Mad Gods - Predatory Ethics: Book I (27 page)

Sam dialed the number of his absent dinner companion
and waited for three rings before someone on the other end responded, “Whittier
Mansion, how may I help you?” The man’s voice was very professional and sterile.
For some reason, Sam liked that. It pleased him that he did not have to engage
this man with pleasantries. He went through most of his days, blowing smoke up
peoples’ asses, so he welcomed any deviation from this routine.

“I want to talk to Balzeer McGrath. This is Sam
Charon, phoning for Balzeer McGrath.” Sam waited through a few seconds of
silence before hearing the expected rebuff. “I’m sorry, sir, but Mr. McGrath
cannot come to the phone. Perhaps…”

“Perhaps not. To whom am I speaking?” Sam was prepared
to unload his annoyance over the failed business meeting and didn’t care one
iota about the poor sap on the other end of the line.

“My name is Floyd Sandiford, sir,” the voice
responded with a tinge of cold distance, which Sam had not noticed earlier.

“Floyd, do you know who I am? I am the man who fixes
Balzeer’s messes and I will speak to him pronto. Do you get me?” Sam did not
raise his voice or change his tone, though he chose his words more carefully.
“I don’t care with what horror you’ve been threatened. Put him on the phone, or
you will be the next mess I fix.”

The voice on the other end did not respond to the
open threat, but answered in the same non-tone that Sam had previously enjoyed.
“Mr. Charon, I will see if he is taking any calls. Is there a number at which
you can be reached?”

Sam replied, “Yes there is. It’s 666-you’re dead to
me. That’s my number. You get him on the phone right now.” By this point, Sam
was seething into the receiver.

“Just a second, sir. Mr. Balzeer will, in fact, take
your call.” A silence followed, in which Sam could hear that the receiver was
being handed to someone else, then the sound of a familiar voice, which quickly
soothed Sam’s bruised ego. “Sam, what is so much of a problem that you must
call me here?” Balzeer’s voice dripped with menace. In the past, he had
repeatedly asked Sam this same question. “I contact you, Sam, not the other way
around.”

“Hey, Balzeer, I know all that. You did contact me
and I waited at the appointed place, but you didn’t show up for our meeting.”
Sam knew this call was risky, and in explanation, he continued, “You always
have urgent tasks for me, so I called to get further information. I wanted to
begin my work without losing any time, setting up another meeting.”

“That’s very thoughtful. Your efficiency is matched
only by your courage, but make no mistake, never call me again. Is that clear?”

Sam did not answer, but fumed. He did not lose his
temper too often. In fact, he had not lost it in years. Control was very
important to him, so he did not allow Balzeer’s haughty tone to anger him. He
only fumed and kept quiet, trying to distract himself by watching the outside
traffic. Fords, both old and new, and in many different colors, drove slowly
past. Dodges and more Fords rumbled by, their drivers intent on the road. An
old, grey and dusty Chevy cab stopped at a distance from where Sam sat, trying
to soothe his bruised pride.

“Sam?” the voice on the phone brought his attention
back to the conversation.

“Yes, Balzeer, you are clear. I understand and hope
that you see why I had to go against something, about which you’ve already been
clear in the past.”

“Sam, you’re at the Big Four?” Balzeer’s tone became
searching, probing, in fact. “You’re looking at an old Chevy cab, is that
right?”

Sam felt a chill run up his spine. Over the years he
had spent performing unsavory tasks for McGrath, Sam experienced many
unnatural, even extraordinary, events — people dying without apparent
cause, as well as many other extraordinary things. Though there were no
explanations for these events, there were indications of Balzeer’s direct
involvement. Either through his presence, or through his knowledge of the
person, or persons, he influenced and altered anyone and anything. This newest
chill filled him with an accustomed dread and he waited for the voice to
continue.

“Describe who gets out of the cab, Sam. I want every
detail.”

“Nobody is getting out of the cab. It’s just sitting
there. Now, could we go back to the reason why you needed to meet with me? I
would like to get started right away.”

“In good time, Sam. I want you to tell me everything
about the cab, down to the last detail. Leave nothing out.” Balzeer was being
uncharacteristically civil with him. He usually used threats — bullying,
at the very least — to get what he wanted. Since he paid well, Sam was
willing to overlook his abrasive manner.

“It’s a neutral grey; looks like a 1956 Chevy. It’s a
checker cab with single headlights, not the double lights that are out now. The
grill has one massive chrome fixture that runs across the width of the front
end. It’s got the old medallion on the front end that looks like the badge, not
the new one that’s like the Caddie medallion. The bumper is the same as on
newer models.” Sam rattled off a few more model differences, until he ran out
of noticeable details.

“That is all you can tell me?” Balzeer asked, still
waiting for more.

“That’s all I can see. The windows are dark, so I
can’t see inside. As I said before, nobody is getting out.” Sam described all
that he could observe, but still, the man wanted more.

“Sam, I want you to return to the table at which you
sat and remove the box you find.” Balzeer spoke as an adult, talking down to a
child. He focused Sam’s attention to where he formerly sat and directed him to the
box.

“I see it,” Sam replied.

“Good. I told you to go and retrieve it, then return
for further instructions,” Balzeer continued.

“Hold on.” Sam placed the receiver on the podium and
then hurriedly picked it back up. “Hold on, ok? Hold on.”

“Just go get it, you moron!” Balzeer’s voice came
through loud enough to put an end to the latest repositioning of the receiver
and requests to hold. Sam scurried across the restaurant and returned with a
nervous, satisfied smile

“Ok, I got it, now what?” Sam asked.

“Now you go, take it to the cab and say the
following: We wish to parlay. Please come to the Whittier Mansion to discuss
terms.’”

Again, Sam asked Balzeer to hold, then grabbed the
box and proceeded to the checker cab. When he reached it, he knocked on the
window and awoke the slumbering woman behind the wheel. Asleep, she didn’t
notice Sam approach.

“Miss, excuse me. I was told to give you this package
and ask you to go to Whittier Mansion to discuss terms.” Sam politely handed
her the box and waited for a response.

“What? You must have me confused with someone else.
You’re making a mistake.” She did not take the proffered box, leaving Sam
standing there, holding it.

“There is no mistake, miss, I am to give this package
to you. After that, you may do with it as you wish. Please take it.”

He was so insistent that the woman finally took the
package and placed it on the edge of the open window. She adjusted her glasses
and continued to argue through pursed lips.

“Well, how do I know that it’s not a bomb or something?
This is really weird, I mean, I don’t even know you.” She exhaled the smoke of
a newly lit cigarette.

“I don’t know you either, miss, but let me assure
you, it is not a bomb. After all, it’s not ticking, is it?”

Sam was turning to leave when, with half-believing
nod, she replied, “No it’s not ticking, so I guess it’s not a bomb. Who asked
you to give this to me?” She was gradually warming to the older, but dapper,
gorilla in a suit, smiling at his roughened good looks.

“I can’t divulge that information, miss. I’m sorry,
but I have to go. Thank you for accepting the package.”

Sam turned and re-entered the restaurant, picking up
the waiting receiver. “It’s done,” he said. “The woman in the car was a little
confused about the package and the message. I’m sure you know what you’re doing
though.”

There was a long enough silence on the other end of
the line that Sam began to think Balzeer had hung up. “You gave it to a woman?
There wasn’t a man, dressed in tan clothing, and a boy?” Balzeer’s voice was eerily
quiet.

“No. It wasn’t a man, just a thirtyish-looking woman,
and there wasn’t a little boy. She was alone. I even woke her up,” Sam
answered.

Before Balzeer could answer, Sam heard gunshots and
screaming in the background.

“Balzeer, what’s going on over there? I hear shots;
is everything alright?”

“I don’t know, Sam, everyone seems to be in a panic.
I hear shots and screaming. I think we’re under attack.” Strangely, Balzeer
didn’t seem too concerned about what he was describing, merely surprised and more
than usually annoyed.

“Under attack? But by whom? Robbers? Who?” Sam was
concerned, but unless it involved pay, he did not want to get involved.
Considering that Balzeer was under attack, it didn’t look as though he was
going to get any further information about his original assignment.

“I believe that the man, to whom you were to give the
package, is here. I’ll have to let you go, Sam.” With that, Balzeer hung up.

TIME: FEBRUARY 21ST, 1963. WHITTIER MANSION, SAN FRANCISCO,
CALIFORNIA, U.S.A

The butt of any shotgun is a serviceable club,
especially if it’s been reinforced. Kosta had done just that, otherwise it
might have splintered from the concussions he gave to a dozen acolytes in the
Whittier Mansion. It was less noisy. A shotgun blast was quite jarring,
reverberating off of walls. He also wanted to keep the body count low,
especially in the lower ranks. Some of these people were only misguided,
searching for truth, or just at a job. He came in with the hired help, half an
hour before and left them bound and gagged in the kitchen.

Kosta walked, not ran, because he needed Adam to keep
up. On the surface, bringing Adam seemed less than prudent, but he had weighed
the options in his mind. Here, no one would harm Adam. In fact, many tried to
protect him and restrained themselves around him. When he destroyed the Seeker
at the farm Adam proved nothing from Hell or that served Hell on earth could
disobey him.

It took a few attempts before Adam felt comfortable
enough to accompany Kosta. The few times he hesitated, they both decided they
would not force him. He had to be ready for this life-altering experience. Not
only would they have to fight, and maybe kill, but he would also learn
everything there was to know about his fate. No longer would anything be hidden.

They came to another set of stairs, and with a wave
of Kosta’s hand, they stopped. He looked past a carved balustrade, and with
another wave, they scurried up the steps. Adam was not frightened; he rather
enjoyed the excitement of the adventure. It also helped that Kosta executed
every movement with efficiency and skill. When he smashed the shotgun butt on
someone’s head, he would catch them before they made too much noise, gently
lowering them to the ground. No one was badly injured, as long as they didn’t
fight back too hard. Some came against Kosta with knives and clubs. These, he
left with a few more bruises. The longer it took, the more noise it made and
Kosta became increasingly agitated. Thus far, he had not used the other end of
the shotgun, which was fine with him.

They crossed more than ten corridors, and half as
many stairwells, when they stopped and Kosta turned to Adam. “Adam, we’re about
to go to the place where you were supposed to have been since birth. It is
where you belong. If that’s what you want, you can go and I won’t stop you.” He
knew that it was vital the boy understood that he did not keep him by force. He
wanted Adam to choose to stay with him. Thus far, he’d been a perfect little
gentleman, showing remarkable poise and control when he could’ve been a brat.

The only time he had been destructive, even
murderous, was with the fat businessman. His vicious and total obliteration of
that Seeker had probably sent shock waves through Hell. His actions were
justified, at least to Kosta.

Since then, he only became angry when people were
intentionally hurtful. At times, hurting animals would agitate him and became
angry when horses and other animals were mistreated in television westerns.

Kosta hoped this distaste for hurt would never leave
him, but wanted Adam to arrive at his own conclusions. The belief in not
hurting others was the only religion left after peeling away the layers of
dogma Kosta encountered in his travels. Though he had knocked out more than
twenty people since they entered the Luciferians’ house, he was confident Adam
would understand this was necessary for their safety. He was beginning to trust
and believe Kosta in everything. There was something about Kosta’s control over
himself, and his world, which Adam wanted to learn.

They turned a corner and Kosta lowered the barrel of
the shotgun. The hallway appeared to be empty, but when he fired three times,
three tall, thin men fell in a heap, one atop the other.

They rushed forward as quickly as Adam could keep up.
Kosta burst through a pair of doublewide doors, and five more tall, thin men
rushed at them. None were armed, but Kosta did not temper his actions. He
pushed the butt of the shotgun at the first and swung it to the left. Both
actions produced a spray of blood, one from a nose and the other from a mouth.
He swung around to the right and fired, sending one man crashing into the man
behind him, knocking both down, one dead, the other splattered with the other’s
remains.