R. MacAvoy - Tea with the Black Dragon

Rasmussen relaxed onto the couch, holding Liz’s hair in a brutal fist. “True, but that bridge has been crossed,” he stated. “Not by me, but that doesn’t matter now.”

The young woman’s eyes closed in sick grief. Long’s face was expressionless. “Mrs. Macnamara is dead?”

“My—partner—couldn’t use her. He lost his temper.” Rasmussen’s words were resentful.

“Are you sure?” pressed Long. His frown was vaguely puzzled.

“Beat her up and throttled her,” snapped Rasmussen. “I walked in just too late. Face all black and limp as a fish. Ugly.” Liz Macnamara reeled and sagged in his grip. He ignored her.

“How unfortunate for all concerned,” whispered Long.

“Yeah. I hadn’t intended to kill anyone. I only wanted to keep Lizzie here incommunicado for a few weeks while I cleaned things up and got out. But life doesn’t work right; Lizzie wrote a terrible letter and then she called her mother. And Doug, my partner: he’s a vicious little asshole and he blew the simple job he was supposed to do. But all that’s put me in a bind. So did you, leaving blood all over my house. Now I’ve got to get rid of both of you before I split.”

“Where are you going?”

Rasmussen snorted. “Why should I tell you?”

“Because it doesn’t matter,” answered Long gently, looking away from Elizabeth’s face. “If you’re going to kill us it can’t hurt you to tell.”

He stared through the darkened dining area, where the Swedish glass shone like an assembly of ghosts. There was no sign of a struggle in the immaculate decor. The security chain on the front door hung unbroken. But then, Liz Macnamara had thought herself safe.

The white tape concealed half her face, but Long saw that Liz’s jaw was clenched. Her blue eyes stared straight ahead of her. She. appeared hard and angry. Remembering the words she’d spoken the previous evening. Long thought she was probably very much afraid.

The big man shrugged. “Okay. I got a yacht—the Caroline—remember the model in my office? And Threve’s got a Cessna, hangared out in Marin. We’ll be in Mexico this afternoon, and Sao Paulo tomorrow. Even with their inflation, two million dollars tax free makes it worthwhile learning another language.”

“Why not simply leave us tied, then?” inquired Long, dispassionately. “You will be safe by the time we can free ourselves.”

“Oh will I?” Rasmussen’s voice was thick with sarcasm. “Fella I don’t believe it. I saw what you did to the light switch in the bedroom, and how you tore apart the door. With the amount of blood you left in my plasterboard you ought to be dead—I’ve gutted enough deer to know how much a body holds.”

“Then you must know I’m not about to dismember any more doors,” sighed Long. Regardless of Rasmussen’s gun, he sat up. “Not tonight.”

“I don’t know that at all,” the blond man growled. He wound his fingers more tightly in Liz Macnamara’s hair. “You’re one weird cat. I don’t know what it is: meditation, karate, hypnosis—but I have no idea what your limits are. I don’t trust you. Also, you made me kill Blanco. I don’t like you.”

Mr. Long’s smile expressed reciprocity. “But Miss Macnamara—you know she is no yogic adept. You needn’t kill her.”

Rasmussen laughed. Her head was twisted around by his beefy hand. “Liz? Liz has been living dangerously for months now. She’s been having qualms of conscience. Besides, I know little Lizzie here. She carries a grudge. She’d follow me to hell, she would, simply to help the devil stoke the coals.”

He sighed. “No. I’m not up for leaving behind either bodies or witnesses. Not after what Doug did.”

Long’s eyebrows rose. “How will you avoid that?”

“Simple. We’re taking you along. On the Caroline. Part way.

“Get on your feet.” He stood up, dragging the young woman with him. She thrashed against him, screaming muffled curses, but without her arms she could do nothing. Long regarded him without moving.

“Why should I cooperate with you?” he asked. “You offer me no incentive.”

Rasmussen smiled and prodded the barrel of the gun against Liz’s temple. “You’ll do what I say because while you are alive there’s a chance you might find an opportunity to get away. It’s that simple. Of course I got no intention of giving you that opportunity, but you’ve got to bet the team you’re on.”

Long stood. The two men confronted one another in the yellow lamplight. “Do you think you could shoot the both of us before I could reach you?” he asked mildly.

“I don’t have to,” answered the heavy man, and his laughter rumbled through the rooms. “If you had the guts to sacrifice little Lizzie you would have gone for me long ago. That much we know about each other, Mr. Long. You know I’m able to kill her. I know you’re not. That’s why I’m the one in power.”

Long’s armour of composure broke momentarily at Rasmussen’s last words, and a fire neither subtle nor civilized shone out of his narrow eyes. The burly blond flinched. He gestured with the gun.

“Walk. Out the back way, through the garage.”

The fire vanished as though the furnace door had slammed shut. Long turned and preceded Rasmussen through the length of the house. They passed through a door in the kitchen.

The garage was so clean and empty as to appear unused. There were no cardboard boxes stacked against the wall, no broken Venetian blinds. Not even a stepladder.

Liz Macnamara had no old possessions: nothing of the sort one can’t use and refuses to throw away. Until recently, she had been accustomed to owning nothing.

Within the garage the Mercedes sat in solitary splendor. Rasmussen tossed the keys to Long.

“Open the trunk,” he commanded. Mr. Long did so.

“Get her in.”

Long stood motionless, keys in hand. “No.”

Rasmussen’s hand slid from Elizabeth’s hair to her throat. It slowly tightened.

Liz opened her eyes wide as the pressure grew, but she did not look at Mayland Long. Her breath whistled in her nose and then that noise ceased.

“Stop,” said Long. “There’s no need for that.”

Rasmussen was smiling broadly. He loosened his grip as Mr. Long bent to help to ease the bound woman into the trunk of the Mercedes. In a single, smooth motion he whipped the pistol around and struck Long on the back of the head.

The trunk door slammed shut on both his captives. “Goddamn,” he said to himself. “Let’s see what hypnosis can do about that!”

The solid thud of the trunk lock closed them both in darkness. Long groaned and eased his wounded side away from contact with the wall. His free hand sought and found Liz Macnamara’s face. He pried the tape from her mouth, then began to free her hands.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I’m so very sorry.”

“For what?” The bands of tape peeled away with difficulty; she swallowed a cry of pain.

“For what?” Long repeated. “It’s I who have failed you, it seems, having entered the scene in the guise of a rescuer and succeeded only in adding to the defeat.”

Her hands now free, Liz began to work on the bindings on her legs. “Floyd showed up about two hours ago. I let him in. I was sure he wouldn’t risk… Oh hell!” Her voice began in outrage and faded.

“He told me you broke into his house, looking for me. I knew you were looking for Mother, of course. He said he shot you, and that you’d run off into the woods to die like an animal. He said his ceiling was soaked in blood.”

The thunder of the engine starting delayed his reply. Acceleration pushed the prisoners against the back wall. The air was close and sour with metal and gasoline. “He hit me. That much is true, at any rate.”