The Tin Man (29 page)

Thea
, clearly, was locked in the trunk. He tried hard not to think what it must be like for her in there. With any luck, she was unconscious. It wasn’t hard to guess where they were taking her. Not specifically, of course, but in general terms. According to the map, the road they were on would take them straight into Washington, D.C.

He’d considered pulling alongside
and trying to take them out. Best-case scenario, he’d shoot the driver and cause a wreck, which might seriously injure Thea. Worst-case scenario, they’d shoot him first. Neither option struck him as especially prudent. Better, he decided, to follow, see where they took her, and decide his next move from there.

* * * *

It was late afternoon before Dee and Dum exited the Interstate for good. They got off somewhere called Silver Springs and continued south for several miles, ending up in a neighborhood of narrow streets and older-looking apartment buildings. Most of them were brick and stone. Some were clean and fairly well kempt while others were derelict and boarded up.

They cruised down what looked like an old-fashioned Main Street on acid. Victorian buildings
painted an array of funky colors offering everything from bookshops to nightclubs and every type of ethnic cuisine imaginable. The sedan turned into an alleyway between a liquor store with a bright blue awning and a large building whose brick façade was a bilious shade of purple. The sign out front read
The Pillory
.

Buchanan
cruised past the alley, peering down. The sedan was stopping. He continued for another half-block before parking in front of an Indian restaurant. The smell of curry hung in the air, reminding him of a place he used to frequent back in Edinburgh. As he stepped out of the car, he felt alternating pangs of hunger and nostalgia. Something about the whole area reminded him a wee bit of The Royal Mile.

He hurried down the sidewalk.
A pounding dance beat boomed out of the purple bar. A couple of men in vests and leather chaps stood out front smoking cigarettes. Buchanan thought it a bit early in the day for a leather bar to be jumping, but what did he know? Leather bars weren’t exactly his scene. Not that he begrudged those who frequented them. In fact, he was a big supporter of gay rights. Kenny had been homosexual, something his parents still didn’t know. And he planned to keep it that way. The way he figured it, if Kenny had wanted to be outted to their parents, he would have done the job himself.

A disturbing image flickered:
Kenny being buggered by another man. He quickly shoved it away. He could accept the fact that his brother had been queer, but preferred not to dwell on the details. Especially since they were twins. Why, he’d often wondered, was Kenny gay, but not he? Then he’d worry that maybe he was, but just too hung up to know it. Not that there was any evidence to support that fear, but still. Fears weren’t always rational, were they? He pictured Thea then, under him with her legs wrapped around him, heels digging into his clenching arse. His groin twitched with longing.

Nay
. Not gay. No way.

At the edge of the alleyway,
he stopped to peer around the corner, acutely aware that the cowboys were checking out his backside as he did. His anus tightened, along with his gut. The sedan was nowhere in sight.

* * * *

Thea came back to herself feeling a chill. The trunk was open. The sky was overcast and the air bracing—a welcome change from the stuffiness of the trunk. She twisted around, trying to make out where she might be. Windowless brick buildings. Zigzagging fire escapes. Flat, featureless rooflines. There was a faint odor of garbage on the wind.

She jumped when two faces appeared above her
—the same odd pair who’d grabbed her back at the barn. They wore wide silk ties, matching suits with outdated lapels, elongated sideburns, and ultra-conservative side-parted haircuts. Even stranger, they reeked of perfume.

Seizing her under the arms, the
y hauled her out, set her down hard on her feet without letting go. Her gaze darted around in search of answers, but found none. They jerked her roughly toward a basement stairway, dragging her down the concrete steps to what looked like a set of heavy iron doors. A plaque on the wall read:
Tartarus.
How peculiar, she thought, narrowing her eyes. Was it a nightclub of some sort? Just under the sign was a keypad. The twin on her left punched in a series of numbers with one hand, keeping the other clamped firmly on her upper arm.

Silently, the doors swung open.
The twins dragged her inside so roughly she lost her footing. Righting herself, she looked around, still befuddled. The space was small—no bigger than one of those self-storage units so prevalent in this age of runaway consumerism. And, bizarrely enough, empty except for a phone booth. It was a weird place for a phone booth, her mind told her, but, then again, this entire experience was too freaky for words. And she had a sinking feeling it was about to get a whole lot weirder.

As the iron doors clanged shut behind them, the twins urged her forward, into the booth, squeezing in behind her. One of them lifted the receiver and punched in
some numbers. The keypad, she noted, was toneless—a security precaution. As soon as he hung up, the bottom dropped out of the booth, leaving her stomach behind. She landed with a grunt on something plush. Before she could get her bearings, the twins had her by the armpits again and were hoisting her to her feet.

Shaken and disoriented, s
he looked around, blinking. Was she seeing things clearly? Was she dreaming? Had she just stepped through a time warp into the past?

The room was a stylish tribute to mid-century modern.
Streamlined sofas, chrome tables, Grecian columns, animal skin rugs, mirrored walls. Everything was black, white, red, and silver. Studying the space, she started to notice a few anomalies. There was a streaked marble statue of a satyr right next to her—a fountain—water spouting from the goat-man’s erect penis. Beyond the statue was a life-size cardboard cutout of Sean Connery as James Bond. Movie posters, she also noticed then, lined the lipstick-red walls.

Dr. No
. From Russia with Love. Goldfinger. The Spy Who Loved Me.
And, rather anomalously,
Spartacus
.

What was this place? Her
brain couldn’t make sense of it. It appeared to be a shrine to James Bond, and yet some things didn’t fit—a human-sized birdcage, an opulent French-looking doghouse big enough for a family of Saint Bernards, what looked like a massage table with a whole in the middle, an antique stretching rack, a giant boulder, a black leather chair suspended from chains.

Wait a minute. Wasn’t
Tartarus the equivalent of purgatory in Greek mythology? She racked her brain, trying to remember anything about it from college. Something started to come back, but it was far from comforting. Tartarus was a deep, gloomy pit between Gaia and the Underworld used as a dungeon of torment and suffering for souls deemed deserving of punishment.

Gulping,
she glanced around, still struggling to make sense of what simply made no sense. Was it an eccentric collector’s private showcase? A club for fetishists? Despite its peculiarities, the space might have been stylish, even elegant, if not for the bizarre accessories and disturbing smell. She took a deeper whiff. What was it, exactly? Perfume, yes. Floral and cloying—the same she’d smelled earlier on the twins. But there was something else—a far more disturbing odor: a perplexing blend of pepper, leather, musk, and—holy fuck!—was that methane gas she smelled?  

And then, she saw.
Tartarus was an old fallout shelter someone had converted into some kind of bizarre torture chamber. As panic detonated, she swallowed hard. She was in the lair of a psychopath.

* * * *

Buchanan found the sedan parked a little ways down the alley. Surveying his surroundings, he tried to work out where they might have taken Thea. Seeing what looked like a basement stairwell, he limped to the rail, still holding his Glock as discreetly as he could, and looked over. There was a heavy metal door down below—solid iron from the look of it—with a brass sign above a key pad. He leaned over, trying to make out what it said.

“Can I help you
with something?”

The voice from behind him startled him so badly he nearly
shot himself in the foot. Keeping his gun out of sight, he rounded on the speaker. It was the man in chaps—the one in the codpiece with bare buttocks. He looked around for the other one, afraid he might be preparing to ambush, but there was no sign of him.

The journalist
took a minute to study the man who took the same minute to study him. Around his chest was some kind of leather harness with metal studs and chains. Metal rings hung from his nipples. Remarkably, despite his appearance, he didn’t seem all that threatening. Buchanan motioned toward the basement door.

“What’s down there?”

The man grinned. “Why? You looking for some action?”

“No,” he said brusquely. “I’m looking for a friend.”

The guy cocked a brow. “You’re British?”

Eyeing him guardedly,
Buchanan nodded.

“What’s your name?”

“Shrek.”

“
Yeah, okay,” he said with a cocked grin. “Well, mine’s Jim.”

Buchanan
grunted. He didn’t give a damn what the guy’s name was. He wasn’t here to make new friends. Especially with someone who so clearly wanted to fuck him up the arse. “Sorry to disappoint you there, Jimbo. But I’m straight.”

Jim laughed.
“Disappoint? Are you kidding? A straight, uncut Brit is the Holy Fucking Grail.”

Ignoring his remark,
Buchanan nodded toward the stairs again. “What’s down there?”

“A private club.”

Buchanan raised an eyebrow. “What kind of club?”

“Hardcore,” Jim said. “
Not just leather, but some seriously dark and twisted Shite. Domination, humiliation, enemas, CBT. That sort of thing. The freak who owns it is like obsessed with James Bond.” He shook his head. “He calls himself Zeus, if you can believe that Shite.”

Still feeling on guard,
Buchanan asked, “What’s CBT?”

Jim’s grin spread from ear to ear.
“Cock and Ball Torture.”

Buchanan
just looked at the guy, trying to work out what might be involved in Cock and Ball Torture—not that he really wanted to know.

“How do I get in?”

Jim laughed. “You mean to Tartarus? Seriously? Jesus, dude. Don’t tell me you like getting kicked in the nuts.”

Was that what CBT entailed? Getting kicked in the bollocks? He shook his head.
Bloody hell. What got some people’s rocks off never ceased to amaze him.

“I told you, I’m looking for a friend
.” He was starting to lose patience. “And I think she might be down there.”

“Does she know
Zeus?” Jim looked skeptical. “Coz, from what I hear, that’s the only way anybody gets in.”

Buchanan
turned back toward the stairs. Something about the name Zeus struck a chord (besides the obvious mythology reference), but he wasn’t sure why. “What’s his real name? Do you know?”

“That depends,” Jim said, sounding
gallingly coy all of a sudden. “What are you willing to do to find out?”

Buchanan
wasn’t in the mood for bullshit, especially this brand of bullshit. “Do you know the freak’s real name or don’t you?”

“Nobody knows his real name
.”

“Have you ever seen him?”

“Only once,” Jim replied, half-grinning. “I was back here one night—you know, getting some head—when he pulled in. He drives a silver roadster. You know, the kind Sean Connery had in the Bond films. When he got out, I got a pretty good look.”

“
Did you? And what did he look like?”

Jim took a minute, as if searching his mind for the details.
“He had on a trench coat. Over a tuxedo.”

“I didn’t ask
you what he was wearing.” Buchanan’s patience had reached the breaking point. “I asked what the motherfucker looked like.”

Jim shrugged.
“Tall, slim, dark hair. Good-looking, I guess. If you’re into that type.”

Buchanan
regarded him warily. “And what type would that be?”

“The James Bond type
,” Jim replied with a cheeky smirk.

Buchanan
grumbled under his breath. Whoever this “Zeus” character might be, he sure as hell didn’t sound anything like Milo Osbourne. Something struck him then like a thunderbolt. Zeus. The image on the van. The mark on the forehead of Connolly and Davidson. Was there a connection? Was this Zeus guy the killer? And, if so, what was his relationship, if any, to the Babylon conspiracy?

Squinting at Jim, he asked, “Anything else
you remember about the guy?”

“
Well, let me see…he has intense eyes, if that helps, though not in a good way.” He smirked. “But why not see for yourself? He usually puts in an appearance around dusk. I could keep you company, if you want.”