Torque (11 page)

By inserting a thin hollow pipe into the
grommet, fluids could be drawn into or released from the tube. The
pipe for this application was a custom-made hypodermic needle. It
served double duty as the hairclip’s fastener. The broad end of the
needle swiveled on a tiny cantilevered hinge that enabled it to
dock with the grommet. With practice, Reis found she could convert
it with one hand, like a neat magician’s trick. The brass tube had
a small slider on the side for pumping the desired contents.

Originally, those contents would have been
solutions of heroin, opium, morphine, or laudanum. According to the
antique dealer the piece had been made in 1926 for a woman of
considerable means to facilitate her considerable habit. Reis had a
jeweler refit it with nylon seals and a modern high-tensile
lance.

The glass storage vial contained one of
Aird’s exotic mixtures. He’d hinted that an adrenaline derivative
and poison from an exotic toad were part of the mix and that she
should be extremely careful with it. She’d thought he was kidding
until the day she dripped a tiny portion onto the tip of her
tongue, just to see if the set-up worked, and within minutes lay
paralyzed upon the kitchen floor. For six hours her body buzzed
with a pulsating electrical charge while her mind had streaked at
warp speed throughout the galaxy. After that she’d cut it with
water.

Reis checked the mechanics by tucking the
needle’s pointed end under a catch to make a clasp, then unfolding
it until the broad end inserted into the grommet thereby completing
the hypodermic. She worked the thumb button that slid the plunger
rod up and down inside the brass tube, and then went to the sink
for a seal test.

Inspection complete, Reis returned to the box
for the glass vial. It was half full, enough for one complete
refill or two partials. Either quantity would be deadly. But that
would be all until she managed to cultivate a new source for liquid
narcotic. Perhaps her new contact, Mr. Wray, could help her,
there.

Reis inserted the needle into the vial and
slowly drew the thumb button upwards. The thin steel spike sucked
up the juice until there were equal quantities in the vial and
tube. It was her dangerous mosquito and simply wearing it gave her
a thrill.

== == ==

The dash clock showed one-twelve a.m. when
the BMW’s quartz-halogen headlamps hit the wall of the variety
store across the road from Stan’s motel. Reis took a small tin from
her bag and treated each nostril to a fingernail of powder. She
stepped from the car, tugged on her skirt so it at least covered
her underwear, and clicked her way over to unit 8A.

Svoljsak opened the door seconds after her
soft knock. His sleepy scowl morphed into a smug leer. He stood
against the doorframe so she would have to squeeze by. Halfway in,
Reis stopped and pressed a spiked heel into his instep.

“Where is it, Stanley?”

The leer became a grimace. “I thought we
agreed I should mail it.”

She scraped the heel over his toes just to
watch his eyes widen, then moved on past. The room was dark save
for The Late Night Talk Show. The flickering images bounced off a
whisky bottle that was missing a lot more than was in the adjacent
glass.

Reis deposited her bag and bomber jacket on a
moth-eaten armchair, instantly improving its looks, and cat-walked
about in the guise of inspecting Svoljsak’s abode. She met him in
the middle, by the bed, and draped her long slim arms around his
neck. The stiletto's brought her lips almost level with his and
Svoljsak closed the gap. He tasted of stale tobacco. She asked for
a drink hoping the whisky would mask the bitterness and also warm
her up. Svoljsak liked his environment on the cool side.

Bathed in the light of the TV’s cathode ray
tube, their bodies were soon contorting on the bed before a
clapping and cheering audience. At one point Reis focused on the
screen to identify the familiar voice of a British film star, but
now Stan was on elbows and knees over her and his shoulders,
knotted with effort from supporting his weight, blocked the view.
She dug manicured nails into his back and etched angry pink lines
from spine to side. Stanley groaned, the audience laughed, and Reis
allowed the occasional small gasp.

His thrusts began to rock the bed. She
brought her arms up to the pillow and carefully removed the jade
clip from her hair. Arm extended just above the side table, she
held it in her right hand and deftly manipulated the needle from
the catch and into the grommet. It locked into place as Stan turned
his head to follow her arm. She ran the fingers of her other hand
into his hair and steered his face toward her breast.

His cadence increased and he reached beneath
her knee to raise the leg. She responded by drawing both up around
his waist, reveling in the slickness between them. His neck was
salty and the combination of whisky and cocaine was starting to
peak. Another nail pierced his back and there was more
applause.

Stan didn't have far to go. Perhaps only
seconds. Anticipation quickened her pulse and she dropped her feet
to push at the mattress and match her partner's rhythm. He slid a
hand under her neck, his mouth searching for hers. With her left
arm firmly across his shoulders Reis locked them together.

Like a roller coaster reaching a crest
Svoljsak paused at the top of a long stroke, then, with a throaty
growl plunged full-length into her. Reis gave an involuntary cry as
she absorbed the thrust. She arched to hold him still and with her
nail guided the needle below his left shoulder blade. It sank to
the hilt and she slid the thumb button all the way down.

== == ==

At first it felt like one of her sharper
claws until it penetrated deeper. His orgasm had taken hold and
carried him along until, frighteningly, an intense fire began to
rush through his veins. Behind it came an avalanche of pain that
blasted through his heart and up into his skull.

It hit like a botched lobotomy. Jackhammers
pounded on his chest and drilled into his head, pulverizing his
world into senseless, quaking rubble.

Oh, Christ. Somebody, please help!

Amid the shocks and jolts, Svoljsak heard
voices. Other people were in the room. Desperately, he tried to
make them aware of his distress. He shouted, then louder, but
succeeded only in biting the tip off his tongue.

His body involuntarily strained and
convulsed. And continued to orgasm. Distorted cheers washed in from
a distant shore, and from somewhere far below came a sporadic,
almost primeval, grunting.

Every cell felt ready to combust and hot lava
began to flow along his spine, sweeping before it every sound,
every thought, every feeling with a volcanic roar. He was in the
volcano, the volcano was in him, and Stanislaw Svoljsak realized
that soon his flesh would melt, his bones would dissolve, and the
agony would end. It would happen soon—but not soon enough.

== == ==

With Durrell she had played it safe and
remained on top. This time she’d wanted to experience the full
force of her lover’s death throes. Arms splayed to the sides, heels
cratered into the bed, Reis continued to grind and writhe beneath
Svoljsak’s dead weight. The warm press of unyielding flesh, both
exciting and frightening, extended the climax. As it gradually
faded, her tempo became erratic until the need to expand her lungs
with air took priority.

Her body continued to tingle and involuntary
muscle pulses made her thighs squeeze and relax against Svoljsak’s
hips. The violent fornication, however, had moved them up against
the headboard and now, unable to push on his shoulders to slide
out, Reis had a bit of a problem. She squirmed sideways and managed
to work a hand under his chest. Using the bedsprings to amplify the
motion she started to rock until a frantic heave and pelvic thrust
finally rolled the lifeless bulk over. Only a cat-like move
prevented her from going off the bed with it.

Unsteadily, she searched the floor for the
hypodermic and found it in front of the night table. Hot water
rinsed away the residue and she reassembled it back into a
hairclip. Stan had landed on his left side so Reis pushed him onto
his chest. It took close scrutiny in the dim light to locate the
puncture wound. A wider nail scratch would disguise it.

There was vomit mixed with blood on the bed.
It was on her too. She began to shake and headed for the bathroom
where the scalding shower had a cathartic effect without triggering
any latent emotion. Reis toweled, dressed, and then wiped down the
few places she might have touched. The drink glasses were washed
and placed in the sink to dry.

A quick search of the unit before she left
seemed prudent—just to see if the old boy had kept anything back.
She started with the pockets of his clothes. The billfold contained
just over two hundred dollars and a torn piece of a phone directory
page. She stuffed the cash in her bag and dropped the wallet on the
table; just like any reasonably honest working girl would do if her
trick seized up.

She upended the wastebasket.

A page of lined paper crumpled into a ball
rolled out. The handwriting was rough, and there was much crossing
out. It was the draft of a letter. She looked again at the
wastebasket and this time noticed an adhesive label clinging by a
corner to the plastic liner. It had an address on it. That of her
postal box.

She went back to his pocket for the torn bit
of phone directory. Three pieces of paper, one story, and she
wasn’t liking the gist of it.

“You deceiving bastard!” She delivered the
corpse a sound kick to the hip.

Svoljsak had mailed the package, but not to
her. The name at the top of the draft matched the one on the torn
phone list.

“I suppose whoever you sent it to will also
want to screw me over.”

What was it with men? She punted his ass
again for about the same yardage. Whatever. No matter who got the
package she'd also fix their wagon—they all had the same pathetic
weakness.

A pair of black airline slippers came out of
her leather bag and the noisy red pumps went in. The attention that
might have followed her here was no longer desirable. Still fuming,
Reis tucked her hair under a paisley scarf, belted Svoljsak's
gabardine over her bomber jacket and slipped the deadly jade
hairclip into a pocket.

Wind gusted into the unit when she opened the
door. It had come across Lake Ontario from New York State, an
easterly. The latch clicked behind her. She stepped from the
landing and walked silently through the parking lot and across the
road, another spirit in the night blown away by the breeze. There
might even be rain once the clouds slowed down.

CHAPTER
18

Wednesday, October
21st

“Want a ride, Mitch?” Fenn pulled up to the
curb and pushed open the passenger door, but his fare went to the
rear door first and shoved in the great bulk of a mailbag.

“Thanks, Chas.” The carrier shook the melting
sleet from his hat and tossed it on top of the bag. “I'm just
heading up to your building if you're going that way.”

Fenn had guessed as much. Mitchell Robinson,
third-generation postie, had two delivery runs and always started
the morning route at Fenn's apartment block. Even so, their paths
rarely crossed during the day.

“I see you're still wearing your shorts,”
Fenn said. “Refusing to give up summer?”

Underneath the waterproof cape, Mitch wore
regulation blue knee-length pants. “Maria said I looked like a
flasher in uniform; but I'm mostly doing indoor boxes these days
and lugging that bag around keeps me warm.”

“I imagine it does. Anything in it for
me—besides bills?”

“Actually,” said Mitch, “I think there is.”
He twisted between the seats to search among the small packages
that had been segregated from the flat mail.

“There you go.” He tucked a bubblepack
envelope into the space between Fenn’s seat and the center console.
Mitch was pretty sure it contained a compact disc but privacy was a
major legal issue in his trade so he reserved comment.

“Wonder what that is,” said Fenn, giving the
package a quick scan. “I don't remember ordering anything.”

The address was handwritten and there was no
return destination. Fenn tossed it onto the back seat.

“Mind it isn’t one of those ‘free’ Internet
trials that’ll charge your ass off with hidden fees.”

Fenn shot his friend a sideways glance.
“Speaking from experience?”

“Somewhat. They make it sound like such a
good deal but I canceled mine when I saw the first invoice.”

Mitch used his coat sleeve to wipe
condensation from the side window and peered out. Houses, trees,
people, and cars were splotches of colour that ran together and
blurred past. He turned back to Fenn and said, “Are you still
taking computer lessons?”

Fenn nodded. “I completed my second night
school course, last week, and I'll probably sign up for more in
January.”

“Preparing for a career change?”

“Possibly. A hard drive crash won’t put you
in the hospital.” Fenn flicked on the indicator and stopped the car
in front of his building.

Mitch slipped off the seatbelt. “Death by
novice, is that it?”

Fenn smiled at the phrase. “The students
aren't the problem. Nearly all accidents are caused by licenced
drivers. When you are on the road eight to ten hours a day, year
after year, it's only a matter of time before the odds catch up
with you. Speaking of poor odds, where's our darts match this
week?”

“We’re playing at The King's Head.” Mitch
went to the rear door. “Their team has a perfect record so
far.”

Fenn grinned. “Well. So does ours.”

“Yeah. But theirs is for wins. Our isn't.” He
slung the wide strap over his shoulder and pulled the sack off the
seat.