The Inner Circle (Man of Wax Trilogy) Page 2

  In my ear Carver asked where I was.

  “I’m almost there,” I said, my hands in my pockets, my head tilted down but still aware of every person I passed.

  I spotted The Spur forty seconds later. There was a small line outside. They were illuminated by a yellow and red neon sign of a cowboy boot hanging above their heads, its spur flashing blue.

  Carver and Ronny were waiting on the opposite side of the street, half a block down. Carver had his cell phone to his ear.

  I nodded at Ronny, asked, “Where’s Ian?”

  “Keeping an eye on the back,” he said. Then, his face all at once somber, “This is messed up.”

  I nodded, thinking he meant the little girl strapped to the bed.

  Then Carver finished his call and said, “Ben, give Ronny your piece.”

  “What?”

  “Lose the gun.”

  It’s important to note that in the past two years I’d never once questioned Carver. In many ways, he saved my life, and I owed him a great deal. So when he gave me an order I never faltered or asked why. But now, with the rain coming down hard, with lightning streaking the sky, with us so close to our latest target, I couldn’t help myself.

  “Why?”

  He had turned to say something to Ronny but now paused, looked back at me, and said, his voice hard, “They’ll wand us at the door.”

  I understood then why Ronny had said this was messed up. Not the little girl strapped to the bed—which was indeed messed up, just on an entirely different level—but the fact that Carver and I were apparently going inside The Spur, just the two of us, without any weapons.

  The first rule about trailing a target—the most important rule Carver always stressed—was never get yourself trapped. That’s why we most often did the Smash and Grab. Because then we were out in the open, with limitless exits. But inside a store, inside a house, inside a club, the exits become limited. It gets to the point that if there was a trap and Caesar’s men surrounded us, it would be a hell of a time trying to get out alive. And now, going inside The Spur, where they were bound to wave a metal detecting wand over us, which meant of course we couldn’t take our guns, I realized just how messed up—how fucked up—this had become.

  “Why can’t we just wait for him to come out?”

  “The girl might be in there.”

  “She’s not.”

  “She might be,” Carver said. “We can’t take that chance. We need eyes on the inside, and we need them now.”

  Carver stared at me hard and I knew there was no point trying to argue. I reached behind my back, withdrew the Sig, handed it to Ronny. He made it disappear into his rain parka.

  “Who was on the phone?” I asked Carver.

  “The Kid. I had him look up what he could about The Spur.”

  “And?”

  “There’s going to be trouble inside.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “Because The Spur,” Carver said, “is a gay bar.”

  5

  Mason Coulter had the words DEATH TO FAGS tattooed across his chest. Below this, on the left side of his stomach, was a swastika. Beside the swastika, on the right side of his stomach, were two crossed hammers.

  These tattoos had not been on his skin three days ago. Before then he had only had two, both prison ink. One was his son’s name, the other a crossed out AB. The AB stood for the Aryan Brotherhood, which he had briefly been a member of when he was inside. But he had had no choice in the matter, not if he wanted to survive, and so he had become a skinhead for his wife’s and son’s sake—at least that was what he told himself at the time—but after he had gotten out one of the first things he had done was had it crossed out. The thought had occurred to him to try to get rid of it completely, but he wanted it there as a reminder, a constant accusatory memento of the life he had once led and the life he had almost once lost.

  But now there were others.

  On his chest.

  On his arms.

  On his back and on his legs.

  His entire body was covered in these tattoos that had appeared on his swollen and raw skin when he woke up two days ago in Alma, Georgia.

  He had been in a bathtub, completely naked. A cell phone was on the bathtub’s rim. It rang the moment Mason sat up. And who had been on the other end? A voice calling itself Simon. Simon saying good morning, Mason, how are you doing? Simon then asking what Mason thought about his new ink. Simon telling Mason that if he ever wanted to see his wife and son again, he would do exactly what Simon said.

  Mason had lurched out of the tub, knowing at once that this wasn’t his bathroom. He opened the door and stepped into a bedroom that wasn’t his either.

  On the bed lay two naked black men. They were both dead, their throats slit. One even had his eyes open, staring up at the ceiling.

  “My, my, my,” Simon said softly in Mason’s ear. “Would you look at that? Two deceased homosexual African Americans.” A chuckle. “That’s quite a mouthful. Though I guess you’d call them dead queer niggers, wouldn’t you, Mason? I mean, that is what a racist would say, isn’t it?”

  Mason was a tall man, standing six-five, weighing close to three hundred fifty pounds. He had a lazy face, somewhat resembling a bloodhound, but he was the type of man who demanded respect wherever he went, taking no shit from anyone. But now here, standing completely naked in this strange place, talking to this strange man, something broke inside him. An internal dam that he had been building most of his life broke and, though he did not cry, tears welled up in his eyes.

  In his ear, Simon said, “Oh no, Mason, don’t do that. At least not yet. Right now ... well, compared to what’s in store for you, this is nothing to cry about. Now, see those glasses on the nightstand? Put them on.”

  “But I”—he swallowed—“I don’t wear glasses.”

  “Mason, Mason, Mason,” the voice said tiredly. “Do you want your family to die?”

  “No.”

  “Then when Simon says do something, you better fucking do it and don’t ask questions.”

  Later that night, after making him snatch a pack of gum from a local convenience store, Simon had Mason drive to a nearby apartment. In that apartment was a male prostitute. The prostitute introduced himself as Izzy. He was a deeply tanned man, maybe twenty-five years old, who had bleached blond hair with black roots. Izzy had welcomed Mason, stroking his arm as he led Mason deeper into his apartment, the place decked out in some retro seventies motif, and it took everything Mason had at that moment not to punch Izzy’s lights out. But Simon had said that Mason needed to go through with this, that if he ever wanted to see his wife and son alive again, he would follow through and not back out.

  And the first thing Simon wanted Mason to do?

  Let Izzy suck his cock.

  Which he had no choice but to go through with. Sitting there on a velvet couch, his pants and boxers down around his ankles, Izzy on his knees before him while a fucking lava lamp stood in the corner. Mason’s entire body was shaking and he wanted to push this man away, he wanted to at least look away, but he couldn’t. Simon said he had to watch, that he needed to watch, or else one of Gloria’s body parts would be shipped to him.

  And so he watched.

  He sat there and he watched the young man’s head bob up and down, his lips around the shaft of his penis. At one point Izzy even looked up at him, and there was a smile in his eyes, a pleasure that nearly drove Mason insane. And right as he came he couldn’t take it anymore—he reached forward and grabbed the prostitute’s head, twisted it back and forth, again and again, until he’d severed the spinal column and left Izzy on the ground, paralyzed.

  Thirty seconds later the cell phone rang.

  “Wow,” Simon said. “That’s all I can say, Mason. Just ... wow.”

  Now here he was, in a gay club called The Spur. Dance music pounding from speakers all over the place. Neon flashing lights everywhere. Mostly men in tight shirts and jeans moving around the club, talking,
flirting, buying each other drinks, but it looked like there were a handful of transvestites too.

  He walked up to the bar and ordered a beer.

  “Honey,” the bartender said, a tall skinny man with a red mohawk, “I never saw you around here before. You new?”

  With much effort, Mason nodded.

  “Well,” the bartender said, smiling at Mason as he pulled a beer up from under the bar and set it on top, “the first one’s always on me.”

  And so Mason stood there and waited. Thinking about what Simon had said to him. How he was to come to this place, The Spur. How he was supposed to order a beer and then just stand around, wait for someone to come up and ask him to dance. And when that happened, when someone came up and tapped him on the shoulder, he was supposed to dance.

  “Or else your wife’s heart?” Simon had said. “I’ll send it to you in a box.”

  6

  We spotted the Racist almost immediately. He wasn’t that hard to find. There were a lot of big men flitting between the bar and dance floor and lounge, but the Racist was recognizable by just how uncomfortable he appeared. Plus, he wore the telltale pair of glasses that didn’t seem to go right with his face.

  Some things never changed. I remembered the first time I put on a similar pair of glasses in a motel room in northern California. They’d been on the bathroom sink, and when I’d put them on they were heavy and thick and pinched my nose. But the lenses had been my prescription, and when I turned around I found the message that had been painted on the back of the bathroom door in blood.

  For the Racist, the game had been going on now for two days. I knew pretty much everything that had happened to him so far. The waking up in a strange place. The special surprise that helped grab the new player’s attention. This was all followed by the first part of the game, something simple, like stealing a candy bar or a pack of gum, or going to a diner, eating a meal, and then walking out without paying the check. Something that wasn’t difficult at all when it came right down to it. Something that helped prepare the player for the later parts of the game. Start small, work your way up.

  The Racist’s game had started at least two hours before the Kid called us. We’d been at the farmhouse, our own special base, just hanging out, more or less waiting for the Kid to call. And then when he did he forwarded an email with everything he had downloaded so far.

  The camera positioned in the ceiling corner of the bathroom, staring down at the latest player lying naked in the tub. Another camera positioned in the bedroom just outside of the bathroom, where two men lay dead on a king size bed. Even from the distance of the ceiling to the bed the bloody slits on their necks had been evident.

  It wasn’t my turn to go this time, it was Jesse’s, but Jesse had gone with Maya into town for groceries, and when a game started like this, there was no time to waste. So Carver came to me, told me to come along, and we headed to the airport, where Fred was waiting to fly us to Atlanta. From there I’d managed to secure the Corolla, no questions asked, and then Carver and I were headed south, because all the Kid knew at that point was that the Racist was somewhere in southern Georgia. Meanwhile, Ronny and Ian had gotten into the SUV and started south too, planning to meet up with us whenever they got the chance. Driving nonstop, switching off when the other one got tired. It was the way our missions always went, one team heading out first to see what they could, then a second team—the pick up team—coming in behind for backup.

  We’d almost had a chance to catch the Racist in Jacksonville this afternoon, but it just didn’t work out. So we’d followed him down 95, just as it was starting to rain, hoping for a simple Smash and Grab to end this once and for all. But that didn’t happen. Instead the Kid had called, telling us about the girl strapped to the bed, and now here we were, surrounded by pumping music and flashing lights.

  Carver went to the bar. He came back with two beers and handed me one. I sipped it just for show, keeping my focus on the Racist as he moved awkwardly on the dance floor, directly beneath a disco ball. He had a beer in hand and looked like he was being tortured, his face flushed and his jaw clenched, as a transvestite in a yellow and pink polka dotted dress grinded up against his crotch.

  • • •

  OUR EARPIECES WERE useless with the loud pumping music, so we took them out and placed them in our pockets. Carver and I split up and drifted around the club, keeping an eye on the Racist while also keeping an eye out for his escorts.

  After about ten minutes, Simon called.

  At least we had to assume it was Simon calling, because the Racist pulled the standard black cell phone from his pocket, looked at the screen, then quickly turned away from the transvestite and strode off the dance floor. He ended up in the lounge, surrounded by fake cacti, a finger to his ear while he strained to listen to the phone. He stood that way for several minutes, occasionally nodding, occasionally shaking his head. Finally he took the phone away from his ear, stared down at the screen, then jabbed a button with his thumb. Stuffed it back into his pocket, glanced once more at the people around him, and started moving.

  By this point Carver and I had reconvened on the other side of the club.

  I leaned into Carver, shouted into his ear, “What do you think?”

  Carver, keeping his focus on the Racist, shook his head.

  The Racist had returned to the bar. In seconds a red mohawked bartender was pouring the Racist a shot of Jameson, reminding me of being in the Sundown Saloon back in Reno, ordering two shots of Southern Comfort before Simon made me do something I didn’t want to do.

  Both of us whiskey drinkers, apparently. As if that bonded us somehow.

  “This is it,” I shouted.

  Carver nodded. He shouted back, “Get the car. I’ll call you when I’m headed out. Let Ronny and Ian know what’s up.”

  I headed for the exit. As I stepped outside, passing a bouncer decked in a cowboy hat and chaps, I took the earpiece out of my pocket and replaced it in my ear.

  “You guys there?”

  Ronny said, “Where have you been?”

  Ian said, “Yeah, man, we were getting worried.”

  “Sorry,” I said. “The Village People were having a reunion inside.”

  “Seriously?” Ian asked.

  “Look, the target’s on his way out. Ian, get the SUV.”

  “I don’t have the keys.”

  Ronny said, “I’m headed there now.”

  “Then meet up with him, Ian. We’re going to have a very small window to maintain visual.”

  I was headed away from the club. The rain had slowed to a drizzle. Traffic was still heavy, tires hissing on the pavement. And above this constant noise came the sudden high-pitched whine of a motorcycle as it approached from down the street. The light at the intersection was turning yellow, then red, and the motorcycle stopped more or less directly in front of me. It was a Ducati sport bike. For some reason my eyes focused on the rider, completely dressed in black, wearing a full helmet. The helmet was also black—everything about the bike and rider was black—and when the dark faceplate tilted in my direction, I had the distinct impression the rider was staring at me.

  I just stood there on the sidewalk, staring back at the rider, at once wishing I hadn’t given Ronny my gun.

  The red light turned green, the glow reflected off the black faceplate.

  Traffic started moving forward.

  The high-pitched whine cried out again as the rider gunned the Ducati and then was gone.

  All at once, shouting came from inside The Spur. The walkie-talkie clipped to the bouncer’s belt screeched with static, and an urgent voice said: “Micah, we need you in here now.”

  The bouncer was already moving, turning away from his post and dashing inside. I found myself starting forward too. Reaching for my gun, but of course I didn’t have my gun. I didn’t have anything.

  I stepped back inside, my eyes darting everywhere, expecting the worst. What I wasn’t expecting to find was the Racist charging tow
ard the exit. The bouncer tried stepping in his way, placing a hand on the Racist’s massive chest. But the Racist grabbed the bouncer’s arm and twisted it behind the man’s back, shoved him face first into the wall, and continued on.

  Coming right at me.

  Behind him, back near the bar, the transvestite in the yellow and pink polka dotted dress was being helped up by two helpful patrons. The transvestite was holding her—his?—jaw, shoulders hitching, trying to fight back tears. It was quite clear what had happened, or at least somewhat clear, but I had no time to speculate, because at that moment the Racist was walking right past me, close enough for me to reach out and touch.

  And what, I’d later wonder to myself, if I had? What if I’d stepped in front of him like the bouncer had done and told him I knew exactly what was happening. That I too had once been trapped in Simon’s game, thinking there was still a chance to save my family. But that instead I quickly learned there was no outlet, absolutely nothing that could be done to save my family or myself other than walking away.

  But I didn’t do that.

  I just stood there, watching him walk past me, hearing him mumbling under his breath. In the next moment he was gone, stepping out into the drizzle, and it took me a couple seconds before I realized I should be out there too, that I should already have returned to the Corolla to bring it around.

  Carver appeared in the space the Racist had occupied only seconds before, pulling his own earpiece out of his pocket.

  “What happened?” I asked, but Carver just shook his head and hurried past me out into the street.

  7

  After leaving The Spur, the Racist went straight for where he had parked the Crown Victoria.

  Ian watched him the entire time, while Ronny fetched the SUV. Ian stood on the other side of the street, a half block down, his hands in his jacket pockets, his head covered with a Red Sox cap, and watched as the Racist started the car, backed out of its space, and left the lot. Seconds later Ronny pulled up in the SUV, Ian jumped in, and then they were off, maintaining a five-car-length buffer.