The Killing League (8 page)

The fish bowl size, super strong martinis didn’t hurt, either.

He glanced down at his Panerai watch and considered the time. Technically, he should go back to the office and waste some more time at his big desk in his big corner office. Maybe log on to some porn sites, or check out some of his singles online dating services. He had a variety of profiles, all fake. He never chose the women he found there, though, as his victims. Too easy to trace. He preferred the anonymity of the ghetto for his hunting grounds.

He didn’t have to go into the office, though. Everyone knew he kept odd hours and no one would miss him. For him, the office was really just a tax dodge. It included a seat on some board set up to oversee a few of the gargantuan Hampton trusts. He didn’t know the details, didn’t care to know them.

But he had to go there at least a few times a week, his lawyer told him. Just in case.

So he went on a somewhat regular basis. At least once a week for an hour or two unless he was on vacation out of the country. During his time there, he’d completed not one single piece of actual work but had managed to fuck every receptionist the company employed, even the ugly ones, out of sheer boredom.

Now, he savored the last taste of the martini and knew he wasn’t going back to the office. He would head out to the country club, maybe bang some cougar in the locker room, just pull her cute little golf skirt up and have at it.

The valet gave Hampton the keys to the BMW. It was parked immediately outside the front door of the restaurant. It was always placed front and center because he was a Hampton, of course. But also because he had dumped so much cash at the restaurant, everyone treated him like royalty. Plus, it was good marketing for the restaurant. It told everyone that rich people ate here, and they should try it, too, if they could afford it.

Hampton walked to the driver door and noticed a card pinned beneath the Beemer’s $170 windshield wiper (he’d had to get them replaced last season) and was about to crumple it up and throw it to the curb when he noticed it wasn’t a parking ticket. It was a card.

On the front it read: Blue Blood.

He climbed into the car, sat behind the wheel, and ripped open the card.

Dear Blue Blood,

No Hampton accomplishment can compare with this one: You, Douglas, have been chosen to be a competitor in the Killing League. Enclosed are your travel instructions. You don’t need to get anything out of your storage unit #27, though, and the cops certainly don’t need to be alerted to its contents. Wink wink, nudge nudge. Thanks and good luck!

Sincerely,

The Commissioner

Hampton took a deep breath, then smiled. So what if someone knew what he was doing. They clearly weren’t going to the cops. No doubt, they wanted some of his money. But he liked their style. A blackmailer who was a bit of a smart ass.

Okay, he thought. I’ll play along. He took out the ticket and slipped the card inside his glove compartment.

Hampton checked the airline ticket. Coach. He laughed out loud. Coach! Fuck that. The first thing he’d do at the airport would be to upgrade to First Class.

27.

Nicole

The attack came in an explosion of speed and ferocity that gave Nicole no time to react.

In a single breath of time she recognized Sal’s body attuned to something just beyond them, his ears pointed, his massive shoulder muscles bunched as a blur of brown and white, blazing yellow eyes and an inhuman scream sucked every molecule of oxygen from the air around her.

From a dense stand of scrub brush and a few chollo trees a dark brown blur flew at them. Nicole had just enough time to scream, and nearly lose her arm before she dropped the leash as Sal shot forward, pulling with all his might to get at the mountain lion.

It flashed through her mind — news stories of lone hikers and or bicyclists attacked by mountain lions and eaten, or dragged off the trail. One old man had been saved by his wife who used a ball point pen to gouge the big cat’s eyes.

It all went through Nicole’s mind in a flash and she watched Sal crash into the big cat. Nicole whipped the knife from its scabbard along her ankle and took a step forward just as a second explosion rocked the air around Nicole’s head. She felt dizzy and nearly collapsed as the dark brown blur reversed itself and disappeared back into the scrub brush. Sal was back on his feet in an instant and about to dart into the brush when Nicole screamed.

“Sal! No!” She prayed that every moment of training would kick in and Sal would listen to her.

He did. The big dog stood at the edge of the brush, his teeth bared, the hair on his back standing out in a long, dark ridge. Nicole knew that every fiber of his being shouted at him to chase the intruder down and kill it.

“Motherfucker!” Tristan said, her voice high and tight like a plucked violin cord.

Nicole turned and saw her friend with a gun in her hand pointed toward the sky.

The smell of cordite hung in the air around them.

“What—?” Nicole started to say.

Tristan lowered the gun and parted her backpack to reveal a holster inside.

“You can never be too careful, Nicky,” she said, as she thrust the gun back into its holster and zipped the backpack shut.

“But how did you know?” Nicole asked.

“I didn’t,” Tristan said. “When Sal turned and you turned and we both heard something, I slipped my hand inside just in case. And when that fucking thing bolted, I just ripped the gun out and shot it in the air. I’m glad I didn’t shoot you, Christ, I haven’t fired a gun in ages.” Nicole thought her friend’s hand was shaking a little bit. Tristan looked very pale, too.

“Wow,” Nicole said. She was still shaking, and Sal was now growling instead of barking. “We need to let someone know about this, like, now.”

Tristan pulled out her cell phone. She looked at the display and shook her head. “We’ll have to hike down to the parking lot to get reception. But yeah, if that thing attacked us, it’ll attack someone else.

Tristan put her hand on Nicole’s shoulder. “Are you okay?” she said.

Nicole felt the weakness in her legs. It was too much. The attack, the gunshot, it brought back memories. Bad memories. She looked down and realized she was still holding her knife. She slid it back into her ankle scabbard.

“I never was a cat person,” she said.

28.

The Messiah

A layer of rose petals floated in the warm bathwater. They moved in no discernible pattern, the currents slow and unpredictable.

The Messiah laid his head back on the edge of the tub. A small bead of sweat ran from his forehead down along his temple. Incense filled the room with what he thought of as the scent of the ancients. A deep, spiritual connection to the great philosophers of the past linking them to him, the bright light of the current human race.

A gentle knock on the door reached the Messiah’s ears, but he did not move. In slow motion, the door opened and a young man entered the bathing area.

He held a card in his hand.

The Messiah opened one eye and glanced at the young man whose body posture and expression conveyed the deeply held fear that was obvious to the man in the tub.

Everyone knew he absolutely loathed interruptions when he bathed. It was a sentiment so tightly held that if ignored, often caused a severe backlash against the responsible party.

No doubt the young man had been ordered to risk the fallout an uninvited appearance might create. Still, the Messiah was not above taking out his anger and frustration on the messenger.

The youth walked to the edge of the tub and stood in silence.

The Messiah, now with both eyes closed, spoke. “It would be in your best interest to have a very good reason for this intrusion.”

The young man began to speak, but instead, he sputtered. The Messiah opened his eyes and studied him. He knew that stories had been told of his angry outbursts. The masses knew it was the type of fury that often resulted in people disappearing and never being found.

“Messiah,” the youth said. “The house master instructed me to bring this to you immediately.”

The Messiah turned his head and faced the youth directly, then brought his arm from the water and took the card.

He read the front: The Messiah.

The card had already been opened. The Messiah had clear instructions that all mail should be opened and handled with only emergency or highly important messages delivered to him in private.

He pulled the card from the already opened envelope.

Dear Messiah,

Praise God! You are the chosen one! Please accept my invitation to the holy order of the Killing League! Based on your ungodly ability to bury poor souls in the desert, please find our enclosed travel information to the Holy Land of Homicide!

Sincerely,

The Commissioner

The Messiah glanced at the airline ticket, then dropped the card to the bathroom’s tile floor.

It was a good thing the message had reached him while he was in a state of deep relaxation. The anger was slow to grow, but he felt it coming.

There had not been a leak, he knew that. He ruled his flock with utter and total domination. No one had talked. No, this was an outsider violating the sanctity of his community.

An outsider who clearly did not understand the breadth and depth of his resourcefulness, nor his penchant for cruelty. The Messiah began to think of what he would do to the party responsible. His erection rose and broke the surface of the bathwater.

He glanced at the young messenger still standing next to the bathtub.

“Undress and join me,” the Messiah said. “You have violated my private time and for that, you must make amends.”

29.

Nicole

“Okay, first person to come up with a great entrée featuring mountain lion as the main ingredient gets a big bonus,” Nicole said to the kitchen staff at Thicque.

They’d all heard the story of the attack, and had been cracking jokes all afternoon.

“Grilled cougar with a side of Nicole’s soiled undergarments,” Paolo Gerrar said, a big grin on his face.

Nicole laughed and walked out to the dining room. She noted with no small amount of pleasure that the tables were already put together, fresh flowers had been delivered minutes earlier, and a beautiful soft light filled the space thanks to the sunlight seeping through the gauzy linen curtains.

Nicole felt great about her team. Even though the restaurant had only been open for a short time, she felt they had gelled as a unit, playing to each other’s strengths and compensating for any weaknesses in technique, knowledge, or personality.

They had found a nice rhythm and worked together virtually hiccup-free, save for one waiter whose sense of humor had ruffled the feathers of more than one customer. Entertaining guests was one thing, pissing them off by being too much of a smart ass was something entirely different. She had fired him immediately.

“Hey Boss!” Anthony Toffol, her sous chef, called out as she started inventory on the wine selections.

“Yeah,” she said. He stood with the door to the kitchen open. Nicole smelled the olive oil, garlic, onion, rosemary, shallots, paprika and black pepper that were being used in various incarnations.

“Someone dropped off a card for you,” he said. “It was under the door when I opened up — it’s over on the receptionist’s table.”

“Okay, thanks,” she said. She finished cataloging the vintages she wanted to highlight for tonight’s courses, then walked to the front of the dining room. Rather than a formal podium, Nicole had set up a small antique table where the hostess received guests.

Nicole glanced over and saw an envelope. She walked over, picked it up and looked at the front. There was a little symbol on the front, like a shield of some sort, with two letters.

KL.

She opened the card and a small slip of paper was inside.

Dear Nicole,

Congratulations on the success of Thicque! It sounds like a wonderful place to enjoy good food and renew bonds with old friends! Based on your success, I am happy to let you know that you have been accepted as an official member of KL. I know this holds no meaning for you, but I assure you in the very near future it will. I look forward to seeing you in person again and watch as you slice, dice, chop and julienne the way only you can!

Sincerely,

The Commissioner

She looked at the symbol below the message. It was the same “KL” inside a shield. How weird, Nicole thought. Probably some kind of online restaurant guide that offers coupons and specials to area restaurants. They would want Thicque no doubt to pay some hefty upfront fee in exchange for being listed in this KL. Maybe it stood for Kitchen List. Or something cheesy like Kalifornia Luxury. Who knew?

Nicole dropped the card into the trash.

What a weird message and a weird logo. It didn’t even look like a symbol having to do with food or dining.

The way the “KL” was inside that goofy shield made it look like a sports team or some kind of football league.

Whatever it was, Nicole had no intention of participating.

30.

Mack

The pillow in his arms was damp with sweat. His tongue felt like balsa wood. The spike through his brain reminded him of the scenes from the Omen where photographs showed a giant iron crucifix thrust through the future heads of Satan’s victims.

Mack was surprised at the severity of his hangover. He had downed the rest of the beers in the cooler after Adelia and Oscar left, but there hadn’t been that many.

Maybe he was getting old.

With that thought in mind, he rolled out of bed. His feet hit the floor with a thud that reverberated through his body. He looked up and out the bedroom door, judged the distance to the kitchen and the coffeemaker like the generals in World War Two judging the distance across a bridge too far.