“I want this cop to leave here with a Glasgow smile so all his other cop friends can know what happens when you attempt to betray me or my family.”
She shuddered to think what a Glasgow smile was, but felt relief at the words leave here. That told her the cop could go eventually. He would be free. Who knows, with medicine today, maybe they could fix his legs and he could walk normally again.
The Harvester of Sorrow walked around to the front of the unconscious cop and surveyed his face. The thick bandages had staunched the blood flow.
The Harvester nodded at his two helpers and they stepped closer. Then Harvester pulled out a small utility knife and stuck it just inside the corner of the cop’s lips.
With a flourish of the wrist, he sliced the cop’s cheek all the way to the ear on each side. The cop awoke from his blackout and screamed.
She watched in horror as the Harvester jabbed the utility knife in and out of the cop’s stomach, and his scream continued, louder, animal-like.
The grotesque mask of open flesh was too much to bear. Rosina looked down at the floor, afraid to close or avert her eyes entirely.
After a moment the cop fell silent.
“What did you do?” the old man asked.
“Nothing, sir. We always stab them a few times to make them scream. It opens up the wound quite nicely.”
“I realize that, but he looks dead.”
The Harvester stepped forward and touched the cop’s neck under the jaw. Then he turned back to the boss.
“I’m sorry. His heart must’ve stopped.”
The boss’s cell phone rang.
“Excuse me,” he said, and turned from the Harvester.
“Speak,” the boss commanded into the phone. After a moment he said, “I understand. Thank you.”
“It appears we’re going to have company. Assemble all your men and head downstairs.”
“What’s happening, boss?” the man to Rosina’s right asked.
He looked at her and pointed. “Her husband is here and he brought Paul with him, all the way from Termini Station. Now Paul is lying dead in the road like a fucking dog, his head crushed. Paul still had his weapon on him. That means that Darwin has his own, or he doesn’t use one. Killing Big John was just the beginning. Now he’s found us, and he sent us a signal.” The old man looked around the room. “Be aware. Killing Paul like that in front of our building is a warning. Shoot on sight. We can play with this one later.” He gestured to Rosina. “I want Darwin Athios Kostas dead within the hour!”
Chapter 8
Darwin stood at the back of the building. He had to get inside. There was no other option left. The sun had dropped past where he normally allowed himself to be outside. He knew, rationally, there was nothing to fear just because it was dark. But that was the thing about a phobia-there was nothing rational about it.
His therapist called it achluophobia. He also diagnosed Darwin with aichmophobia — a fear of sharp or pointed objects, such as needles and knives. Darwin had looked them up and felt he really had angrophobia — a fear of becoming angry. He did horrible, unspeakable things when he got angry. It became a fury without limit. The only things that caused that fury were being in darkness or having something poking and prodding him like a needle or a knife.
Thanks, Stepmom. You’re a real sport. Rot in hell.
The heavy darkness pressed down on Darwin. It closed in tighter. He felt marked distress. His ability to function and think properly grew more difficult by the second. If he didn’t find a door that opened to a lighted area within minutes, he would have no choice but to break the nearest window.
The front of the building was the wrong way to go. Too many people would be near the road. He even saw men running from the Fuccini building’s front doors earlier. If only he could walk through them, step up to Mr. Fuccini and discuss terms.
Yeah, right. Maybe in the Wizard Of Oz, but not here, not now.
After killing another of the Fuccini men, he was sure that Mr. Fuccini would mark him for death, if he hadn’t already.
Darwin ran to the two large, green garbage bins at the back of the building, under a bright streetlight that shined onto them. He looked at the sky, a dark black-blue color, the sun’s presence all but gone.
Rosina, I’m coming for you, baby.
Standing under the light, he scanned the building for a way in. There was one door with a Keep Out sign and a large hole in the wall about seven feet up. The garbage chute, he assumed.
No way am I climbing up through there.
He had to find another way in. Time was running out. The police would be scouring the area looking for the guy who threw Paul into the traffic.
He ran over to the Keep Out door and tried the knob. Locked.
Shit. Think, dammit, think.
A pile of broken skids were piled haphazardly about eight feet high, and he leaned under the chute to look up. It reeked of garbage and looked very black up in there. He knew, even if it had a velvet ladder leading up with a neon Welcome sign beside the hole, there would be no way he would climb into it. Not with how dark it was.
Voices. Men talking. He cocked his ear and listened. They were on the other side of the Keep Out door.
Darwin ran back around the skids, careful to watch for the exposed nails, to the other side of the garbage bin and dropped below sight. The bins were on wheels. At least there was that.
The door opened from the inside. He peeked around the edge of the bin. Bright light poured from the building. A man stood there, a gun in his hand.
He turned back to someone and shouted, “I know, I know, I’m going. You just watch your ass.”
The man kicked something on the door near its bottom and then walked away from it. The door stayed propped open. Darwin got down on his hands and knees and looked under the bin to watch the man’s feet.
He walked to the other bin first with slow, cautious steps. Then, at the last second, the man leapt forward and stared into the bin. “Shit.”
He’s checking the bins. He thinks I’m hiding in the garbage bins.
Darwin watched the man’s feet as they drew nearer the bin he hid behind, and planned his next move.
The man was slow, using extra caution.
Damn it, hurry up. I don’t want to lose my nerve.
The feet paused. Darwin braced himself. The man leapt up and looked inside the bin. As soon as he said Shit, Darwin shoved the bin hard.
It rolled forward faster than he thought it would, and he almost lost his balance. It was only six feet to the brick wall of the building and, to the man’s credit, he stayed on his feet all the way.
The bin stopped, almost as fast as it had started, with a crunch and a shout.
Keeping low to avoid any wayward bullets, Darwin raised his fists and approached the man. The man’s gun lay on the ground two feet from him. Darwin picked it up, checked the safety and flicked it off right away. Thanks, Paul.
He pointed the weapon at the man. The time for niceties had ended.
But the man was already dead.
Darwin couldn’t believe it. How did he die? Wait, how many men am I going to kill in one day?
He eased the garbage bin off the wall. When the bin had pushed the man into the pile of wooden skids, at least six or seven rusty nails had made their home in the back of the man’s head. but that didn’t seem to be the killing blow.
A large, sharp piece of wood had sliced the man’s neck sideways as he fell across it, digging a few inches
