Anatomy of Evil (16 page)

Part Five

Go to Hell

Chapter Twenty-Five

The plane landed with a hard thump on the runway, arriving on schedule in Kiritimati. Most of the passengers came alive with joyful chatter, excited to begin an exotic tropical vacation. Four remained stoic and silent, displaying no emotion, headed on a mission.

Carol, Rodney, Gary and Sam spoke little during the long flight. When they did address one another, they used the names on their fake identification cards. Rodney had secured aliases with the assistance of an expert hacker who owed him favors.

Stepping off the plane into the hot sunshine, the foursome collectively pulled out hats and sunglasses in nearly identical movements and put them on to obscure any similarity with a previous group of travelers from Chicago. They paid a scraggly local man with a rusty jeep to drive them from the airport to the beach, avoiding the bus service offered by the hotel. That bus service included Simon, the tour guide who had no reason to know about their return, unless he wished a swift and silent demise.

After a short drive on dusty roads lined with palm trees, the ocean came into view. The waves crashed in a steady rhythm, sparkling with sunlight. The group climbed out of the jeep. Carol paid the driver and told him to get lost. Gary led the way through the sand, a purposeful march to the boat harbor operated by Jamarqui.

Brown-skinned Jamarqui emerged from the small tin shed, shirtless and ready to do business. He squinted at his visitors.

He recognized them.

“We need a boat,” said Gary.

Jamarqui studied their faces. His expression did not welcome them. His mouth formed a frown.

“No,” he said.

“No?” replied Rodney with a firm tone demanding reconsideration.

“I know what happened last time,” said Jamarqui, and his voice wavered with barely suppressed panic. “I told you not to go there and you go. You know what I mean.”

Carol stepped forward and placed her hand on his shoulder. She smiled, batting her blue eyes at him. “Jamarqui, honey, you must be mistaken. We did everything you told us. We just want to go fishing.”

Jamarqui pulled away, breaking the contact. “No! I don't believe you. You want to go…go back.”

Sam said, “I really don't see how you have any say in this. You are a lowlife nobody in some barely recognized Third World country, and you're not going to tell us what we can or can't do.”

Carol attempted to get closer to him again. She licked her lips. “How about if I make it worth your while? How good is your English? Do you understand the term blowjob?”

He stared at her, puzzled.

“Listen, you're wasting our time,” said Gary to Jamarqui. “We're going to take one of your boats. I'd like to see you try to stop us. I used to take down 270 pound defensive linemen, so believe me, I can twist an undernourished, 95-pound island boy into a fucking pretzel. That's your choice.”

“You cannot take one of my boats,” said Jamarqui, his chest shuddering with adrenaline. “Go away. Now. Go away.”

“Oh shut up.” Rodney stuck his hand into Jamarqui's face, clutching it and twisting down in a single, forceful movement that sent him tumbling into the sand.

“That's it,” laughed Gary. “Are you hungry? Have a
sand
wich. Ha, get it?”

Sam looked down at the boy and said, “Stupid gnat.”

Rodney headed for the tin shed. “Where does he keep the keys?”

Jamarqui quickly jumped back to his bare feet. He scrambled ahead of Rodney to enter the shed before anyone else.

“This asshole doesn't know when to give up,” said Carol.

Jamarqui emerged from the shed with a gun.

He aimed it at Rodney, who froze. After a moment, the others also saw the weapon and halted their advance.

“Look at that fucking thing,” said Rodney. “I haven't seen one of those in years. An old-fashioned revolver, I'll bet it's an antique.”

Gary said, “Probably doesn't even have any bullets.”

“Don't be so sure,” cautioned Carol.

“Hell, it's probably got too much sand in it to fire properly,” said Rodney.

Jamarqui continued to aim it at them. “It can still shoot. Leave now. I will call the police.”

“I am the police,” said Rodney.

“You get kicked off the island,” said Jamarqui. “You go home and not come back.”

An older man with a deep tan had been walking along the beachfront toward them, occasionally stopping to scoop up seashells. As the argument with Jamarqui intensified, the man drew closer, approaching Jamarqui from behind.

Gary recognized the handsome, fit older man. He turned to Rodney, who also remembered this beachcomber.

It was Louis, the American they had met one evening during their previous trip to Kiritimati.

Jamarqui continued to hold the pistol steady, the muscles taut in his bony arms, aiming at the closest of the four, Rodney.

“Don't stand there,” ordered Jamarqui. “Leave. I say leave
now
.”

Making silent steps in the sand, Louis approached Jamarqui from behind. Something glistened in Louis's hand. In a quick, robotic movement, Louis raised a sharp blade, reached his arm in front of Jamarqui and slit his throat.

Blood immediately streamed from the glistening red line across Jamarqui's neck. He dropped the pistol and fell to his knees. He brought his hands to his throat, gurgling.

Sam moved quickly to grab a green boat tarp from alongside the shed. He covered Jamarqui with it. The body created a shifting lump under the tarp, moving, struggling, then still.

Louis stepped over to the water and rinsed his blade. “Go on,” he said casually. “Take the boat.”

“Who the hell—” said Sam.

“It's okay,” said Gary. “We know him. Rodney and I met him last time we were here. The night we had drinks on the beach.”

Louis returned with a clean blade.

“You gave us the tip,” said Rodney, looking at Louis.

Louis smiled. “Yes. We talked fishing. I'm glad you took my advice. If you know the right place to go, the fishing is out of this world. I should know. It changed my life.”

Louis nodded politely at the foursome. “Have a good trip.” He continued on his way down the beach. He began singing “Oh What a Beautiful Morning” from the musical Oklahoma.

Gary looked back at the green tarp covering a motionless lump. Some blood seeped out on one end, soiling the sand. Gary turned to Rodney, Carol and Sam.

“All right,” he said. “Let's go.”

The sky shifted from blue to deep red. The firestorm returned with an explosion of shrill screams and a violent cyclone of ghastly faces. This time, however, the boat's four passengers felt no fear. Instead, they experienced euphoria.

Standing on the deck of the boat they reached out with their arms, cried out joyously and welcomed the onslaught of demons. Centuries of evil souls filled their sight with expressions of madness, screeching in constant motion, fueled by raw, crackling energy.

Sam danced with giddy exuberance as a hard rain pounded down on him. He dropped to his knees and thanked Satan for allowing him entry through Hell's gates, shouting his appreciation into the roar of the storm.

Rodney took heavy steps forward, struggling against the howling winds to reach the front of the boat. A swirl of wicked faces surrounded him.

Maintaining his footing, Rodney cried out to the skies, “Yuri Kolstov.
Yuri Kolstov.
I command you and your men to come forward. Let us absorb your wisdom into our mortal beings. We will fulfill the mission you started on earth in the summer of 1962 A.D.
Yuri Kolstov, we offer ourselves to your greatness
.”

Amid the frenzied dance of billions of demonic faces one came to the forefront of the hellfire and expanded to a monstrous size, as large as the boat itself, producing two big black eyes, flaring nostrils and a gaping mouth that emitted a deafening roar louder than all others

Rodney stretched out his arms to welcome the beast.
“I am here!”
he screamed.
“We are here. Grace us with your souls.”

A blinding crack of red lightning speared Rodney from the sky. He flew backward across the boat's deck, landing in a puddle of water, sliding and rolling from the impact.

Gary laughed with glee, skipping past his fallen comrade. “Me! Take me! Hit me with your best shot! You are the only one who can take me down.” A second bolt struck Gary and he crashed to the deck, arms and legs wiggling as if electrocuted.

On the other side of the boat, Carol lifted her skirt and pulled down her pink silk panties. She exposed herself to billions of leering demons and shrieked louder than her voice had ever gone before:
“Me, me! Do me! Do me now!”
A hot red line of surging power entered between her legs and lifted her several feet before dropping her with a smack to the wet deck. She squealed with ecstatic pain, rolling in the water.

Sam plunged his fist into the air, eyes wild with revelation.
“I am ready mighty one. Enlighten me so that I may fulfill our mission. We will bring hell out of the shadows and into the light so that all of mankind may experience the glory. Accept me, I am yours!”

The thunderbolt that struck Sam lit him up where he stood in a blinding glow of red. As he absorbed the hellfire, Sam shut his eyes, crossed his ankles and threw out his arms in a crucifix pose. He emitted a rapturous groan before dropping to the deck, exhausted and fulfilled.

The fishing boat continued to rock and twist violently at the mercy of powerful winds and thrashing waves. One by one, the four passengers lost consciousness, delirious and soaked, clinging to the deck.

When they awoke, the boat bobbed peacefully on calm waters under a sunny, clear sky. The island remained in sight, a dark mass blotting the turquoise sea.

Carol made the first noise. She giggled.

“I came,” she said.

A table of five shared drinks and laughter in a small, open-air bar in London, the main town on Kiritimati Island.

“More Russian vodka,” demanded Rodney to the young, smooth-skinned local woman who tended to the patrons. She nodded and left to fulfill the request.

“A request from Yuri,” explained Rodney to the others, thumping his chest.

Gary's eyes followed the pretty island woman as she stepped behind the bar. “Later today I am going to fuck her and dispose of the body in the lagoon,” he declared in a calm monotone.

On the other end of the table, Carol and Sam listened to Louis tell his story of visiting the island for the first time on a fishing vacation in 2004.

“I had just left a bad marriage and quit a bad job,” said Louis. “I had a little money in the bank and I wanted to do something that was just for me. I had heard about the amazing fishing here, but it was something of a legend—not many people had actually been here. So I packed up my gear, withdrew most of my funds and treated myself to a dream vacation. And I loved it. I loved the island, the weather, and the incredible fishing. I loved the isolation. I realized I wanted to live here forever. I wanted to build a big house away from everybody else and live the good life. But I didn't know how to do it. Then I saw the light.”

Louis grinned and elaborated. “The
red
light. The red storm at sea. I came out a changed man. I realized there was no reason I couldn't pursue my dreams. Really, none at all. So I returned to America. I found a wealthy widow. Her name, I kid you not, was Agnes. She was loaded to the gills. I married her. Four months later, I killed her. I made it look like an accident. It's really not that hard to do. One of her family members started acting suspicious…a pesky nephew or cousin, I can't remember which. I do remember making him disappear. You know, it's not easy making a full-sized human body disappear. But if you cut that body into 100 pieces, none of them larger than an orange, then you can drive across the country, maybe six, seven, eight states, hiding those 100 pieces in 100 different hiding places. No one is going to solve that jigsaw puzzle. Nobody will find all those pieces. You just have to be creative. You bury a finger on an abandoned farm in Harlem, Georgia. You hide an ear inside an old gym sock and throw it into the dumpster behind a 7-Eleven in Knoxville, Tennessee. You flush a chunk of buttock down the toilet at a roadside rest stop near Lexington, Kentucky. Really, who's going to win that scavenger hunt?”

Louis sat back. The rest of the table had grown quiet listening to his story.

He continued, “So I became rich. I had to launder the money to keep other people's noses out of my business. I moved here. I built my dream house. I fly in fresh supplies from Hawaii and Australia. I relax. I fish. I walk the beach every day. I jerk off to porn. I live my life on my terms. Isn't that how it's meant to be?”

“Here, here,” said Gary, and he brought his glass of beer forward for a toast.

After the series of clinks, Louis told them, “Good luck with your mission. It's a noble cause. I hope you find that bomb. Do you know where you're going?”

Rodney nodded. “Yes. Precisely. An area of the Chihuahuan Desert in New Mexico. A few miles off the interstate. Isn't that right, Yuri?”

Then Rodney paused and smiled. “Yes, Yuri. Your vodka is coming.”

Chapter Twenty-Six

Kelly emerged from her coma disoriented and afraid. The doctors ran tests and asked how she felt. Then the police arrived to interview her. Officer Beltane, a colleague of Rodney and family friend, sat at Kelly's bedside and asked about the attack.

She couldn't remember. Her memories of recent events had slipped into a black hole. She asked to see Rodney.

“He's missing,” said Officer Beltane gently. “We're concerned that you were both targeted, perhaps by a gang or crime syndicate as an act of revenge against Rodney. Our entire force is actively looking for him.”

“Oh my God,” said Kelly. “Do you think he's been killed?”

“We have no evidence to that effect.”

When Kelly's parents entered the hospital room with Christina, Kelly burst into tears. She gently hugged her daughter and told her, “Mommy got hurt but I'm getting better.”

A neurologist and traumatic brain specialist provided details to Kelly and her parents about her injuries. They expressed expectations that she would make a slow but full recovery.

“What about the amnesia?” asked Kelly's father. “When will she remember what happened and who did this to her?”

“She's suffering from post-traumatic retrograde amnesia,” said the neurologist. “It is hard to say when or if she will remember the events that occurred at the time of the attack. Patients of this kind of brain injury suffer from what is called Ribot's Law. They're more likely to recall remote memories than the most recent memories closer to the traumatic incident.”

“We need to find the monster that did this to my daughter!” said Kelly's mother, eyes filling with tears.

“Why is Grandma crying?” asked Christina.

Kelly's father assured Christina that everyone was happy her mother was getting better. He took her to the cafeteria for some ice cream.

After they left the room, Kelly told her mother, “I need Christina to stay with you at the farm. It's not safe here. We don't know what we're up against. We need to find Rodney.”

“We'll take good care of her,” responded Kelly's mother. “The important thing is for you to keep getting better. We'll find who did this. We won't let them get away with it. Focus on your recovery.”

“I will. I promise.”

After a long day, Kelly's parents returned downstate to their farm with Christina. They planned to visit Kelly every other day.

The following afternoon, Jake and Emma arrived. Warned about Kelly's amnesia, Emma cautiously entered into a conversation about Rodney.

“Do you remember our conversations about Rodney?” asked Emma. “You told me you were growing afraid. He was acting…different.”

“I said that?”

“Do you remember Kiritimati?”

“Yes. Our vacation.”

“Do you remember telling me that ever since you came home, Rodney was not himself?”

Kelly concentrated, then expressed discomfort. “I don't know. I'm trying… I'm still so foggy. I remember getting on the plane to go home. Picking up Christina…”

“What about Rodney? You said he was scaring you.” Emma continued to press Kelly for a recollection. Jake watched in silence as the conversation sputtered and went nowhere, like a car out of gas.

“I'm sorry,” said Kelly. “I don't remember. Please stop. I ache all over. Why would Rodney want to hurt me? Why would anybody do this to me?”

Then she broke down in tears.