The Living Night (Book 1) (34 page)

"Again, it depends upon your level of
cooperation. I happen to have stumbled across some rather odd tidbits of
information which incriminate you greatly—in what, I'm not sure; that's what
you're here for. For instance, I know that the Balaklava were never intended to
kill Ruegger and Danielle—and further, that Junger and Jagoda were responsible
for the death of Testopha, the great abunka leader in Lereba. Both raise some
rather interesting questions that I feel compelled to answer. Not only that,
but I'm under the impression that the retrieval of this information will afford
me some modicum of revenge."

"You're going to torture me."

"Naturally."

"If I cooperate—answer your questions in
full—will you still feel compelled to do this?"

"Need you ask? You still have Sophia's
death to atone for—and many more besides. But … on the occasion that you
satisfy my curiosity completely and without resistance, I
might
refrain from killing you. Then again, I might not."

They entered the apartment, where many of the freaks
were already in attendance to make certain that Vistrot remained harmless.
Presumably, the rest of their number had gone on to prepare the "final
destination".

They made room for Vistrot on a couch, where he
settled down to watch television while the pills worked to flush the small
radio device from his system. The others ordered a pizza and smoked some
indica
(they offered him some, but he declined; he'd never
been one to give his mind over to chemicals and he wouldn't start now, even if
this was to be his last night on earth), watching some late-night marathon of
horror movies.

As the hours ticked by, Vistrot was given plenty
of time to dwell on his fate and to organize his final thoughts, concluding
with the realization that he truly did not want to die—not now, not ever. Just
the same, he found to his surprise that he could not look forward to his
glorious, post-Scouring days if Kristen were not there with him. Yet Amelia had
promised to kill her if he didn’t. Kristen’s days were numbered regardless. Would
it not be better and more humane for him to perform the act?

By the time
Vampire Circus
flashed on the
screen, he’d yet to decide, but it was at this hour (after black-out curtains
had already been placed over the windows, signaling that the sun was up) that
the laxatives began to jump-start his intestines, and he relocated to the
restroom. To his annoyance, Jean-Pierre kept the door open; apparently, the
albino thought Vistrot might be desperate enough to salvage the radio device
from his own waste and ingest it again. Which was unfortunate, because Vistrot
would have done exactly that.

After the device as expunged, Vistrot was made
to lie in the coffin, which the performers carried, at some pains, into the
back of the hearse. The coffin was large, but he was a big man, and
claustrophobia set in.

Though it was difficult to judge time in the thing,
Vistrot estimated it was close to an hour before the hearse pulled to a stop
and the black box was carried a short distance, then set down. His captors levered
its top open. With a little help, Vistrot climbed from the narrow tomb and
stepped to the concrete floor of an immense, dingy, and largely empty
warehouse, its windows spray-painted and boarded-over. He registered his
surroundings in the flash before Kristen was on him, her arms about his middle.

“Auggie!”

“Baby!”

He embraced her, tight. They kissed
passionately, and joy filled him. At last!

When she was done, she and turned to Jean-Pierre.
"I want some time alone with him, J.P."

"You'll get it—afterwards."

"After what?" Vistrot said.

The hands of humans strengthened through decades
of sipping immortal blood seized him from behind and dragged him to a section
of floor that had been readied for him. Thick titanium chains trailed from
large stakes driven through the concrete, and nearby gleamed an assortment of
long sharp instruments perfect for driving through one's body.

"This isn't necessary," he said.
"It was never my intention to keep anything from you, Jean-Pierre. You
would've found out soon enough. After it was all over, you were to be my first
officer. That's one reason you were sent to kill Danielle—if you could do that,
then I could completely trust you. If you couldn't, that was fine, too, because
just the threat of it was enough to put a certain business associate in her
place. Please, Jean-Pierre, I won't stoop to begging, but this isn't necessary."

The albino lifted one of the instruments—it
looked like some sort of demonic fireplace poker—and tested its sharpness.
Still quite dull, Vistrot saw with mounting dread.

Jean-Pierre smiled. "Vistrot, you stole
from me my single chance at redemption; not only have you killed the one person
I loved—and who loved me in return—but you’ve damned my soul, if ever I had one
and if there is a place for it to go. Without her, I’m lost in darkness. Of
course, if you're not on the wrong end of it, darkness can be amusing."

He indicated the floor with his poker, and the
sideshow performers began to chain Vistrot to the ground. Kristen protested,
but they ignored her. Vistrot’s robe was torn away, which left him naked, and the
coldness of the concrete made his balls contract. Next they threw the chains
around his limbs and torso.

Jean-Pierre hovered dispassionately above.
Dear Lord, boy, what have I done to you?

Shifting his glance from the Titan's face to the
tip of the poker, the albino's face finally registered emotion. It twisted into
a mask of utter hatred. Raising the poker high over his head, he stabbed it
down with a howl.

*
    
*
    
*

After
a few hours in Stomach Prison—as, among other less endearing terms, she’d come
to call it—Sophia grew accustomed to its rhythms.

The Rastas, intolerant of any rebellious
behavior, fed the rebels to the always-hungry Kalanda, who prowled the living
cave intermittently to keep the prisoners in line. Sophia watched Kalanda and
the Rastas closely, observing their patterns of movement and behavior. She
frequently tried tapping into the Rastas' minds.

After doing this a few times successfully, but
briefly, she decided to make a more thorough attempt, so with great
concentration she focused on one man in particular and extended her mind into
his. She began exploring, in the process learning much about the Balaklava and
their personal histories as observed by this mortal, who had seen and heard a
great deal (and despite his youthful appearance was over a hundred years old,
due to frequent infusions of Balaklavian blood).

Unfortunately, Junger and Jagoda also kept a
constant finger in the minds of their soldiers and discovered Sophia's presence.
They stormed into Stomach Prison and beat her severely, and—though she taunted
them with the concept of rape—they were quite aware of her ghensiv half and
contented themselves with beating her again.

After that, she kept her mental wanderings
brief.

*
    
*
    
*

Around
noon, Jean-Pierre allowed himself a breather from torturing the Titan, for
which Kristen was grateful. For the last few hours, his revenge had a musical
accompaniment; there had been some instruments lying around the Funhouse’s
penthouse, and it seemed that a baker's dozen of the semi-mortal mutants had
formed a band. When a longer version of the show was performed, they would play
several selections for the audience.

“Play for me,” Jean-Pierre bid them, and they
had gathered their instruments and obeyed.

Their sound, which was somewhere between
Romanian folk, rock, and jazz, made Kristen shudder, but Jean-Pierre seemed to
delight in savaging Vistrot to the jouncing beat. The Titan writhed, looking less
like Kristen’s beloved Auggie and more like a pincushion of flesh with every
passing moment. It broke Kristen’s heart to see, and she tried not to watch.

During his breather, Jean-Pierre lit a Pall-Mall
and went out the warehouse's backdoor, which opened onto an alley. Kristen
followed, striking up a Virginia Slim.

"It's gone on long enough," she said.
"Don't you think you should release him?"

"No.”

The sounds of the band drifted out, seeming to
mix with the swirl of smoke and the slight drizzle.

"I think you were right when you said no
amount of pain you could give him would do you any good,” she said. Looking at
him, though, she was uncertain. In some bizarre way, he actually seemed to be
enjoying this—
This is him
, she thought.
I think I'm seeing him for
the first time. Please, baby, prove me wrong.
When he didn't answer, she
said, "You going to kill him?"

"That would take the fun out of it, wouldn't
it?."

She could feel her shoulders collapsing a
little, her breath tightening. If she didn't watch it, she might start to cry.
He had said it was
fun
. A minute passed in silence and he seemed to
sense her misery. Suddenly coming to her aid, he wrapped his arms about her.
She started to pull away but stopped herself.

"I'm sorry, honey," he said. "For
everything."

"Please … end this. I know you hurt, but
this isn’t the answer.”

"Justice is messy."

“This isn’t justice.”

"I'm exacting vengeance on the murderer of
my wife and child. There can be nothing more just."

She examined him sadly. "Then would you do
me a favor?"

"Tell me."

"Give him some hope, at least. You're not
even asking him questions like you said you would, just torturing him
senselessly. Please, if you love me, if you love yourself—if even a part of you
is still human—ask him what you want to know. He'll tell you, Jean-Pierre, not
because you're hurting him, but because—once—you were friends. Please don't
torture him pointlessly; if nothing else, interrogate him. Otherwise you're
just an animal." She fumbled with a cigarette, averting her eyes.
"Tell me you will, Jean-Pierre."

He tilted up her chin with one hand, flipped his
silver Zippo with the other, and said, his green eyes sincere, "I
will."

He moved back inside. As the door opened, the
music swelled. Funhouse music.

Kristen stared at the sky for a long time, let the
cigarette burn down to her fingers, then opened the door to hear the sound of the
Titan screaming. Cringing, she stepped in out of the rain.

*
    
*
    
*

At
nine o'clock that evening, when Vistrot was supposed to have phoned Junger and
Jagoda to call off the attack on Jean-Pierre and the search-and-retrieval of
the Titan himself, the two Balaklava were driving around Manhattan searching for their next series of
victims and/or muses. When he didn't call, they examined their electronic
homing device to pinpoint his location, but he was nowhere to be found. Both of
his emitters must have been destroyed.

"Bummer," said Junger.

"He was a prick anyway."

"Without him, we may never find out what
all the excitement was about. Of course, he probably wouldn't have told us
willingly. But we could've been persuasive."

Jagoda smiled. “Perhaps the odd flock will turn
up something. Unlikely, but it's all we've got now."

“No, brother. We know all we need to.”

They did. Within a month, they prophesied, the
world oyster would be theirs. For now, though, they must continue to curry
favor with the Titan, even if it meant saving his sorry bloated hide.

The first logical place for acquiring Vistrot
was at Jean-Pierre's apartment. After entering the eight-story hovel, they found
something strange: none of the albino's mortal minions were present, though
their recent presence was undeniable; their smell had baked into the walls. In
any case, their absence signaled that something was amiss, but what?

Junger and Jagoda made their way to the top
floor, where they quickly found the albino's room. Pausing before twisting the
knob, the bald one turned to Jagoda and, seeing the bearded one shrug, flung
open the door.

The explosion actually destroyed the top three
floors of the building. Flames caught hold and slowly consumed the whole
structure.

*
    
*
    
*

From
his vantage point atop an opposite building, Jean-Pierre turned to Kristen.

"Good work, baby," she said.

"Thank you." To Maximillian, he said, "Let's
go make sure they're dead."

"Think there'll be anything left?"

"For their sake, let's hope not."

Max rounded up the score of performers and, at
the albino's lead, marshaled them across the street, where a large crowd was
already gathering. Fire trucks wailed close by. To prevent recognition, Jean-Pierre
had had to select the performers that looked the most externally normal. Even
so, all wore masks and costumes to conceal their identities; at Max's demand,
the troupe must not be implicated in any of this. Even Max himself wore a disguise,
leaving Jean-Pierre the sole member exposed. He didn’t want to be hampered in
case he needed to defend himself.