Broken Angel (3 page)

TWO

M
ason Lee was no handyman, but he took pride in the terror he could generate with duct tape and a few specialized articles of hardware.

His appearance and reputation helped in this too. He had long curly hair and a waxed mustache and, except for the eye that he couldn’t change, was vain about his features, but anyone who commented on his obvious attention to appearance suffered for it. Although he was only medium sized, much larger men who knew him always gave him plenty of room, knowing he was as good with a knife as he was unpredictable. Those who didn’t know him gave him room too; his milky left eye, the one he hated to be reminded of, drifted to one side and made it difficult to tell where his eyes were focused, giving him what he knew folks described as a spooky, even cruel appearance.

Still, much as he enjoyed the perception about him, it meant little unless a man could back it up.

Like now, for example, just before dawn, in an ordinary, small-town hotel room. Low-wattage lamp. Lumpy mattress. Side table. Straight-backed chair. Cheap plastic shower curtain.

With pride in his creativity, Mason had rearranged the room with a simple goal. To inflict pain and terror as efficiently as possible. Folks said he had no imagination, but they only had to see what he’d done in the hotel room to understand otherwise.

First, he laid the shower curtain on the floor at the foot of the bed like a pull rug. He’d placed the straight-backed chair on top of the shower curtain, facing away from the bed and close enough that when he sat on the edge of that lumpy mattress, he could lean forward and reach the chair without straining. The side table sat in front of the chair, where the lamp illuminated his specialized articles of hardware: a metal bucket and blowtorch, the Heretic’s Fork, and a thumbscrew. Below the table, atop the plastic shower curtain, a small cage imprisoned two rats, and a burlap sack rippled with movement. The sack let the victim wonder exactly what animals it contained.

Mason thought as he surveyed the room that a man could travel light, and except for the effort it took to capture the rats and snakes during the day, a setup like this only took a couple minutes and worked just about anywhere in Appalachia.

On this occasion, all Mason had left to do was wait, and he wasn’t good at that, even with the flow of anticipation. Much more fun hunting his prey; at least, this morning, he expected a punctual victim.

Sure enough, Mason had hardly taken his spot on the wall beside the door, a roll of duct tape in hand, when he heard footsteps in the hallway. The soft-heeled footsteps of a man in expensive shoes.

Mason peeled back a few inches of duct tape and clenched it between his teeth, letting the roll hang from his jaws. He reached down and pulled his trademark bowie knife from a sheath on his belt.

The knock on the door was as soft as the footsteps.

“’T’s open,” Mason slurred around the tape.

James Rankin turned the knob and pushed it open with the confidence that came from twenty years as one of the High Elders of Bar Elohim’s inner circle. He walked in with the same blind confidence. Mason imagined that Rankin’s long, lean face would register disdain, instead of fear or suspicion, at the plastic curtain on the floor and the table in front of the chair.

But Mason wouldn’t be able to confirm that guess. He wouldn’t see Rankin’s face until after he stepped from the wall and, slipping forward, wrapped one arm around Rankin’s neck and jammed the blade against his ribs. He spit the tape on to the floor beside his feet.

“On your knees,” Mason said.

“Hardly.” The disdain was apparent.

Mason had been hoping for that answer. He shoved the knife point in far enough to draw a gasp, to draw blood.

“Got this knife sideways,” Mason said. “It’ll slide between your ribs like they’re cheese. Tip’s about four inches from your heart. Means you’ll be on your knees sooner than later. If I must use the knife to force you down, I’ll have to drag you onto the shower curtain so your blood won’t stain the carpet as you roll around and die.”

Rankin lowered himself.

“Good. Now, on your belly. Hands behind your back.”

Rankin complied again, with dignity that gave Mason satisfaction, as it’d be all the more fun to strip away. He intended to own the man when they were through.

Mason propped a knee in Rankin’s back and set the knife on the floor in easy reach. He taped Rankin’s wrists together, pulled another strip from the roll and again clenched the roll in his teeth. Taping wasn’t finished yet.

“In the chair.” Mason again took hold of his bowie knife, which felt glovelike against his fingers.

“You’re aware that doing this to me is essentially like doing it to Bar Elohim.” Rankin spoke with no emotion, but it was a deadly threat, enunciated clearly for the benefit of the vidpod that was surely recording this conversation from an inner pocket of Rankin’s suit jacket. Mason ignored him, as he, of course, fully knew what was at stake. Danger only made the deliberation of his plans even sweeter.

Mason jabbed the point of his knife into the softness of Rankin’s lower back. “Liver’s right there. Trust me, it won’t take much digging to prove it to you. Now get on the chair.”

Rankin rolled over and struggled to his feet. Mason figured Rankin was more concerned about soiling his fine suit jacket than about Mason’s intentions. Such was the power of Bar Elohim. But Mason would break that.

Once Rankin was on the chair, Mason knelt behind him and taped Rankin’s ankles to the chair legs. He made a couple more long wraps to secure Rankin’s upper body and arms to the straight back of the chair.

Rankin was helpless now, facing the table and Mason’s specialized hardware.

Mason settled onto the edge of the bed behind Rankin and leaned forward.

He found that whispering was most effective. It didn’t disturb folks in other rooms, and the quiet threat coming from the dark behind the victim seemed more lethal than a loud one. Just like Rankin’s quiet invocation of Bar Elohim’s name less than a minute earlier.

“See on the left of that table in front of you,” Mason said. “That’s called the Heretic’s Fork. I ain’t much on history, but I do know folks used it with great effect during the Inquisition. What’s the word I’m looking for? Ironic. That’s it. You’ll find it ironic that the power of the church will be turned against you for a change.”

“Five twenty-three a.m.,” Rankin said. “The daily meeting with bounty hunter Mason Lee has degenerated into futile threats of torture against me.”

Rankin didn’t have to explain that he was speaking on the record. Or that the vidpod recording was essentially indestructible and, because of GPS tracking, impossible to hide unless buried ten feet underground.

“See how the Heretic’s Fork has prongs on both ends,” Mason said. “What I do is prop one end just above the center of your collarbone and the other end under your chin. You’ll have to stretch your head as high as it can go just to keep it from pushing through skin. Bring your chin down at all and you’ll be skewered. It’s tiring enough holding your head like that for even a few minutes, but when I begin with the next gadget, things get interesting, because pain’s going to bring your chin into your chest and you won’t be able to help it. I’ve seen it a hundred times. Those prongs are sharp enough, they’ll come up through your mouth and pin your tongue. Honest.”

“I’m glad you’re explaining this.” Rankin sounded cold and imperious. “Better your voice than mine when Bar Elohim reviews our conversation.”

“Someone in your position knows how to erase conversations. Soon enough, you’ll do it for me. You’ll do anything for me.”

Rankin didn’t answer.

Mason smiled at the back of Rankin’s head. Power did have privileges, including a way to escape Bar Elohim’s ubiquitous presence when necessary. After years of serving them, Mason knew that about the Elders.

“On the table in front of you, to the right of the Heretic’s Fork, is something so old-fashioned it’s a cliché. You probably don’t recognize it, but that tiny vise is a thumbscrew.”

Old-fashioned, but highly effective. Two small rods of metal, held together with a long screw in the center. Put a finger or toe on each side of the center screw and then tighten. Mason had seen the simple thumbscrew break a man’s spirit in seconds.

“Let’s assume you haven’t lost your sanity,” Rankin said, his voice huskier. Mason always listened for the huskiness. Fear. Mason lusted for that huskiness even more than the sound of a woman’s rising excitement. “You do have a reason for this?”

Mason grinned. “First, let me give you the daily report,
sir.
We captured one of the fugitives, the man, just after dark last evening. Hounds took him down. He’s here in Cumberland Gap. The agent is guarding him. A doctor’s been called.”

What Mason withheld reporting was an unregistered vidpod he found in the man’s pocket. That said something in itself. Probably came from the Clan. And on it, the vidpod had enough information to justify threatening, and hopefully torturing, an Elder of Bar Elohim’s inner circle.

“The girl?” Rankin asked.

Mason was impressed that in these conditions Rankin was able to focus on his original purpose for this meeting. The daily report. But he believed that his position gave him protection from all dangers.

“I’ll find the girl today. I had the valley that holds her sealed. No one escapes me.”

“That’s all I need to know,” Rankin said. “Release me, and I’ll erase our conversation.”

Mason twitched his knife hand. The man
was
afraid. Or why attempt to negotiate?

“But it’s not all that I need to know.” Mason leaned in again. “I have a few questions I want answered.”

“Good Christians, like good soldiers, don’t ask questions.”

How many times and in how many sermons had Mason heard that preached to Appalachians, like it was the Almighty Word of God? He didn’t intend to be a good soldier for much longer.

“You’ll find the bucket interesting,” Mason told Rankin. He still whispered, as if having an intimate conversation. Which, in a way, it was. Shared suffering truly brought two people close. “What I’ll do, if the Heretic’s Fork and the thumbscrew aren’t enough, is put you on your back on the plastic sheet, with the bucket overturned on your exposed belly. I’ll slip those rats from the sack beneath the bucket and trap them there, tape ’em in. When I heat up the bucket with the blowtorch, those rats will be frantic to escape. They’ll chew through your innards and come out your side. Oftentimes, I’ve noticed, the person’s not dead yet and gets the thrill of seeing the animals bursting out. Mostly, I save this for the wives of men too stubborn to answer my questions. I’ll make an exception for you though.”

Rankin’s entire posture shifted into rigidness.

“The other sack holds a copperhead. I notice that suit of yours is tailored—not much room for a copperhead to get out once I slip it down the back of your shirt. Snake like that bites more than once, you know. I’ll flip a coin to see if you get the rats or the snake.”

Mason was lying. All he’d been able to find today was a garter snake, but it didn’t matter. Their own imaginations scared people more than anything else.

“I’ve heard enough.” Rankin’s voice shook. He’d assigned Mason to enough of these situations that he knew Mason enjoyed his work. “What do you want?”

That was the big question, wasn’t it?

More than anything, Mason wanted to get Outside. He was tired of Appalachia. The playground was too small. Even with his own special privileges, Mason knew that like Rankin, his power was only granted by the whim of Bar Elohim. From outlawed media materials, the ones confiscated, Mason glimpsed Outside. He hoarded these items in his cabin. Outside, with enough money, Mason could indulge himself without fear or restraint in a much bigger playground. He wanted freedom.

This wasn’t the time, however, to tell Rankin to pass on this request to Bar Elohim. That was for later, when Mason had leverage to divulge the information on the fugitive’s vidpod.

“Tell me why Bar Elohim needs the girl so badly,” Mason said. All these years of following orders, but never once an explanation. He was just hired help to them.
Good Christians, like good soldiers, don’t ask questions.

“Bar Elohim wants the girl because she is a blasphemer.”

“I’ll confess something. The Heretic’s Fork was just a bluff. No sense marking you up. Bar Elohim would have questions then. You can take it as a good sign that I want you leaving the room without much hinting at what happened, but that’s only if you tell the truth. And I know you’re lying. An agent from Outside wouldn’t have any interest in a blasphemer. And Bar Elohim wouldn’t let an agent into Appalachia for just a common blasphemer.”

Mason eased off the bed, moved around the chair, and knelt in front of Rankin. Maybe Jesus washed feet, but Mason preferred power to servanthood. “And a blasphemer doesn’t require a fancy silver canister to hold her innards.”

Mason pulled off Rankin’s left shoe and left sock. The man’s toenails were buffed. Mason put Rankin’s two smallest toes into the thumbscrew. He tightened the screw to make a snug fit.

“Bar Elohim has made an agreement with Outside.” Rankin’s foot trembled and he drew in a breath. “The girl, in exchange for satellite thermal imaging. That’s the truth.”

Mason stood and, leisurely deliberate, retrieved the roll of duct tape. He ripped off a piece of tape and put it across Rankin’s mouth and nose. Rankin’s eyeballs bulged immediately as he vainly panicked for air.

Mason watched, smiling, until Rankin passed out. He pulled the tape off and slapped Rankin’s face. The man’s chest heaved as he gulped air.

“Forgot to mention the tape,” Mason said. “Just so you know, I can do it again and again. Usually I hold your wrist and check your pulse. Don’t want you dead. You’d be surprised how often a person can suffocate to the point of death and never quite make it to the other side.”

“Thermal imaging,” Rankin gasped. “It’s the truth. I promise. Appalachia doesn’t have access to satellites. Outside does, of course. They’ve monitored the Valley of the Clan for the last two months, tracking people by heat images. There’s enough data to pinpoint all their movements. We want that information.”