Jack O'Connell - Box Nine

ROURKE: Be here any minute. And who do we have … Mr. Cortez. And his associate, Jimmy, isn’t it? Here, let me give you two a hand up.

Graveyard’s full of bodies tonight.

[ Rourke’s awkward laughter. Hollow, metal echo ]

CORTEZ: Where is he?

ROURKE: Expecting him any minute. Once he gets here this shouldn’t take a second. I assume, I mean, the briefcase—

CORTEZ — is none of your concern at the moment, Mr. Rourke. When I see the product, you will see the money.

ROURKE: Of course, sure, listen, I was thinking, maybe the way to do this, just to make sure there are no mistakes and it’s all handled professionally—

[ Laughter ]

ROURKE: Why’s he laughing? Why’s your driver there laughing?

CORTEZ: Mingo, please. Go on, Mr. Rourke. [ Quiet for a moment. Foot shuffling ]

ROURKE: I thought maybe I’d stay in the middle, here, and you and your people could stay to one side, and then, when they get here, him and his people, they could stay on my opposite side. If that’s all right with everyone? We could pass the cases back and forth through me. You know, broker.

CORTEZ: No objection.

[ Indiscriminate noise ]

ROURKE: Bingo, here they are now. Gentlemen, good to see you.

[ Climbing up on metal, movement, coughing, repositioning of bodies ]

ROURKE: Beautiful, so we’re all here, tremendous. Mr. Cortez, this is the Paraclete. Mr. W, I’d like you to meet Mr. Cortez.

CORTEZ: A pleasure to finally meet.

PARACLETE: Likewise.

Lenore’s whole body seizes up. The voice enters her ear and it’s like she’s been smashed across the back of the head with a board, a fat, sturdy two-by-four out of nowhere. No preparation, no time to flinch. Just a pure impact against her fragile skull.

It’s Woo’s voice. Absolute certainty. The Paraclete is Woo.

Lenore comes up onto her knees, hugs the Uzi to her chest, starts to rise, and hears:

CORTEZ: Who’s the hostage?

WOO: A visual aid, if you will. I thought you might like to see what my product can do.

CORTEZ: [ possibly to Rourke ]: I’ve seen. All over my streets lately. There was no talk of this. There was no mention.

WOO: Yes, I understand there was some [ pause ] confusion concerning the samples that were sent to you—

CORTEZ: Who is he? Untape the man’s mouth. This was not part of the plan.

WOO — but I thought you might like to witness the process, as they say, up close and personal. Our guest for the evening is a former associate of Mr. Rourke. A fellow letter carrier. Mailman, as they say.

She grabs the rope and starts to climb out of the grave, frantic, all panic and no finesse. Back on the surface, she swings the Uzi on its strap around to her back and falls on her stomach. Rourke’s sidekicks are definitely out there somewhere and who knows what kind of backup Cortez or Woo has planted.

She scans the landscape, a full circle, but there’s not much she can see beyond tree-shadow and gravestones. She crawls toward the base of the nearest tree and looks around, then starts a crouched, small-step run toward the train car. She moves less than twenty yards when her left foot plants into a pile of dried leaves and catches on something buried underneath. She falls to her knees, lets her body go all the way to the ground, then rolls on her side, swinging the Uzi around to her front. She stops a second, stays on the ground, takes a breath, and sweeps a cautious half-circle in front of her with the Uzi’s barrel. Then her eyes spot something protruding from the leaf pile and it’s another second before she realizes it’s a human hand. She leans back to the pile and pushes leaves aside until she finds what she’s tripped over.

It’s Charlotte Peirce’s body.

There’s a black hole in the center of her forehead. The diameter is somewhere between a quarter and a half-dollar. There are charred burn marks visible around the outer edge of the hole. The bottom half of the face is obscured by a heavy coating of dried blood. Fat streaks of blood run everywhere down the neck. The bottom lip looks to be missing from the face. Rust-colored, blood-soaked leaves bulge from an uneven gap that was once the mouth.

Lenore spots a small pink and red mound next to the head and avoids looking closely. The odds are good it could be a human tongue.

Though she knows it’s a futile gesture, Lenore reaches to the neck and feels for a pulse. The flesh is cold to the touch, already turning into something else. Lenore retracts her hand. She knows there’s another, much larger hole in the back of her head. And that a lot of blood and skull-bone and brain matter have exited into the dry earth below.

She freezes for a minute, tries again to concentrate on breathing. But words come through the earpiece.

CORTEZ: I’m already a motivated buyer. There’s no need for a display. My time here is limited.

WOO: Duk [ finger snapping sound ], the tape. [Muffled, shuffling noise] [A voice, high, breathless, possibly hyperventilating]

VOICE: Rourke [gasp] don’t [gasp] let this [garbled speech].

WOO: Put him on his knees.

Lenore’s body starts to shut down. Calculation and strategy run from her brain. Her breathing is inaudible. Her feet feel like stone, like if someone lifted them, they’d break away from her ankle in a soft, granular rain.

They’ve got Ike. Ike is the guinea pig, the demonstration model. The Paraclete is Woo. And he’s got Ike, on his knees, on the floor of an abandoned train car. He wants to stuff Ike full of Lingo and watch the display. He wants to put on a show for a customer.

CORTEZ [ annoyed ]: I’m not interested in sideshows, here. I’m on a very rigid schedule.

ROURKE [ nervous ]: Really, Mr. W—

WOO: Gentlemen, trust me, it is as much for my benefit as your own. I need to believe in a product, to truly get behind it, to know days, weeks, years down the road that I’ve supplied a worthy item. It’s something of a matter of family pride. [ Sharp clap of hands ] Duk, my case.

IKE [ hysterical, wheezing ]: Rourke, you can’t, Billy, Donna — [ choking sound ]

ROURKE [ edgy ]: This was not part of the—

WOO [ to his assistant ]: Watch your fingers, Duk. We can’t be too careful these days.

WILSON [ pleading ]: Billy—

ROURKE [ through teeth ]: Shut the fuck up.

CORTEZ: With all due respect, sir.

WOO: This will take just a moment.

[ Various sounds, possibly including: a zipper pulled open, subdued male or female crying-noise, throat-clearing, whispers ]

WOO: Rub the throat, Duk. Just like you’ve done with the dogs. He’ll swallow.

She gets to her feet, lets her fingers find and set the Uzi for use, takes deep breaths. Then she starts running, not a sprint but a serious jog, surefooted, planting and pushing off, rhythmic, no undue danger to the ankles, the whole time calculating timing, when she’ll reach the open door, who she’ll cut down with the first blast. The whole time in her ear there are the sounds of gurgling, gagging, small choking noise.

CORTEZ [ quietly ]: I don’t believe in showmanship.

WOO [ mimicking his tone ]: There’s nothing but showmanship.

She pulls the receiver from her ear and lets it fall. She makes the leap from the ground to the train’s interior in the space of a last running stride. Her presence is sounded by the heavy clump of her feet hitting floor. She comes down in the middle of the whole group, parallel to Rourke and his girlfriend, Cortez to her left, Freddy Woo to her right. All the faces are lit only by the yellow gleam of swaying lanterns suspended above their heads on some unseen hook. They all look like they’re badly made up for some shoestring slasher movie. She sees the huge, bald Oriental next to Woo, must be Duk, start to bring his hand around to his back. She pulls in on the Uzi’s trigger like it was made of rubber, like the right kind of touch could flood her with pleasure. It makes a siege of firecracker pops, made odd and loud by the acoustics of the train car. She releases the trigger at once. Duk’s body is knocked back and down, hits the floor with a sound she knows she’ll recall in dreams.