Hot Revenge Box Set 2

Chapter 17

Michael

The Ahhh marches across Klempner's face.

Footsteps sound outside, drawing closer and James re-enters.

In a few minutes, he’s changed. From the winter woollens, heavy jeans and boots he was wearing before, he changed into a fresh shirt, suit and polished shoes. His face is clean, barring the swollen eye, and he’s combed his hair. And under one arm, he’s carrying a wooden box. For a second, I can’t think what it is. Then I realise…

To me, this is just my old friend James.

But what will Finchby see?

He flashes a glance at the still unconscious man. “How long before he wakes up?”

Klempner rocks a hand. “I didn’t give him much. Anytime now. Within the next few minutes certainly.”

“Good. Michael…” He snaps fingers towards the cooler. “Ice bucket.” Then he aims a finger towards the table behind our dangling houseguest.

And now I know what he has in mind.

I grin. “My pleasure.”

Klempner, obviously bemused, watches in silence as I scoop ice into the bucket and add water. I place it on the table and James drops in his toys into the chinking mix.

A groan…

Finchby stirs. “What…?”

I eye-point Klempner to a chair. He’s sucking in a smile as he takes his place in the ‘viewing gallery’.

“What’s going on?” Finchby’s eyes blink open, hazy and unfocussed, then his face sharpens as realisation penetrates. His eyes fling wide, showing the whites. “Christ…” Struggling against the restraints, he writhes and twists. But he’s going nowhere.

His eyes settle on Klempner. “Hey… Larry…” He tries for a cheesy grin but fails.

Is he going to piss himself?

Klempner smiles pleasantly. “Afternoon, Finchby. Good to see you’re back with us. Comfortable?”

The man is pasty, his breath short and quick. “Hey, Larry, what are you playing at? It wasn't personal. It was business. You know how it is.”

Klempner lifts his chin, eyes narrowing. Standing, he stalks a few paces to stand by Finchby, speaking to the side of his face.

“Yes, I do know how it is. And for coming after me, I'd have simply slit your throat and called it evens…”

Finchby’s breathing shudders…

“… But it stopped being business the moment you took my daughter and chained her up in your dungeon of a cell. You imprisoned her in conditions calculated to make her sick and to risk her child. You made it your business to demean and humiliate her…”

He draws breath. Any trace of compassion slides from his expression. For the first time, the fury shows. His voice morphs to a hiss.

“… And you planned to sell my granddaughter for parts? This stopped being business some while ago, Finchby. This is very definitely personal.”

Finchby hangs, lungs jerking and juddering. He blinks rapidly, moisture gleaming at the corners of his eyes.

He tries to speak, his throat working, then tries again. “What are you going to do, Larry?”

Abruptly, Klempner’s pleasant expression pastes back into place. “Nothing. Nothing at all…”

Finchby pants, quick shallow breaths, eyes darting here and there…

“… I'm going to sit back and watch what he does.” Klempner jerks his chin to James, currently lounging against a wall, arms and ankles crossed. “I'll admit, I'm quite intrigued to see what he has in mind for you.”

Finchby breaks. Weeping and shaking. “Oh, God… Larry…”

Klempner speaks softly by his ear. “You kidnapped his pregnant wife. Tortured her. Humiliated her. Intended to use her. And you planned to sell his daughter for organs. Call me a sceptic, Finchby, but it’s my guess he doesn’t like you very much.”

The door creaks open. “James, is everything…” It’s Mitch. Her words stall as she takes in the scene.

She moves to Finchby, standing close, very close; staring him in the face. The vein at her neck throbs. “What are you going to do to him?”

Klempner strides across, seizing her by an arm, propelling her back towards the door. “Mitch, out.”

She resists. “I want to stay.”

“Out!” Gripping her at both shoulders, “I can't tell you what to do with your life, but I can tell you what you're not doing. And you're not staying here. Not for this. I'll throw you over my shoulder and carry you upstairs if I have to.”

Mitch hovers, then dimples. Her eyes cast between me and James. “Larry, I do believe these two are rubbing off on you.”

She jerks free, strolls back to Finchby, then scratches him under the chin with a finger. “You won't wake the baby, will you. I've just got her to sleep.”

A quick pat on the cheek, then she sashays out of the door, throwing a comment back over her shoulder. “Have fun, boys.”

Klempner follows her with his eyes, then closes the door behind her.

I wave him to one of the chairs, then head for the cooler. Speaking loudly, “Want a beer, Larry? Or there's wine if you'd prefer it?”

He sits, slinging his feet, ankles crossed, up on the table. “Beer's good for me.”

Holding up a couple of bags, “Cashews or potato chips?”

“Whatever you’re opening.”

“Why choose?” I rip both bags, tipping the contents into a couple of bowls, then stack everything onto a tray. “James? A beer? I imagine you'll be working up a sweat.”

He's standing at the table where Finchby can see him. Glancing up from where he is opening up his box, “Thank you, Michael, yes. A beer would be good.”

I set the tray on the table beside James’ ‘work area’, passing around the bottles and the opener.

James works through the contents of his box: a set of knives: stainless steel, polished, they glint under the harsh lighting. One by one, he inspects the edges, testing them with his thumb. He chooses one, but apparently unsatisfied, takes a steel from its slot, drawing the blade along, sharpening it.

Opening another bottle, I set it on the table by James, then take my seat next to Klempner, knocking back a glug of beer. Then I toss back a handful of nuts before passing the bowl to Klempner.

Klempner sips his drink. “That's a wicked-looking set of knives, James. Well cared for, I can see. But they look a little delicate for heavy work.”

James holds the blade up to the light, inspecting the serrated blade. “That's because these are my sushi knives. I brought them down from the kitchen for the occasion.”

I punctuate my speech with the bottle in my hand, waving it in the air as I speak. “You like sushi, Larry?”

“I do yes, although I've not had any for a while.”

“Really? James, you must make some for Larry while he's staying with us.” I turn back to Klempner, keeping my voice loud. “You know, forget these Japanese chefs. James here makes the best sushi. That knife he's sharpening... A couple of weeks back, he was slicing up... What was it, James?”

“Tuna.”

“Oh, yes, tuna. It couldn't have been more than an inch thick when he started, but you know he sliced it so fine. Four slices, was it?

“Six.” James turns to the violently trembling Finchby, the sushi knife held, apparently casually, between his fingers. “So, Klempner, what exactly did you want to ask our guest?”

Klempner beer in hand, stands, moving closer to Finchby. In a low voice, “Your building is a write-off. And the police will be all over it now. So, where's Baxter gone?”

“I don't know, Larry.” He’s babbling, his gaze fixed on the knife in James’ hand. “Really, I don't. Maybe he ran. Maybe he’s just dumped me. Like he accused you of doing. He's done it himself to me. But I don’t know where he’d go.”

Klempner shakes his head and takes his seat again. “All yours, James.”

James, face impassive, places the knife on the table then chooses another. Not one of his ‘specials’, this one is jagged-edged; wicked-looking.

Moving slowly, taking his time, he eases the blade under the top button of Finchby’s shirt, then slices. The button pops off and he moves down to the next. One at a time, he removes the buttons until the shirt dangles open.

Finchby sobs. “Larry, please. I don't know where he is.”

“You can do better than that. And if you really don’t know where we can find him, well… what use are you to us? I don’t see either of these two paying for your keep.”

James saws his way up the inside sleeve of one arm, then the other. A slash across the shoulders and the shirt falls apart, so much waste fabric. He tugs it away, tossing it to one side, leaving Finchby naked to the waist.

He pauses, knife in hand, looks to Klempner.

“How's your memory coming on, Finchby?”

“Larry, I don't know.”

“Pity. James...” He waves in a carry-on gesture.

James puts down the saw-tooth knife, picking up his original. Face impassive, standing square on, he sets the point to the hollow in Finchby's neck…

“No!”

“Stay still. Don't move. You wouldn't want to jolt my hand, would you?”

… then slowly… very, very slowly… he draws the blade downward, scoring the skin.

It's the finest of cuts. The most delicate of lines, drawn from the clavicle, centred down the breastbone and stopping at the navel. A thin trickle of blood dribbles down through scattered body hair drawing a thin trail to the belt.

The knife is too sharp, the cut too fine, to really hurt, but Finchby shrieks.

“Anything to say?” asks Klempner.

“Larry, I don't know. I don't know.”

“I don't believe you, Finchby.” Klempner waves his bottle at me. “Do you believe him, Michael?”

“Nope. Carry on, James.”

James moves behind the screaming, panicking, shuddering man. “I told you. Don't move.” He meets my eye, holding it for a second then, putting down the knife, draws his next tool from the ice bucket.

In long slow gestures, he draws it down the back of the shrieking Finchby, following the line of the spine. As he moves, slowly, deliberately, Finchby’s face raises, his mouth flinging wide.

James repeats the motion, this time to one side; a parallel line to the first, drawn over Finchby’s flesh.

And again. And again.

James sniffs, stands back, examining his handiwork, then adjusting his stance, head tilted, and, re- angling, he draws horizontal lines, squared against the originals.

Klempner, fingers covering his mouth, murmurs beside me, “You know, I really didn't think he had it in him.”

My own voice equally low. “He doesn't. Look carefully, at what you’re seeing. Not what you think you’re seeing.”

Klempner looks, then double-takes. “There's no blood.”

I suppress my smile. “Give that man a cookie.”

“So what the fuck’s he doing to him?”

“Blunt edge but iced. Hurts like fuck, especially with the imagination doing the heavy lifting. But there's no actual damage.” I slide eyes side-long. “I told you. Master of the Mind-Fuck.”

Klempner takes in air. “Does he do this to Jenny?”

“No. Not this. Those two play other games.”

“I'm pleased to hear it.”

James stands back, brows arched, displaying the round-ended spoon handle to me and Klempner. Then dumping it in the ice bucket, he takes out another, holding it by the scooped end.

“Anything to say yet?” growls Klempner.

“Larry. I can't. I can't. Baxter'll kill me if I tell you. You know he will.”

“Ah.” Klempner smiles pleasantly. “Jogged your memory at last, have we.” He stands again, his eyes flicking over the shoulder of our prisoner to where James stands poised with his spoon handle. “At the risk of pointing out the obvious, Baxter isn't here. We are. Who would you say is more the risk to your poxy little life right now?”

Finchby simply hangs there, quivering.

Klempner draws a sigh. “Ah, well… James, off you go again. Have your fun.”

“A change of pace, I think,” says James. He moves to the front, sorting through the box and, with some appearance of thought, chooses a different knife. He holds it to Finchby. “A shorter, more rigid blade. Designed to cut more deeply.”

Panic ripples through Finchby’s expression. He speaks quickly. “Baxter… he has a base in South America.”

James exchanges glances with Klempner, raises questioning brows.

Klempner presses a finger to his lips. “That doesn’t sound unreasonable. He ran the South American operation for me for some years. I imagine he has good connections down there. But…” He draws closer to Finchby… “South America’s a big place. You’re going to have to narrow it down a bit more than that.”

“I don’t know, Larry…”

“You said you didn’t know anything before. Obviously, you do. Tell us about what Baxter had to say. When the two of you were chatting.”

“He didn’t say much. Mainly he talked about you.”

“That’s flattering, but not really what we’re looking for. What were his plans for after you had murdered me and James, butchered my grandchild and enslaved my daughter?”

“He… he was going it alone. Said he knew all the connections. Where to get the goods. How to handle the shipments. He said… He didn’t need you if I would buy from him. And the ransom money… his share of it… would get him started.”

“And where did he intend to start?”

“I don’t know, Larry. Honestly, I don’t know. I can’t tell you more than that.”

Klempner inhales. “James, Michael. It was a long night and I find I’ve built up an appetite. Would you mind if we took a break for a meal? Finchby here won’t mind waiting for us.”

James places the knife back in its box. “Sounds good to me. Tell me, Klempner, you mentioned Thailand. Do you enjoy spicy food?”

“Absolutely. I’ll admit, I’ve missed it since I came back.”

“Good… Prawns… Garlic… Chillies… I should have Basmati rice in the store. Let’s talk over a good meal.”

Closing the door carefully behind us, we leave Finchby dangling.

*****