Long Shadows: A Mystery Thriller (Winton Chevalier Book 1) Page 12
“Who were those men who kicked you on the ground?”
“You don’t know?” Winton asked.
“I know,” Tom said delicately.
“They’re cops. Want me to say their names?”
“And who do they work for?”
Winton took a breath, wondering what exactly Tom was after, and in what scenario he might let them all go free. Winton decided for the time to use honesty as a disarming tactic.
“They work for Luther Remus. I don’t know why. Loyalty?”
“And why does this Remus fellow want you kicked so many times?”
“Might of had more to do with a disagreement those two meatheads and I had in a blood bank earlier. Remus just wanted his little talisman.”
“A talisman?”
“Yeah. Some creepy witchcraft stuff. Forgive me. I don’t know exactly what to call it. He and Maroulis were both into it.”
“You know about him and Maroulis.” Tom said it as if piecing together what Winton knew. “So you know what Remus does in exchange for these talismans?” Tom turned to Jemma for an opinion on grammar. “Talis-men?”
Jemma shrugged, looking impatient.
“Remus was probably keeping the cops away from whatever arrangement you had with Maroulis.”
Tom didn’t respond. He whipped out his knife and cleaned his nails some more as he bobbed his chin.
“He knows too much.” Jemma’s discomfiting gaze bored into Winton.
“We all just want to get back to our lives,” Winton said. “Paying bills, getting the oil changed, hugging our families. We’re not interested in this world.”
“But see, that’s the problem.” Tom waved his blade. “I reckon you’re in this mess because your brother was being a good little cop.”
Winton touched on something in his mind. An angle. “He’s young and stupid.”
“His driver’s license says he’s thirty-two,” Tom said. “I’m thirty-two, Winton.”
“He’s still stupid. He was probably just trying to make our dad proud. The old man’s sick. Dying. This didn’t stem from Lucas trying to be a good cop. If that bug was going to bite him, it would have happened long ago.”
Tom considered this in silence.
“I’m not buying it,” Jemma said.
“Me neither,” Joey added.
Winton exhaled sharply. “Maybe I’m not the only one here with a Remus problem.”
Tom reared back. “Excuse me?”
“Whatever Remus was doing to protect you, he was motivated not by money or any normal vice. He only wanted spiritual things that Maroulis had collected. Maroulis could control Remus by doling out talismans… Or talismen? Seriously, that’s a weird word. Anyways, Maroulis is dead now. We both know who did it.”
Tom’s demeanor darkened for the first time. He scrapped the knife down his jawline. “Do I know that?”
“Isn’t that what my brother told you?”
“I suppose you’re right, Mister Chevalier. However a new local player may make it possible for us to continue making calls on New Orleans.”
“Then you don’t need Remus. We’re not enemies, you and I.”
“You’re a smart fella.” Tom smiled, and looked at Jemma and Joey. “Ain’t he a sharp one?” Looking at Winton. “You ain’t a cop, are you?”
“You joking?”
“What are you then?”
Winton didn’t want to reference the resort and possibly endanger anyone. But he had a true enough answer. “I’m a magician.”
“What, like tricks and stuff?” Tom slipped his knife away, natural smile taking over his expression. “Really?”
“Yeah. I’m a performer.”
“Fuck me, that’s outstanding.”
Jemma cleared her throat.
“Right,” Tom said. “Thank you for your candor, Winton.” Tom motioned and the stylish dark-haired Aussie pushed him off the chair.
Before Winton was out of the cargo bay, Jemma started arguing with the one called Tom.
“They’ve seen our faces. They know what we do…”
The rest of the conversation was lost as the heavy door shut behind him. Instead of taking him back to the same room, Winton was led to the engine room. The space was at least two stories tall and twenty degrees warmer than the previous room they’d been stuck in. The door opened onto an upper catwalk where Julius sat, slumped back against the wall, hands still zip-tied.
Winton rushed to his side and knelt, examining his face, which was swollen and bleeding in spots. “Who did this?”
“The blond one.”
“He hit you?” Winton was astonished. Tom had been polite to him.
“Yeah. That woman and the one called Joey got a couple in, too.” Julius sniffed. “It ain’t right.”
“Did you try to answer their questions?”
“Questions? They didn’t ask me no questions.” Julius tongued his cheek, and a sucking sound came from his mouth. “They said…” He worked his tongue harder. “They was just encouraging you to talk easy.” Julius spit a tooth into his hand. Blood dripped from his lower lip as he stared at it.
“Tuck that in your cheek,” Winton said. “Trust me. I have a little experience.”
Julius did as told, giving Winton a strained, uncertain look.
“We might get out of this,” Winton said. “These Australian smugglers are in a bind.”
“One of them is American,” Julius said. “I heard him talking.”
“Noted. But they need protection if they’re gonna keep doing business here. And judging by their level of motivation, business was good. Also, we were right. Remus was only protecting them because Maroulis had things he wanted. They know they have something over Remus if they have us, Lucas at least. Alive. You see?”
“All they need is Lucas,” Julius said. “And if they got him, that don’t mean they’re gonna let us go.”
Winton nodded, feeling his gorge rise in his throat at the possibility.
“Oy.” A younger man about Joey’s age with a piggish face approached along the upper level, wiping his hands on a rag. “Look at you two. I heard we had two new guests, but no one said you was a little midget.”
Another man came through the doorway into the engine room wearing a long-sleeved olive green t-shirt, a submachine gun slung over a shoulder. He looked the mechanic over with disdain. “Watch these two. Separate them if they talk.” The man was American, but his speech was odd, as if he didn’t move his jaw at all.
When he left them with the younger man in the mechanic’s overalls, Winton asked, “What’s up with that guy?”
At first he looked angry, as if ready to chastise the prisoner for speaking, but then he cracked a wicked smile. “Broke his jaw, because he was drunk and we were playing truth or dare.” He cackled. “I dared him to run around the deck bare assed. It was dark and he smacked right into a pipe.” The mechanic tittered. “It was two days out from the Panama Canal. They made me take care of him like a little baby those two days. Said it was my fault.” He laughed again, but his expression darkened. “One day, I got sick of it and I replaced his Vicodin with these Thai dick pills.” He laughed harder. “He had a boner for nine hours.”
The mechanic sighed in mirth and went about his business, out of sight for the moment.
“What do you see in this engine room?” Winton whispered.
“Sorry?”
“What do you see? You’re a mechanic.”
“Was. And on helicopters.”
“Engines are engines. Tell me what you see.”
Julius rolled his eyes, then trained them on something down below through the metal grating. “That big long tube? That’s housing the turn shaft, going right out to the prop.” Julius motioned to the rear wall where the tube ended. “And you see these big old things here on our level? Those should be the cylinder heads.The cylinders reach to the floor below. And they turn the shaft when they fire. They also got the fuel pumps on this level.”
“So it’
s like a car, sort of, except each cylinder is the size of a whale’s dick.”
“Pretty much. They got eight on either side of the shaft.”
Winton examined the arrangement. “Looks old.”
“Yeah, hasn’t been treated right, either. Probably very inefficient. Look over there.” Julius pointed below through the stairs. “That air compressor is rusted to bits. I bet one good shove could break the frame holding the tank up.”
“Why do you need an air compressor on a ship?”
“I bet they need pressurized air to help start the engines, but also to run A/C and stuff. If they have it.”
“How old is this ship?”
“Shit, maybe forty or fifty years.”
“Oy.” The mechanic returned. “You can’t talk to each other.”
“Sorry,” Winton said. “We’ve never seen an engine this big before.”
“Oh yeah? Well, wait till I show you this shaft.” The mechanic grabbed his crotch and jostled it. “What, you got a problem? Don’t believe me? Trust me, mate, I’m hung like a horse. Don’t look at me like that. I’d go toe-to-toe with a black guy. See whose willy touches tummy first. Jousting, we called it in school.”
“Delightful,” Winton said.
“What’s that?” The mechanic stepped forward, and pulled a screwdriver out of his pocket. “You wanna talk, I’ll put this in your fucking eye, mate.”
Winton flinched away. The mechanic got closer and traced the side of Winton’s face with the tip of the screwdriver. “I don’t care that you’re just a little fucker. Fucking midget. I’ll do you. And I’ll laugh while you twitch to death and shit your knickers. So watch your smart little tongue.” He pressed the tip into the flesh where temple met eye socket.
“All right.” Winton reared back until his face was pressed against the bulkhead and he had to pant at the pain blossoming in the side of his head.
“Stop, man. He heard you,” Julius pleaded.
The mechanic pressed harder, then released pressure, pointing the tip at Julius’ eye. “Watch yourself, home boy.”
The mechanic stood and smirked while rubbing his round belly. “I’ve always been curious what your little midget dicks look like.” He smiled, joy glinting in his eyes. “Go on. Whip it out.” When Winton didn’t comply, he laughed. “Of course. Hold on, I’ll get you a pair of tweezers.” He made a high-pitched cackle. “Come on little midget dick. Let’s see it. Come on. Midget dick! Midget dick!” he continued to chant.
The door opened and the American ducked his head in. “What’s the noise?”
“Oy. Don’t get ‘em in a twist, Billy boy. We’re just having ourselves a bit of fun. Gets lonely down here, mate.”
“Keep it down, or I’ll come in there and kick your ass,” the American said past his immobile jaw.
“Like to see you try, boner boy.”
“Watch your back, Darby.” The American pointed a finger. “Payback’s coming.” He left.
Darby, the mechanic, took a breath. “All right. I gotta finish cleaning the bilge pump before I can eat my supper. It’s taco night. I’m not fucking missing taco night. Can’t have any more chatter. Need to separate you. Midget boy, come with me.”
Winton realized what this young man was. A bully. Not a particularly subtle one at that.
“If you’re shy,” Darby said, nodding over his shoulder, “I’ll take you over in the corner. But one thing’s certain.” He leveled the screwdriver at him. “I gotta see that little mosquito dick of yours. Gotta snap a photo for me mates or they won’t believe it. ‘Oh, the things you’ll see on your travels,’ mum said. Ha! If she only knew.”
Winton worked his wrists in his restrains so that his palms faced one another. He didn’t know what to do. He looked around for something to grab, but held off. If he provoked this young bully, he might wound his pride and end up with a screwdriver in the brain.
“Okay, shy fella. Up, up.” Winton stood and Darby tried to back him down the walkway into a corner, but Winton pretended he didn’t understand, and turned down the steps. He wasn’t the most sure-footed individual on the best of days, but with his hands lashed together it was also hard to hold the railing. He put his fear out of his mind and focused solely on walking straight and keeping perfect balance.
“Fine then,” Darby said. “Down there’s fine.”
Winton tipped off balance and clung to a vertical rail to keep from tumbling the rest of the way down the metal steps. Five more steps and he was down on the engine room floor without catastrophe. He looked around for any tools lying about. A nice hammer would come in handy. Nothing jumped out at him. Despite Darby’s disheveled appearance and the ship’s decrepitude, the space was kept litter-free and organized after a fashion.
Darby said something from the stairs behind him, but down on the bottom level it was hard to hear with the sound of the generator buzzing. He couldn’t imagine how deafening the space must be when the old engine was thrumming.
Winton felt the tip of the screwdriver press into his upper back. He jerked in pain and looked behind. With his phone in one hand, Darby pointed the screwdriver at Winton’s crotch. “Get your little munchkin cock out. I don’t got all day.”
Winton turned and backed up past the big air tank.
To one side, Winton was penned in by the huge propeller shaft casing; to the other sat a bay of panels and a workstation with a couple chairs. Ten feet behind him stood the tall aft bulkhead, the very rear of the ship. Nothing available to use as a weapon.
“I ain’t gonna ask again, Smurfette.” Darby motioned with the screwdriver.
Winton’s fists clenched and he bowed his head. Old wounds poured out their bitter memories, calling for him to taste their bile. Oceans of sorrow he’d crossed long before tickled his memory, charmed him with the power of their churning waves. But the image of his beautiful wife shined like a beacon. The resort. His friends. Lucas. They were more important. Survive, he told himself. Survive and get home. Get Lucas out of here.
Winton closed his eyes and felt for his zipper.
“There we go. Come on, midget boy.”
Winton’s eyes opened at the large red patch of rust on the floor. His hand was frozen.
“No,” a voice called from inside, at first a whisper, then again like the impact of a hammer meeting stone. “No.”
A strange voice. A familiar voice. An old enemy. A long lost companion.
“No,” it rang louder, echoing from the empty place, the part of his psyche deemed too destructive to his life and those around him. Broken caverns deep within howled, “No.” The places that would never heal, hissed in agony, “No.” These old fonts of ire that had never been amputated or filled in — only bricked off and ignored with the day-at-a-time vigor of the sober addict — said no.
“No.”
Crystal clear, the realization came to him. Backed into a literal corner, Winton’s throat close up, and his world diminished to the red rust stain on the floor. Nothing could speak to him now, not his wife, his brother, not reason, not his humanity, nor any love.
No one and no thing.
One voice alone.
“Say it again,” Winton muttered. His voice had grown scratchy and alien.
“Quit talking, midget boy.” Darby lowered his own voice and inched closer.
“Say it…” Winton balled his fists up and held them against his stomach, “…again.”
“Don’t tell me what to do.” Darby stepped in a kicked him with his heel, sending Winton spinning on the floor. “Oy, get up midget boy. You had enough?”
Winton got to his feet, eyes hooded, jaw pulled down. He didn’t bother to face Darby. “Say. It. Again.” Each breath he took filled him and thrilled him, expanding his interior capacity for hot, billowing rage.
“Say what? Oh. Am I not supposed to call you that? Are you a little person?”
“I know what I am,” Winton said, facing him slowly. “I just want to hear you say it one more time. Say it again.”
Winton closed his eyes and felt a steaming frisson move over his body. But it wasn’t enough. He craved more. “Say it again.”
Darby stepped closer. “You’re just a little guy, and I’m big. I’m real big. And that’s all that matters.”
“Say it again.” The sound of Winton’s altered voice struck Darby.
He looked at him, confused, before pressing on. “I’m not saying nothing. Now take it out, or I’ll put his through your temple.” Darby bent and pressed the tip of the screwdriver into Winton’s head.
Instead of flinching away. Winton pressed back, feeling the tip bore into his skin. The pain was delicious. Winton pushed until his eyes were only ten inches from Darby’s. Finally he met the young man’s gaze. “You’re gonna have to kill me.”
“I will.”
“When you take my dick out, dead and limp, you’ll find out it’s bigger than yours.”
The words set off a symphony of facial expressions, each one more delightful than the last. Astonishment, anger, and best of all the twinge of fear, the tiny pinprick of doubt.
Winton marveled at it. Brows lifting. “Go ahead, pussy,” Winton said, goading him. “Or is that it? You’re doing this because you don’t have a dick at all?”
“I got a dick,” Darby spat.
“Oh. You’re a little pedo, aren’t you?” Winton said. “You wanna suck kiddy dick.”
Darby growled and bashed his forehead into Winton’s face with alarming speed. Before Winton hit the ground, he felt the warm rush of blood run out his nose and over his lips. He rolled over once and crashed back into pipe by the wall, stunning him further. The pain from his nose radiated to his extremities, and the jolt to the back of his skull amplified it.
When he got to his feet again, he rose a different man, his transformation made complete with physical pain.
“What’s wrong with your nose?” Darby laughed.
Winton’s hands fell from his face to his sides. He jutted his jaw forward. “It’s perfect.” Winton’s shoulders rose and fell, as he panted at the pain through his mouth. “I’m perfect.”