Enforcer (44 page)

Petre walked back into the room, his face a blank mask. The Romanian tossed Connor a pair of black leather gloves. Connor felt maniacal laughter trying to escape him when he wondered if there was an accessories store that catered to serial killers and mob hitmen. Petre stood behind Larry, who was wild with fear that the Romanian was going to finish him. Connor was wild with fear at the same thought, knowing he would not be able to look away, knowing that Petre was probably moving into position to hold Larry still so Connor could finish him instead.

Petre pulled out a knife, flipped open the blade, and cut the plastic zip-tie that bound Larry’s wrists together. He froze when Petre put the knife to his throat, urine fountaining away from the chair, almost hitting Connor.

“I will give you your clothes,” Petre said to him. “You will put them on. You will do exactly as I tell you or you will end up in this chair again, and we will keep you alive for two weeks. Do not be a woman or a child. Die like a man. It will be quick. If you try to run, if you do anything other than what you are told, it will be very long, very painful. I have kept a man alive for two months before.”

Larry nodded, spreading his knees to keep the urine pooling on his chair and at his feet from touching him anymore than it already had. The stink of fear-driven sweat had already made Connor dry-heave. The smell of piss made his stomach lurch twice before he got it under control. Petre pulled the knife from Larry’s throat and pushed the point into his back just enough to get him to stand up and move away from the chair. Petre motioned for Connor to walk ahead, leading them out into the main room.

“Stop,” Petre commanded.

Larry and Connor stopped at the same time, Connor only slightly less terrified than Larry. Petre walked to the rough wooden couch and grabbed a pile of clothes, throwing them at the naked man. He gave a wave with the knife and Larry began to put his pants and shirt on. There was a glimmer of hope in his eyes as he glanced up at Connor while putting on his socks and shoes.

Surely he can’t be that stupid
, Connor thought. If the junkie was hopeful that somehow they were going to let him escape into the mountains, he was going to be crushed. Connor knew there was no way he would be making the trip back to Boise with Petre unless he killed the dealer. Petre would have instructions to kill them both if Connor refused. He still didn’t know if he could do it. His stomach almost let loose at the thought of it.

His stomach did take a turn when he got a good look at the missing fingers on Larry’s left hand. The two stumps that were the remains of his index and middle finger looked like they had been cauterized with a blowtorch. The wounds were an angry, puffy red, the middle finger stump leaking slowly, staining everything he touched. Connor watched the man wince repeatedly, every action leading to more pain, Larry constantly forgetful of the missing the fingers as he tried to tie his shoes.

Once he was dressed, Petre led him out to the remaining Lincoln, opened the back door, and shoved him in, climbing in after. He held the keys out to Connor. Connor grabbed them and got behind the wheel, turned the big car around, and headed back to the gravel road.

“Left,” Petre said from the backseat when they came out of the tree tunnel.

Connor looked in the rearview mirror, the dash lights illuminating the knife point leaving an indent in Larry’s neck. He turned left and drove slowly down the gravel road. They traveled in silence for ten minutes before Petre told him to turn right onto another dirt track. The ride was rough enough to make the car bounce and shake. He wondered if Petre might accidentally stab Larry in the neck. Connor decided to keep his eyes off the mirror to not have to see it in case it happened.

Half a mile down the track, they came to a small turnaround. Petre instructed Connor to drive through the turnaround, assuring him that just because there was no path worn in was no reason to think it would be impassible. Connor let the Lincoln pull itself forward another two hundred yards at barely three miles an hour. When the Romanian told him to stop, he put his foot on the brake, shifted the car into park, and shut it off.

“Turn the car on,” Petre said. Connor obeyed, starting the engine again. “Put on the high beams,” he commanded, and Connor did that as well. “Everyone out.”

Petre grabbed Larry’s arm, put the knife to his neck again, and marched him to a spot with a mound of dirt and two shovels. Connor’s mind immediately conjured up a vision of Petre holding them at gunpoint, making them dig a grave large enough for two, before executing them and letting their bodies fall back, sliding neatly into the hole.

“I have started the hole for you already,” Petre said to Larry, giving him a shove forward. “Pick up the shovel and finish.”

Larry looked back in terror, only to see the barrel of Petre’s pistol pointed at his face. Larry shifted fear-laden eyes to Connor, who was just as frightened, only slightly less so since he was on the safe side of the gun. He hoped. Petre waved the gun at Larry, thumbing back the hammer for effect. The little man walked to the hole, and reached down to grab one of the shovels. He looked back at the two men silhouetted by the high beams, getting another wave from Petre’s gun.

Larry began to cry, falling to his knees and dropping the shovel. He babbled, begged for forgiveness, for mercy, to be let go, promised to live forever in the mountains, to never set foot near Boise again. Connor was disgusted by the scene, some of the disgust at himself for having to stand and watch it, more disgust at the knowledge he would have to be the one to end it.

The explosion from the gun made both of them nearly jump out of their skins. Connor looked from Petre to Larry, expecting an expanding blood stain on Larry’s face or chest. The only stain Larry had was between his legs, his bladder having let go of whatever was left in it that hadn’t been expelled back at the cabin.

“Do not be a woman,” Petre commanded. “You are going to die. Finish your grave. If you refuse, I will keep you alive for a very long, painful time. It will be more unpleasant than a quick death. Stop mewling and start digging.”

Larry looked defeated. He grabbed the shovel, stood up, and stepped into the hole. It was deep enough that Connor could only see him from the the chest up. He began to dig, slowly, as if to stretch out the time long enough that Petre might decide to change his mind. Connor imagined that it was an extremely unpleasant, pain-filled experience with two raw stumps constantly jarring against the shovel’s handle. He didn’t want to watch any of it, but knew he had to.

“Why’d you do it, man?” Larry asked, wincing as he lobbed out another shovelful of dirt.

“What?” Connor asked.

“Why’d you do it? You knew when I didn’t have the money that they’d kill me. Why’d you let these slimy fuckin’ Romanians do this? I never got you in this kind of trouble when I called
him
. You didn’t have to die. I’m going to die for what you did.”

Petre watched the two of them, interested in what each of them would say.

“Listen, Larry,” Connor said, walking a few steps closer to the hole. “I didn’t do this to you. You got yourself into this situation. I’m truly sorry that it has to end like this. You don’t know how sorry I am. I’m not a killer like these guys are. I can’t help you. This is your fault, not mine. You’re getting the easy way out. I’m the one that has to live with the knowledge that I was forced to murder you.”

“Oh boo-fucking-hoo,” Larry said, scooping another pile of out of the hole. “Poor you, having to live with my death on your hands. That’s so much worse than what’s going to happen to
me
. I feel so fucking bad for you. I’d trade places with you in a heartbeat and not have another thought about it.”

“I know you would,” Connor replied. “That makes it easier to do this. Knowing that you’re a cowardly piece of shit who abuses women helps as well. But you fucked yourself. You should have known better than to get involved with these people. They aren’t white-trash meth cooks who can’t even count to twenty. You should have known they’d kill you if you crossed them.”

“You’re the one who’s going to kill me. I’m going to haunt you forever. I hope you and that fucking whore enjoy each other and have a short, miserable life together before you become a neighbor of mine in hell.”

Connor leaned in toward Larry, mindful of the reach of the shovel. “I love her,” he said barely loud enough for Larry to hear. “I’d kill you a thousand times to save her.”

Larry’s eyes went wide and he stopped shoveling. Connor stood up and walked back to Petre, the dead man watching until Petre pointed the pistol at him. When the shovel began working the dirt again, Petre turned to Connor.

“What did you say to him?” he asked.

“Nothing that needs to be repeated,” Connor said. He changed the subject. “Am I going to have to shoot him? I don’t know if I can use my hands, and I know for sure I can’t use the knife.”

He began to shiver, trying to keep the fear from overwhelming him. He couldn’t fall to his knees and plead with Petre to let the man go, or he’d end up in the grave next to Larry. He tried to get himself under control, but couldn’t. His knees began to shake and his teeth chattered. He ran a few steps toward the car before he fell to his knees and threw up. All that came out was a sticky liquid at first, dry heaves following for a couple of minutes after.

When he got his stomach under control, he stayed on his knees, letting the tears fall from his eyes, unable to face Petre until he dried up. He heard Larry laughing at him from the hole. Connor tried to use it to become enraged, to hate the man to the point he could kill him. All he felt was fear, shame, guilt.

The hatred he felt was for Ojacarcu for making him do this, combined with the hate of what the older man had done to Jera. The hatred at Ojacarcu for forcing Dana to run away to keep her safe, denying Connor the one thing in life he had come to love besides hockey, almost pushed him over the edge. It wasn’t enough, but it didn’t matter. In a few more minutes it would be him or Larry. Or both of them. Connor decided with finality that he would be leaving these cold mountains with Petre.

Connor stood and walked back to where Petre watched Larry dig. The man wasn’t laughing anymore. He was crying, removing only a handful of dirt with each scoop of his shovel, trying to drag it out as long as possible.

“Enough,” Petre said.

Larry threw the shovel over the edge of the hole, his loud sobbing pathetic, while at the same time ripping holes in Connor’s heart. Connor reached his hand out for Petre’s gun. He wanted to get it over with as quickly as possible, and knew he would have to look at his victim while shoveling dirt back into the hole.

“Connor,” Petre said, pushing Connor’s hand away, “I will do this for you. I know you are not a killer. I am a killer, many times over. You do not want to live with this. Go back to the car. I will return when I am done.”

“You’ll need help with the dirt,” Connor said as he tried to keep his own tears in check.

“It is easier to fill a hole than to dig it,” Petre told him. “Go to the car. Do not watch this.”

“You fucking coward!” Larry screamed from the hole. “I knew you were a pussy! You can’t even kill me!”

“Go,” Petre said, returning the gun to its holster and unsnapping it from the shoulder harness.

Connor backed away, taking the holster from Petre’s outstretched arm. The Romanian pulled a short length of rope from his jacket before handing the jacket to Connor as well. It looked like the same exact white nylon that Dracul had used. He had the insane thought again, wondering if Petre and Dracul were part-owners in a Serial Killer & Mobster’s Supply Emporium.

Larry stopped screaming when he saw the rope. He tried to climb out of the hole and received a kick in the face. Petre wrapped the rope around his hands a few times, leaving only about a foot between them. He gave Connor one final glance, shaking his head, before crossing over his wrists to make a loop. Connor watched Petre jump down into the hole before he turned away and walked to the Lincoln, the big car still idling, its high beams providing enough light for Petre to take care of business.

CHAPTER 36

Winter

Connor watched as Niklas wound tape around the blade of his stick. The dead man was methodical about the spacing of the overlap. Connor had known many players who were obsessive about things like the tape on their stick, the way they taped their socks to their shin pads, even which skate to lace up first. Goalies were even more obsessive, to the point of having a meltdown in the locker room minutes before a game if someone interrupted their routine.

“What?” Niklas asked him, looking up from his tape job.

“What are you doing?” Connor asked, his mouth feeling as if it was under the control of someone else, as if this were a forced performance in some sick comedy-drama.

“Taping my stick,” Niklas replied as he went back to carefully placing tape around the blade in exact proportions.

“Why are you doing that?” Connor asked.

“Because the game starts in about ten minutes. You should get dressed. Coach is going to be pissed if you’re late.”

As if on cue, the coach blew open the doors to the locker room, striding in with a giant cigar hanging from the corner of his blackened lips. Connor recoiled at the sight of Travis marching across the carpet with a whiteboard in his hand.