The Forest Bull (The Fearless) Page 13

  Sandrine was a French citizen of unknown origin. She presented herself in court as a demure woman of the middle class who was surprised to have been charged with a crime but was too mannerly to ridicule the notion of her guilt, preferring to let the court see the absurdity of her presence in the hall populated by the brutal side of mankind. Marseilles. Lisbon. Earlier, Morocco. All sites of her curious bloodlust and places where she had slipped the leash of justice through murder, wile, and bribery. It seemed that Sandrine was a humanist, free of conscience. I couldn’t wait to meet her. I felt like I needed Risa’s logic or Wally’s intuition, paging through newspaper columns that breathlessly urged public awareness and vigilance in the hunt for a killer. All, of course, in the name of safety. And, incidentally, advertising sales. I thought of Wally and how she would be mooning at the handsome priest, elbowing Risa as he moved through the Mass. It took a joyful soul to treat a religious ceremony as a source of sexual playfulness. It was congruent with Wally’s sunny disposition to find romance in the austere grasp of a celibate priesthood. Finding such pearls was her gift.

  And in flash, I knew where to find Sandrine. Why would a woman who harbored a century of arrogant disregard for men go among the chattel to be judged worthy? Nightclubs, bars, the stale air of bookstores and cloistered pretentious shops, these were beneath her. I began to warm to Sandrine’s thoughts, her need to prequalify men as lonely. Free of families. Devoid of serious relationships. Out of their normal element, or uncomfortable in their stations. Perhaps, a bit desperate and willing to be put in a vulnerable position to get something that they needed in order to feel like a man. There was only one type of woman who granted a man the satisfaction of a virile identity far beyond his charms.

  I sat back down at the keyboard and typed Escorts. South Florida. French. A single ad came up. With a picture. Her eyes were stone flat above a perfunctory smile. “Hello, Sandrine” I said to the air.

  Gotcha.

  I pinged the Baron with the news and found myself inordinately pleased with his reaction when he signed on and we began speaking.

  “Impressive, Ring. You’ve made a logic leap that I would not have contrived in any amount of time. How will you proceed? She is quite dangerous, despite your abilities.” He was understating the case. She was terrifying. There was something deeply offensive about her method of killing. I knew that murder in and of itself should be the supreme violation of a person, but Sandrine brought new elements of fear and disgust with her crimes.

  “I’ll have to approach her as a customer. A public meeting is too uncertain. I don’t know how cagey she is, but I’m betting that, after a century or so of predation, she’s hard to corner. So it has to be me, alone, and I have to take her alive, at first.” I needed interrogation rather than instant elimination. It was new territory for me.

  “She won’t be held. She cannot be domesticated for the purposes of turning on her own kind. That means you must act quickly, decisively, and with a maximum violence in order to subdue her.” Cazimir’s tone was instructive but urgent. He knew that paralysis of any kind would mean my death, and it could happen at her leisure.

  “My last name, Byk? You know the meaning?” he continued. “It is the word for a bull, an animal never known for subtlety.” He smiled at me and put his hands up in an imitation of horns. “Bulls are always charging, they do not submit lightly. They are capable of enormous destruction in a short amount of time, crushing and using bunched muscles to drive them ever forward until they win. Or die. There is little middle ground in the mind of the bull. But, in spite of our name, my family has chosen to live through avoidance, some would even say deception. We had to, in order to survive a vicious political landscape through these centuries. Europe has been at war, Ring. War of unending variety and violence. There have been countless local skirmishes due to petty feudal grievances about succession, lands, money, religion, divorce. The reasons are as varied as the dates that blood was shed in the name of some forgotten lord, born of a cause lost to the depths of time. Only the bones remain, Ring, and they pave the continent with the residue of sorrow, each death piling on the last in a tower of loss that would scratch at the heavens if it were made real. Do you know who pays the price of royal vanity? The rustics. Stoop-backed laborers enslaved to their land, their pittances worried away by men they never see who give them nothing. My family took only from the forest; we would not bear the shame of a parasitic existence on the shoulders of the poor. So we have hidden our herd, and our family, and our wealth in this life, by folding ourselves fully into the green depths around us. Do you know of the KGB?” he asked.

  I said, yes, of course. Who didn’t?

  “The KGB is timeless. If one goes far enough back in Soviet history, their name changes, but their sinister purpose and brutality remains unchanged. Before the KGB, there was the NKVD, the OGPU, oh, so many names, Ring, but always called by their original name: the Cheka. How they were feared. We took in ragged refugees often; their flight from the organization in power at the time was that of a terrified animal. The Slavic fetish for paranoia did not begin with the Bolsheviks, though. Even as far in the past as the reign of Tsar Nicholas, there were secret police that walked amidst the populace, ever vigilant for enemies of the state. Real or imagined, Ring, there were always bodies for the hangman. The Cheka used to drive cars know as Black Crows. To see one park in front of a neighbor’s house was a death sentence for the unfortunate subject of their gaze. There are several Black Crows rusting into the moss near my home, along with many other cars, long rows of decrepit boxes rusting through the somber colored paint from the Soviet years. ”

  “Who owned the other cars, Cazimir? Surely not all of them were serious threats to your home. Your family. Or your secrets, for that matter.” I was dubious about the guilt of so many; doubtless, their bones were forgotten under the leaves of decades, a secret garden of missing souls under the towering canopy.

  “Not all were secret police, true. Many were commonplace thieves masquerading as local officials, their greed too powerful for their fading common sense. Hunters visited our land, too, to be turned away peacefully whenever possible. Unintentional interlopers trod the Bialowicza for all manner of reasons, many coming due to richness of the land in a starved time. Oh, the Soviets and their execrable Five Year Plans. So many victims of the State during those years, just as the Tsars had done to the serfs. A different flag, but the same hunger and pain.”

  “We were not unknown, you may surmise. Myths surrounded our private enclave, and we fed them whenever possible. Is it not better to avoid confrontation altogether, even if that means embracing a false, supernatural identity? I think so, although I wish our attempts had been more fruitful. The automobiles dissolving into the earth are a testament to my own personal failures to be less visible. So many, like dying poplars along a rutted track.” His gaze was distant, loaded with the burden of time.

  “Do you see why I must stay here, in this lonely, verdant prison? Why I wish Elizabeth to come home? I am no coward, Ring, but I am chilled to the bone by the thought of losing her. That is why it is so bitter for me to have you do vile murder on my behalf, regardless of the greater service you are giving to mankind. “

  I knew a great deal more about the man after his call. I wondered if children ever really knew how much their parents loved them. Was that even possible? My resolve hardened after hearing a history that made the forest seem ever more desirable. When the girls got home, I would tell them that time was now of the essence, and I would be making plans with Sandrine as soon as possible.

  Tomorrow, if all went well, it would be a brief but memorable date and the last of Sandrine’s poisonous career.

  A lover is coming, Sandrine. And I will be most attentive.

  From Risa’s Files

  This Weekend: Elite French companion available for incall only. Ft. Lauderdale Beach. Donations 550 per hour, 900 for two hours. Room visits only, no travel or dinner possible, although moonlit walks on the beach
are possible for select gentlemen. Email for appointment. References required. No locals. Picture unimportant. Mature men preferred. This is not an offer of prostitution but merely for time spent together. All other contact is between two adults at their discretion. Please be properly groomed and respectful of my wishes. Kisses, Sandrine.

  Gyro could sense my tension even if I chose not to display the turmoil I felt. Planning, waiting. He stayed close to me in the yard as I wandered, apart from everyone else. A fat moon began to rise over the canal, adding a buttery line of light to the flickering panels of cobalt water. Suma and Wally were putting a medical kit together in case Sandrine got the better of me; they would ride together, while Risa drove me to the hotel. Wally’s frenetic energy in traffic was too distracting, so I would sit quietly next to Risa and her projection of quiet calm. I was to meet Sandrine at ten, well after dark. Through email, I had baited the hook with a false persona of a lonely, childless technocrat on business. No wife. No family. A faceless, salaried employee on foreign ground without any discernible defenses against his own carnal needs. I was perfect for Sandrine’s dark purpose, and she scheduled a visit without hesitation.

  Under a loose-fitting shirt, I tucked my knife, the cool metal resting with a comfortable heft against the small of my back. I didn’t know if she had the same tendencies as Elizabeth, but I could not allow her hands near my face. Her curious biology precluded any kissing. What a shame. Even if I could metabolize her poison, any slowdown would expose me to her other weapon, and I had no intent of being used as a pincushion. That meant I had to disable her quickly and with maximum force. Sandrine was a nail, and I was the hammer. A gentle touch on my shoulder from Risa alerted me that it was time to go. With a final stretch and pat of Gyro, we paired off, Suma and Wally in the other vehicle, and left for the beach.

  Risa drove. I sat loosely, as she quizzed me gently about our plan. Her voice was soothing to my nerves; at least until I would feel my fighting instincts take control with a chill at my neck and a leaden calm in my mind.

  “When you walk in the lobby, what’s first?” Risa began.

  “It’s too nice a hotel for escorts to work without bribing a staff member. I’ll look for a concierge to recognize me. She might even have a Helper, but I doubt it. It’s too obvious, and they tend to be a bit awkward in upscale settings, especially this close to their mistress when she is killing.” We had discussed the possibility of human collaborators earlier. It seemed thin, especially since three was a crowd when the blood started flowing. Helpers and Friends were like drug dealers. They never died old.

  “Elevator up to fourth floor. Her room is a suite on the end, like we expected. It will be quiet there. You have the envelope?” Risa asked.

  I patted my pants leg. “In my pocket. I’ll put the money on the bathroom counter. She’ll pretend to check it and come out. I can’t let her undress me or get undressed. I don’t know exactly how she kills, but it’s attached to her. No contact with her hands or mouth. I need to hit her quickly and without hesitation. That won’t be a problem. I’ll go for a knockout and text you immediately. She’s at least a century old, I think, so we won’t be able to hold her for long. I’ll start questioning her right away, but I’ll have to get up to open the door unless you break in. That’s a bit loud, I think, so I’ll have to be fast.”

  Risa nodded periodically as I spoke. “Wally’s worried; call her on your way up. Suma, too.”

  “What about you? Have I got this?” I asked her as we pulled in the parking lot of the hotel. She turned to me and put her hand on my face.

  “You’re too fast for her. But if she wounds you, run. Run fast, and come to us. Come to me. And then we’ll take care of it, or her, whatever. And she’ll regret being born.” Her eyes were bright. I knew she meant it, and I knew she was worried. As I opened the door, she squeezed my hand once and turned away, her pride keeping any hint of tears from my view.

  My heels were muffled in the sumptuous carpet of the doorway, only to clop lightly as I crossed into a tiled foyer with Mediterranean décor. I peeled right to the waiting bank of elevators after a discreet glance around the room. It was staffed lightly, and I saw no obvious candidates in league with Sandrine until I met the eyes of an unblinking bellman. He averted his gaze as I punched the four on the controls and waited for the soundless elevator doors to slide open. As the doors closed, I noted his brisk walk to the bar area. Maybe two working with Sandrine, one human, one Helper. I filed that thought and turned to the matter at hand, my heart rate rising slightly as the elevator stopped with a minor twitch.

  Odd numbers left, even on right, to the end of the left hall. With a final check of my blade and one other surprise I had, I knocked twice, softly, and stepped back. It was date night.

  She opened the door and stepped back as I came in. Thin and waiflike, she had an elfin quality to her bordering on androgyny. A black skirt covered her thighs, and a white silk top clung to her frame. A gold chain hung between her small breasts. She was beautiful, with doe-like eyes and a pixie cut that accentuated her apparent fragility.

  I knew better.

  “Thomas?” She asked, her voice cultured, French, quiet. I had to remain focused as she sat on the edge of the bed and crossed her legs, displaying them for maximum effect. With a start, I remembered my role and cast my eyes down, playing the awkward john. It was exceedingly easy. She had an aura of refinement that was palpable.

  “Yes, hi, hi. Sandrine, hi. May I excuse myself to the restroom for a moment?” She smiled and waved me towards the inner door as I made a show of fumbling with the envelope. I went into the separate bathroom, laying the fee on the vanity and quietly checking my knife. So far, so good. I walked back out to find her in the same position on the bed. Her hand patted the mattress soundlessly, once.

  “Do come over, please. Would you care for some wine? Or something stronger? The bar is excellent.”

  Her manners were impeccable. I sat. There was a mild tension, but she reached out and grasped my hand, softly, and smiled. “Tell me a bit about yourself. And about what you like. You shouldn’t be nervous. I’m here for you, and I’m very experienced. Would you like to kiss me, perhaps? A massage?” Her flirtation was seamlessly woven with her hand steadily moving about my leg, my stomach, a brief caress of my upper arm. I’d been frisked for weapons in the most erotic, disarming way imaginable. I was impressed, even if she did miss my blade. She was a pro. I could respect that.

  “I am not with women very often. At all, really. So, I was on business, here, you see . . . ,” I stumbled, offering her an opening. She accepted. Out of position, I could not refuse her kiss. She was gentle, very coy. I felt nothing odd, even though I knew she was built to kill, and I had let her in far too close. Memories of Elizabeth percolated in my thoughts. I shut them down. I had to be present for this.

  Her perfume was Chanel, but, under it, there were hints of vinegar and almond. Not the smells of a woman. Nor the scents of humans, for that matter. I forced a blush and stammered, “Could you, you know, kneel in front of me? Just to start? And then maybe, we can walk on the beach, like we are lovers? I miss that sort of thing. And the other thing, too. If I ever really even had it. I don’t know . . . ,” I trailed off as she stood, removing her heels and delicately placing them on the bed. They looked expensive. I wondered what size they were and how many she had. I knew Wally would like to know.

  She knelt, smiling, crossing her feet behind her, and began to slide her hands up my legs. It was electric. I could see how she had been so lethal for so long. Her smile was secretive, and she raised a single brow of inquiry. I placed my hands behind me, flat on the bed, my legs and torso tense with her charged eroticism. She leaned forward, reaching for my zipper as I exhaled in anticipation. A light chuckle escaped her throat. It was the laugh of a woman who knows she is in total control.

  Without warning, I drove the pommel of my knife into her temple hard enough to make her teeth crack against each other as she sagged to the carp
et, stunned. From my pocket I withdrew a pair of titanium zip ties. In seconds, she was trussed on the bed and very, very disoriented. It was time for questions, and she had, after all, advertised that she was an excellent conversationalist. I intended to get my full hours’ worth of her company, whether she felt chatty or not. Climbing on the bed, I straddled her, careful to remain on her chest. I wasn’t concerned with her comfort. I was concerned about my life.

  She wheezed to consciousness, her eyes rolling like an animal in distress. A circular dent in her skull remained from my knife handle, a killing blow for a human. It gave her left eye the curious tilt of an impressionist sketch gone wrong.

  “What do you want?” Her voice was chilly, and free of inflection. I had to admire that type of recovery. She was resilient. “You paid for my body. I don’t think you want anything more, Thomas. You will find that I am a prickly blossom.”

  “Prickly. What a descriptive,” I said and reached back under her skirt. I found her secret, its chitinous length tucked up against her abdomen. How many men had felt that violation? How many women? It was cool and glassy under my grip. I squeezed once, hard. She gasped and bucked under my weight, her head rolling side to side in a symphony of nerves shrieking at once. I had her Achilles heel in hand, and I intended to use it. Even the genitalia of an insect were highly sensitive to pain, it would seem.

  “Call me Ring. The ruse was necessary, and I feel compelled to apologize after bearing witness to your stellar manners. Quite continental of you. Since you know I am aware of your enhancements, if you will, let me tell you what I want, and we’ll attempt to remain cordial, shall we?” I was feeling gallant, and a bit confident. My plan seemed to be working. So far.