Stolen Souls

Lennon knew he had been an idiot all his life, but it never stopped him. He drew his pistol and made his way deeper into the house.

62

THE MAN WHO was now, as he was sure he always had been, Edwin Paynter applied upward pressure to the screwdriver’s handle, forcing its blade to dig its way through the foreigner’s innards. The foreigner screamed.

Paynter eased the pressure on the handle and waited for the foreigner to stop writhing.

“How did you find me?” he asked.

“Taxi company,” the foreigner said, forcing the words between his teeth.

“What taxi company?”

“Maxie’s Taxis,” the foreigner said. “Rasa made a picture. I show it to the taxi boss. He find you for me.”

“What picture?”

“Rasa made it,” the foreigner said.

“Who’s Rasa? Who made it?”

“Rasa works for my boss. Looks after girls. She sees you with the whore, she makes a picture.”

Paynter’s mind spun, searching for possibilities, answers, ways out. But all was lost. A picture of him had been circulated. There was nothing left now but to run.

No, there was one more thing, and she lay beside him, choking on the towel he’d shoved in her mouth.

Anger, white hot and glorious, burst in his chest.

She had caused this. She had brought this intruder here, her girl scent drawing him like a bitch brings dogs from miles around.

“Bitch,” he said. “Fucking bitch.”

He clamped one wet hand to his mouth. Had he said that? Had he ever uttered such words before?

She made him do it. She made him spew these hateful consonants and vowels. She was a devil, and before he could flee, he would have to cast her down with the rest of her kind beneath the cellar floor.

He reached for the screwdriver’s handle, ready to pierce her temple with it, but the foreigner moaned as he withdrew it from his belly.

Edwin Paynter took a breath, cooling himself from the heat of revelation. Calm, he thought. He knew what he had to do.

“First things first,” he said.

Paynter pushed the foreigner’s head back, felt for his exposed throat. He switched his grip on the screwdriver to overhand and raised it above his head.

“There’s a cop,” the foreigner said.

63

HERKUS SUCKED AIR and leaked blood.

“The cop, he knows about you,” he said.

His mind grasped at this last shred of logic. Anything to make the madman stop, to buy him some time. It worked. The blade, whatever it was, did not penetrate his body again. “What cop?” the madman asked.

Herkus searched through the pain and fog for a name. “Lennon,” he said. “Lennon. He knows your face.”

A stinging mix of bile and blood bubbled up into his throat. He coughed, screamed at the fire that ignited in his belly.

“How?” the madman asked.

Herkus kicked out, tried to crawl away. The madman placed a knee on his stomach. Herkus screamed again.

“Tell me how he knows my face?”

“The picture,” Herkus said, squeezing the words between tortured gasps.

“The same picture? What are you talking about?”

Herkus wanted to answer, hoped to save his life with the knowledge, but the pain dragged his mind down, robbing him of speech.

“Tell me,” the madman said, his breath hot on Herkus’s face. The darkness grew darker still. Herkus willed his tongue to move, air to charge his vocal cords, but there was nothing left but the fire that spread from his stomach to swallow his being.

And the faces.

So many faces, all of them waiting for him.

Oh God, he thought, the words forming in his mind like bright stars above him.

Oh God forgive me.

And then something brighter pierced his throat, and he knew there was no forgiveness, only fire.

64

GALYA LAY ON her side, feeling the heat spread beneath her, the same metallic smell that had overwhelmed her just a day ago. She writhed, trying to pull her body away from the blood, but the chair held her in place. She worked her jaw and tongue until the towel fell from her lips.

Behind her, the sound of something hard piercing flesh. One man breathed hard with each thrust, the other gurgled and gasped, until only animal grunts remained.

She tried to force her weight forward. If she could turn on her front, onto her knees, maybe she could crawl away. The chair leaned and fell back again. She pulled once more, using her shoulders to twist the chair around. Again, it fell back.

Galya shrieked with the effort. This time, the chair followed her and her knees hit the concrete. She swallowed the cry and pushed forward.

Something pulled the chair back.

“You did this,” he said.

He turned the chair on its back, wrenching Galya’s arms. Her head struck the floor, and sparks ignited in her vision. She heard him step away, then return, his breathing coming in hard rasps.

A light exploded before her eyes, and she turned her head away.

“Look at me,” he said.

The torch beam found its way beneath her eyelids, no matter how hard she squeezed them shut.

His wet palm struck her cheek. “Look at me.”

Galya opened her eyes a fraction, saw the vague outline of his moon face by the burning light.

“You caused this,” he said. “You brought him here. You made me kill him. Everything’s ruined because of you. I have to run because of you.”

Galya could think of only a few words to say, all of them Russian, so she spoke them.

“English,” he said.

She repeated the words, the only sounds that meant anything to her.

“I don’t know what you’re saying,” he said. He shook his head. “Doesn’t matter.”

He pointed the stained red blade of the screwdriver at her. “The Lord delivered you to me. So I will finish His work. I promised Him that. But you will suffer for what you’ve done. Beg forgiveness for your soul, for I will not spare you from the hell that’s waiting for you. But not here. It’s not safe here anymore because of you.”

She heard the screwdriver drop to the floor, felt the cold bite of the wire cutters working at the cable tie that held her left wrist to the chair.

Again, Galya spoke. Again, she said the only words that she could form.

She said, “Please, Mama, take me home.”