As they hoisted him up and over, the kid’s eyes looked like they were trying to pop out of his skull and run away without him. I froze. Watt and Grandpa, as if they were dumping fresh-cut potatoes into a deep-fryer, let go and hopped back.
With a final, “Heh-heh,” Ashby disappeared. The viscous green crap didn’t even splash as it swallowed him. It was so thick, it just made a sickening plop, like radioactive pea soup.
The liquid churned like water not quite willing to boil. Maybe Ashby was struggling as the acid ate him. I thought I saw a bone-white elbow rise above the surface, but it was gone before I could be sure. After a minute or so, the churning slowed. Swampy vapors, a lighter green, hovered on the surface. The chemical odor was joined with a smell like burning meat.
“Most of it’s gone now,” Grandpa said. “I think the bones take a little longer.”
Even he looked a little grossed out, but our host was absolutely fascinated, intent as Ashby had been on Misty. To him, this was the equivalent of something shiny.
After another minute, the liquid, slightly darker, stopped moving altogether. For the first time, I believed something other than fire, or being ground by a millstone, could kill a chak.
The killer gave off a victory laugh, as if to say,
Grandpa wiped some sweat from his brow. “It’s sure as hell better than chasing someone all over the desert. That Boyle fellow took hours.”
Something in the bag twitched again.
Before I could think about what that meant, Watt undid the chain connecting me to the column. My turn.
The masked man stepped over to the table and regarded his pretty tools. He lifted the metal pole with the leather harness and stepped toward me. I think I made out a wide smile beneath the mask.
Then he said three words, drew each one out in a ridiculously singsong way. The voice was boyish, hauntingly familiar, but that could have been a put-on.
“We’ll talk later.”
17
I expected I’d be D-capped, my head harvested, my body tossed into the acid. The idea of losing my head always got to me, but I’d been picturing it clearer and clearer ever since I’d first heard about Wilson: blades pressing my neck, cold metal so razor-sharp I wouldn’t have the slightest idea when they first sliced my skin. There’d be pinching as the muscles and veins snapped, more pressure, and one final crunch as my spine was severed.
Little happens the way I expect. With Grandpa and Watt flanking me, everyone’s favorite mystery date came closer holding not the choppers, but the leather strap I’d seen among his toys. In a flash, I caught onto the plan. He’d use the strap to keep my head above the acid as they lowered the rest of me in. As my body melted into human stew, if the liquid was clear enough, I’d get to watch. I didn’t figure I’d be able to talk after that, what with no lungs, but I did think I’d see, and keep seeing, unless someone buried me . . . or shoved me in a duffel bag.
Why? Maybe it was some kind of experiment, or maybe he got off on seeing pain, the way boys take a magnifying glass to a bug and watch it burn. Maybe there was no malice at all, just a gross curiosity.
Watt moved in to get me in another hug. I slammed the top of my skull into his nose, wishing I’d fought as hard for Ashby. The human skull is thinnest right above the nose. Hit it at the right angle, with the right amount of force, and you can send a shard up into the brain, killing the target instantly.
It didn’t work. I heard a pleasant crack, but he didn’t die. I’d staggered Watt, drawn some blood, seemed to confuse him, but, like Curly from the Three Stooges, he slapped it off and came at me again. He didn’t even look as mad as Grandpa, who cursed me out in some language I couldn’t identify.
When Watt got close enough again, I stomped both of his feet. No reaction. He grabbed me. I twisted my shoulders, but his arms were too thick, and the cuffs on my wrists didn’t help. I yanked at the metal rings, hoping I could break my own hand and get a limb free. I couldn’t manage it, and not for lack of trying.
The masked maniac moved in with the strap.
I moved the only part of me I could, my head, snapping it back and forth. Grandpa, still pissed, grabbed my skull and jaw and held them so tightly, I thought I’d swallow the fucking glove. “Hurt my boy, will you?”
His weathered palm covered my field of vision. I felt the strap slip around my neck, as cool and about the same texture as my skin.
Satisfied I was helpless, the figure came nearer. Grandpa repositioned his hand so we could see each other. I couldn’t even bite the bastard’s gas mask. The best I could manage was to exhale on him angrily through my nose. He clicked some sort of padlock on the strap, then stepped back, humming, until he glanced at Grandpa’s hands. One was a rubbery yellow, the other pale pink.
Grandpa opened my mouth and yanked the glove out. He flicked it in the air as if trying to get the zombie cooties off it and put it back on his hand.
Meanwhile, I could talk again, for all it was worth.
“Could you at least tell me why?”
Stupid question, the sort of thing you ask God on your deathbed. I got the answer I expected: stone silence. I wanted to come up with some clever, compelling last words, but all I managed to do was turn to Grandpa and splutter, “How can you do this?”
The old man didn’t skip a beat. “With this pole, that acid, and those clippers.”
I was spending my last moments playing straight man, lobbing them over the plate so he could whack them out of the park. With
Tugging the pole, the Mask led me like a dog. Watt and Grandpa marched on either side of me. If I tried to head the other way, they pushed me toward the vat. When I buckled to my knees, they pulled me back up. When I collapsed again, they helped the Mask drag me by the neck.
Less than a yard to go and nothing I could do about it. Anything else I could say? I was pretty good at pissing people off, like with Grandpa, getting under their skin, but you never could tell how that might work out. If I insulted Watt, by the time he figured it out, I’d be long gone. Gramps wasn’t stupid. He’d be on his best behavior with a vat of acid so close.
“You gotta realize your boss here is a psychopath, right, Gramps? You and your kid are connected to Booth, the cops. That means sooner or later, he’ll have to kill you to cover his tracks.”
The Mask kept humming. Grandpa gave me a shrug. “I got a rule about not discussing clients with corpses that break my son’s nose.”
“I can see that. But maybe you could make an exception?”
At the edge of the vat, they turned me sideways.
“For what it’s worth,” Grandpa said, “and I know that ain’t much, I am sorry about this. About the kid, anyway.”
That was it, then. Watt and Grandpa grabbed a leg each and lifted. I rose and saw the surface of the acid, smooth and quiet. The smell, though still thick, had changed. I couldn’t say how. I guess I was looking in the wrong direction, because the Mask yanked my hair and held my head straighter.
No reason not to give it one last shot; I squirmed and flailed for all I was worth. I got lucky, caught Watt off balance. He slipped, but his hand shot out and grabbed the edge of the vat. The liquid inside sloshed, nearly touching his fingers.
Grandpa gasped. “Tony!”
“I’ll yank him in with me; I swear I will!” I screamed. “I’ll kick and splash and get it all over you fuckers!”
Grandpa twisted my leg so hard it felt like my hip would break.
I stared at the Mask. “I’ll dunk myself, you son of bitch! I’ll pull myself down, head and all. You won’t get a single piece of me!”
He looked as if he was thinking about it for a second, but then shook his head as if to say,
