Game of Death (34 page)

I nod. ‘I’ll get you a glass.’

Cormack is at our house an hour after Ma chased NetMaster from the premises. Ma’s on her third whiskey, and looks better. I’ve had three, but I’m slowing my
pace. There’s a lot going through my mind, and I’d like to maintain some semblance of sobriety. I figure I’ve put everyone I know at risk, so I owe them an explanation, and I fill
Ma and Cormack in on the situation. I leave out some of the details, particularly regarding François’ attack on me, but give them enough flavor for them to understand the seriousness
of the situation. The only part I leave out entirely is the part about Kendra Madison.

When I’m done, Cormack chuckles. ‘I thought you went into the world of big business because it was safer than the rackets,’ he jokes. ‘Sounds like you’d have been
better off on the waterfront. Less violence.’

‘And a better class of people,’ Ma adds.

‘True,’ Cormack agrees. ‘By far.’

‘This is an unusual situation,’ I point out.

‘You sure?’ Cormack asks. I’m too tired to answer honestly, so I take another sip of my drink. ‘Thought so,’ he says.

The sun is down now, and I can see that Ma is getting tired again. It’s a miracle that’s she’s alive at all, but then Ma’s a fighter. She’s not giving in until the
last punch is thrown. ‘Cormack, I’ve gotta go out and take care of a couple things. Can you make sure she gets to bed?’

He nods. ‘I’ll make sure she’s okay.’

‘She needs her rest, so don’t get any ideas, got it?’

‘Wouldn’t dream of it,’ he says with a wink.

‘Bullshit!’ Ma says.

‘I’m serious.’ They look at each other, and I see a smile pass between them. ‘I said I’m serious.’

‘Aye, sir,’ Cormack says with a salute.

‘Go, Nick,’ Ma tells me. ‘I’m still strong enough to keep him off me, if I want.’

I’m defeated on that point. ‘Okay, Ma,’ I say. I get up and give her a kiss on the cheek. ‘Thanks again. I’m not sure what I would’ve done if you hadn’t
made it down the stairs.’

She pats my hand. ‘You’d have figured a way out of it,’ she says. ‘You always do.’

I sit in my car outside Kendra Madison’s house, trying to decide what to do. My head is spinning with a thousand different questions. What if she no longer wants me
there? What if she’s with a client? What if she welcomes me in – will I take her to bed? Can I be with someone with her past? What is it about her that I find so compelling? Am I
obsessed with her, or with the girl from
De Sade
’s LifeScene? Is there a difference? What do my feelings for her mean about my feelings for Yvette?

All of these thoughts swirl and dance and defy understanding as I sit there, watching the house. I’m desperate for a glimpse of her – some confirmation, at least, that she has put
off any potential business for the evening in the hope that I would arrive. I see a few girls moving from room to room, but none of them resemble Kendra. I ache to see her raven hair and slim body.
No matter how many questions remain unanswered, one thing is clear: I need to see her. I have no option, really.

I get out of the car and walk toward the house. I’m looking up at the windows, toward the front door, still searching for her silhouette – I’m convinced I could recognize her
in an instant.

The lights are off on the front porch, and as I reach the house and put my foot on the first step up to the door, I’m seized with panic. I cannot possibly walk up and ring the bell.
I’m not concerned about being mistaken for a client, though I note the irony of being caught up in a raid. But I cannot bear the notion of being ogled by the other girls who might be there.
The thought of standing there in the front hall, waiting as they search from room to room to see whether she is with another man; the indignity of possibly being propositioned by another girl eager
to muscle in on a business opportunity; the shame of being pitied, if Kendra couldn’t – or wouldn’t – come to see me, are all too much for me to consider.

I take my foot off the step and retreat into darkness. My heart is pounding as I walk back toward my car, cursing my weakness; appalled by my cowardice. I’m halfway there when a thought
occurs to me: there was a back door to the house off the hallway that led to her two-room private suite. If it’s open, I could go in that way and avoid the gauntlet at the front of the house.
It’s risky; I would be mistaken as an intruder if I’m spotted – in reality I would be an intruder – but I would be able to explain my actions if necessary, wouldn’t I?
And the risk of being caught going in through the back entrance seems far less daunting than the certainty of being seen going through the front. It takes only a moment for me to decide, and I head
around the side of the house.

The old Georgian-style building backs up to a hill, and as I move toward the rear of the house, the ground rises up so that the back door, which is at the same height as the front door on the
raised porch off the street, is level with the back yard. The further toward the rear of the house I go, the more of the interior I can see through the windows. I realize as I’m moving my way
through the side yard that the last two windows on the side are to Kendra’s two rooms. A dim light is on in one of them, and I’m hopeful that means she is in there by herself. As I draw
even with the window, I fight the inclination to look in. I feel like a peeping Tom, and it seems a serious violation of privacy to be sneaking around, peering through bedroom windows. It was bad
enough when I was on the sidewalk in front of the house.

When I pass by the window, I shield my eyes – it seems the chivalrous thing to do (as though chivalry plays any part in my behavior) – and move quickly by. In spite of my efforts,
though, I catch sight of some movement casting shadows in the room. The reality that she is there proves too great a temptation. I turn toward the window and I see her.

The sight stops my heart.

I’m at the window to her main room, but I can see through into the bedroom, and she is stretched out on the bed. Her legs lounge lazily, uncovered, and her head is turned in the other
direction, so that I can’t see her face. She is dressed for work in a bustier and panties, and she seems so relaxed and comfortable with her chosen profession that I have to fight back a
retch. At the same time, though, I’m too excited to look away. I need to watch. I need to be a part of the scene.

Her client is there, too, clearly. He is out of my view, but I can see the shadows moving about in the bedroom, and she is watching him, talking to him – encouraging him, I’m sure. I
wish it was me, and the thought that it could have been me, if only I’d had the fortitude to choose to do what was in my heart – to follow my needs – is enough to sap the strength
from my legs.

I move in closer to the window; so close that my breath is fogging on the glass, and I wonder whether I want to be caught. I wonder whether I want her to see me.

At that moment she turns her head, and I can see her face. She has a red ball gag in her mouth, and I realize she wasn’t talking to her client, she was moving her jaw to relieve the
pressure. I also realize that I haven’t seen her hands, and that her arms are probably bound above her head. I’ve GhostWalked fantasies in the past where gags were used with restraints
and other implements, and I know that Kendra has been, at least at times, a devotee of bondage and sadomasochism, so I shouldn’t be surprised by this. I remember what she said about Josh
– that he had become addicted to the power of bondage and pain. Something about the scene before me, though, seems off. Kendra told me that she only entertained clients upstairs in one of the
other rooms in the house – that she kept these rooms for herself. And there is something about her expression that I can’t place. She turns and looks directly toward the window through
which I’m watching. She sees me and her eyes grow wide, tears rolling down her face. I can see the fear in those eyes; I’ve seen it before.

A split second later her client steps to the foot of the bed, looking down at her. I recognize him instantly and pull away from the window so that I’m not seen. I have no option now; I
have to go in.

I move to the back door as quickly as I can. As I run I take out my phone, and when I reach the back door, I dial Killkenny’s number.

‘Yeah?’ he says, picking up.

‘You need to get over to Kendra Madison’s house now,’ I say. ‘Send backup, too. I’m already here.’

‘Why? Is there a party going on?’

‘No,
De Sade
is here.’

It takes a moment for him to speak. ‘Wait until the cops get there, Nick. I’ll send them now.’

‘No time. I’m going in.’

‘Nick, don’t!’

‘I have to. She’s in danger.’

‘She’s not your responsibility, Nick!’

I look through the small window in the back door. The hallway off Kendra’s rooms is dark and deserted. ‘Yeah,’ I say into the phone. ‘Yeah, she is.’

The back door is locked, but not bolted. I take out a credit card and slip it into the crack in the door; it pops the catch immediately. The door opens and I step in
quietly.

I can hear the sounds of people talking out in the front of the house. The echoes of flirtatious laughter waft throughout the house, and from upstairs I think I can hear the faint panting and
grunting and groaning of girls working false magic on lonely men. There does not appear to be anyone in the back of the house, though, and I can hear no sound coming from Kendra’s rooms.

I can’t remember whether Kendra had a lock on her interior door. It wouldn’t surprise me, given all the activity in the house, but I try the knob and it turns freely. As I push the
door silently open a crack, I am relieved that there isn’t a deadbolt.

I can hear him now. He is talking softly, in a tone that would suggest rationality, and yet I can hear the hint of violence and cruelty in it. ‘You’re wondering why, I know,’
he is saying. ‘Why am I doing this?’

I hear a hard slap, and Kendra gives a guttural cry of pain. I fight to keep myself from sprinting in on them, but I need more information. Does he have a weapon? Could he kill her before I even
get to him? I have to hold myself back until I know more.

‘You’re lucky,’ he continues. ‘Most give their lives without purpose. So few can be consumed in the great conflagration of pleasure and pain and death. You are one of the
few who will receive that gift.’

I lean forward and I can see her on the bed, and her eyes dart furtively to mine, warning me. I keep the door closed except for the inch through which I can see. He is not in my view, but I can
hear him pacing, and if I open the door any wider, he’ll see me. I know from the LifeScene how this should play out, if he follows his script, and that would mean that the danger for Kendra
is not yet imminent. I sense from her glance that she will give me a signal when I can slip through the door without being detected.

‘There are those who say that the Marquis de Sade had no morals,’ he continues. ‘But he had morals. He had greater morals than all of the so-called great religious minds
throughout all time, because he had the morality of the truth. He did not hide behind the hypocrisy of what we would like mankind to be, but waded through the truth of what we are. He understood
the reality of what God created – ’ I see a flash of glistening leather, and hear the snap of the whip against Kendra’s skin as she cries out again ‘ – that pain is a
necessary part of pleasure, and that it is in our nature to do evil to be happy. To deny this is to deny not only God, but the fundamental nature of our existence.’

I push the door open another inch, but Kendra shakes her head almost imperceptibly and I stop, leaving the door where it is. I feel impotent and helpless, standing there outside the room,
watching the scene unfold.

‘Those who try to tell us about morality – they are the ones who do real evil. Take those priests who molest little boys in the choir rooms and confessionals. There is evil in them,
not because they fondle their victims at such an age – that is the nature of man, and in that they are merely following the laws of nature. Their evil lies in the fact that they indulge in
their natures while denying others that privilege!’

He comes into view, moving toward her from the foot of the bed. He is wearing jeans and no shirt, and his chest is glistening with sweat. His hair is wild and matted. He is holding a gun in one
hand, gesturing toward her with it as he moves toward the head of the bed and sits beside her, caressing her cheek. She recoils, and again I have to force myself to wait. ‘You’ve been
my favorite,’ he says. ‘It’s been perfect, and it could have been perfect now, but you knew, didn’t you? Somehow you knew what I wanted, and you started out scared.’
He reaches out and touches her. ‘Was it the police? Did they tell you?’

She hesitates, then nods desperately, the apology in her eyes.

He nods back at her. ‘It’s okay,’ he says. ‘It can still be perfect. It will just be different.’ He puts the gun down on the bedside table and picks up a large
knife. I can see the point glisten from where I am crouched, and he runs the sharp edge across her skin. He holds the knife up and leans in, placing the tip of the knife just under her right eye,
and smiles at her. ‘It may just take a little more time, and it will probably hurt a bit more.’

I realize that he no longer intends to follow the script he created on NextLife, and the unpredictability makes the situation significantly more dangerous. He walks to the foot of the bed and
stands before her, spreading his arms as he looks down on her. In one fluid movement he bends and pulls his pants down, revealing his erection. He smiles at her, and I can take no more. I fly
through the bedroom door and launch myself at him, my shoulder colliding with his torso, sending him sprawling onto the floor. The collision sends a wave of pain through my entire body, starting
from my bruised ribs and rippling out to every cell in my being. The knife is knocked from his hand and skitters across the hardwood floor.

We dive for the knife at the same time, but I’m closer and I reach it first. I’m on my hands and knees, trying to get turned around to face him, and I feel him climbing on my back,
clawing at me. It feels as though his body is on fire and is burning through my clothes. He has me by the neck, and he’s squeezing my windpipe closed. I can hear his breath coming hard on the
back of my neck, and I feel the bulge of his penis against the back of my pant leg. I thrash and buck to get him off, but he holds tight.