him. But thank God — praise be to Him — it was wedged in place.

He tried to make sense of this. Then he noted movement again, from the corner of his eye.

On the floor. More rats. And, like the others, they paid him no mind. They were much more interested in something else.

And then, to Khaled’s horror, he saw what drew the squirmy creatures, with their tiny red eyes and sharp yellow teeth: a block of something that was preventing the deadly weight from rolling off the ledge and tugging the noose up to strangle him. Pink, streaked with white. A piece of meat. That was what kept the weight from rolling and pulling the noose taut.

The first of the rats, moving cautiously, untrusting, approached it now. They sniffed with their pointed noses, they leapt back, then moved closer. Some were pushed aside by others — the more aggressive — and it was collectively decided that this addition to their lair was not only harmless... it was tasty.

The four rats soon became seven and then became a dozen, swarming the meat like huge, gray bacteria.

Some fights broke out, screeching and biting. But on the whole, they shared.

And began the serious effort of dining.

Khaled shouted and screamed through the gag and shook in the chair.

Which drew the attention of merely one or two of the rodents and their response was merely to glance at him with curiosity as they happily chewed and swallowed.