I, Jequon: Part One of the Nephilim Chronicles Page 11

  “By the way, you can call me Rocky. Just keep in mind, we are professionals, you and I. So don’t take anything that happens under my watch personally. And don’t force me to explain myself, or so much as repeat a single word of my forthcoming instructions, or I will become irritated with you. Understood?”

  Henrik nodded. Noticed the very large handgun Rocky carried in a hip holster.

  “Good, good, good. Riiiight…so: job numero uno is to ensure you’re properly incentivized before sitting down to work. Hence, your lovely girlfriend, mere seconds away from unimaginable physical torment were I to give the command. Think of her as a constant and visceral reminder of the consequences of lackluster performance.”

  “Please…I’m eager to do the work. It is my…my destiny. God has chosen me for this. There’s no need to involve Cynthia.”

  “Don’t tell me how to do my job, Henrik. Mmm-kay? I’m sure you’re very enthused by your destiny, as you quite pathetically refer to it. So let that be your carrot. Your stick, should it come to that, is being forced to watch my men perform the most heinous acts on Cynthia imaginable—only worse—because what you can imagine and what I can imagine are light-years apart. Are we clear?”

  Henrik nodded. “Yes, we’re clear.”

  “Right, right, rrriiiight. Good. Then we’ll spare her the orientation I had planned, and let you begin your work. Don’t make me regret this concession.”

  Henrik reassured him that he wouldn’t regret it.

  Rocky walked past him to the far corner of the room. Pressed a button on an intercom panel set into the wall, said, “We’re going to postpone the intro session we talked about. Bring in Mr. Whitmore’s work materials, instead. Chop-chop.”

  On the other side of the glass Cynthia suddenly twitched, as if Rocky’s command might’ve registered beneath the fog of her unconsciousness. Then she grew still again, apparently needing more time to recover from the recent blow.

  “So what exactly are my orders this time? More translation?”

  “We’ll address that after they finish bringing everything down. First, a few ground rules. Most important, you are not to leave this room except to use the head, which is across from your cabin down this passageway.”

  Henrik looked in the direction Rocky was pointing. He nodded.

  “All other portions of the yacht are off limits. Closed doors are locked doors and you’re not to attempt to open them. That includes Cynthia’s cell. She is there for inspiration, not companionship. Do your job, stay cooperative, and that’s as bad as she’ll have to endure. And do stay off the intercom. You’ll be tempted, of course, but this is the only warning I’ll give you. Talk to her and my men will make her earlier handling seem like a spa treatment. When you’re hungry, say so, and we’ll bring you a meal. Anything else you need: coffee, an aspirin, reference material, just ask. With me so far?”

  Henrik nodded again.

  “Speaking of reference material.” Rocky gestured to the bookcases. “We’ve provided you with titles from your personal collection. Your entire library, in fact. I’m an all-or-nothing kind of guy.”

  Henrik moved in closer to scan the shelves. Sure enough. There were hundreds of familiar tomes on dozens of subjects: linguistics, eschatology, religious philosophy, anthropology, the occult, and apologetics, to name but a handful of the fields he’d studied. The fact that so many books could be transported from his apartment in the time since they’d taken him to the auditorium earlier in the day was telling. There were either far more contractors in San Diego under SOJ employ than the three he’d met so far, or this yacht was a very short drive from his apartment southeast of downtown.

  Rocky continued, “I even had my men retrieve the Polaroids of Thai girls you keep hidden behind the plumbing access panel in your bedroom closet. I put them in a shoe box for you and placed it on the nightstand in your sleeping cabin. You’re welcome. What are they? All of fourteen?”

  Henrik’s face turned the color of a catfish’s belly. He said nothing.

  “Please don’t even bother to acknowledge my question, Henrik.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  He briefly managed to meet Rocky’s eyes before looking away again, ashamed.

  “Sorry for exploiting these girls? Or sorry for being such an uncultured, classless prick?”

  “Both.”

  “You don’t sound very sorry. You know, Henrik, I get the feeling your father wasn’t around much growing up. You were raised by your mother, weren’t you? Wait. No. Not your mother…your grandmother—or maybe a widowed aunt. She must’ve given you sponge baths until you were ten or eleven years old…fed you homemade oatmeal raisin cookies every night before bed…made you memorize bible verses—that kind of thing… I’m close, aren’t I?”

  He didn’t respond. He hadn’t the slightest clue what Rocky was talking about. But that didn’t deter the man.

  “My dad beat the bejeezus out of me.”

  Suddenly Rocky was face-to-face with Henrik.

  “And when my job brings me into contact with people like you—people without the common decency to look at someone when they’re speaking to them—I’m glad he did.”

  If Rocky was a website, Henrik thought, his link to sanity came up Error 404: File Not Found every time you clicked on it. He’d be wise to appease him.

  “I didn’t mean to be rude. It’s just… I don’t understand what my, my…”

  “Childhood.”

  “Yes, or any of my personal life, for that matter, has to do with the work the Brotherhood needs me to complete.”

  “’Brotherhood?’ Is that the code-word they’re using with you? Interesting.”

  “Code-word?”

  “Never mind. Not important. But to answer your question—you know, like civilized adults do when having engaging in dialogue—your personal life has absolutely nothing to do with your mission here. I’m just boning up on my psychological profiling skills.

  “You might think this job is all fun and games—and make no mistake, I love what I do—but for every Cynthia, there are a hundred lice-covered towel-heads to interrogate, and they don’t look nearly as good naked.

  “Self improvement helps me stay sharp during all the down time. Take last year: I taught myself a little Mandarin so I could feel comfortable eating in authentic Chinese restaurants. For what it’s worth, I don’t eat those people’s food anymore, and neither should you.

  “But it’s psychology, not languages, that’s my true love. I could write a book on persuasion. HOW TO BREAK LIMBS AND INTERROGATE PEOPLE. And maybe I will. I could release it on Kindle. Right, right, riiight… So, in the spirit of my continued personal growth, would you mind confirming my suspicions? Were you raised by your grandmother? Or an inappropriately affectionate aunt?”

  “I was an orphan.”

  “No shit? Well, just goes to show you can’t believe everything you read.”

  Henrik was relieved when he heard the door at the top of the stairs being unlocked again. The escort thugs were returning with the additional materials Rocky’d sent them to fetch. They still wore the black ski masks, and since they hadn’t spoken yet, Henrik couldn’t tell which one was which. Not that it mattered.

  What mattered was what they were carrying.

  The one on the left was somewhat bulkier than his partner. He hefted a large box with a picture of an Apple iMac computer on the front of it. The trimmer man carried a small plastic storage bin filled with an assortment of cords, cables, and electronic devices. Balanced on top of the bin was a long cardboard tube like the kind architects used to transport blueprints. Henrik knew that inside the tube there must be a scroll.

  “Set everything up,” Rocky instructed the men. “Snap-snap.”

  After they had everything spread out on the conference table and the computer was functioning, he continued. “Good, good, good…riiight. Okay. Your orders are to provide a translation, in English, of the text you’re so infatuated with on the table. You have three days to
complete the translation. If at the end of three days, your work is not complete, there will be penalties assessed. Cynthia will be the one penalized, of course, since your continued productivity is my number one concern.”

  Henrik said nothing. Three days wasn’t a lot of time.

  “What kind of penalty you might be wondering? Well Henrik, let me tell you. In a nutshell, you’ll have the privilege of choosing between two equally painful—let’s just call them treatments—which Cynthia will be led to believe you control in terms of their duration and intensity. You will also be required to watch her while the penalty is administered. Each missed deadline thereafter will result in successively more agonizing treatments. Nothing to worry about; I’m sure you’re good at what you do. Just a friendly FYI.

  “Right, right, right. So, you will use a digital camera to photograph the individual segments of the text you translate, and you will attach each image to an email comprised of the corresponding English. Capture and send the portions you complete ASAP. Our employer wants to know everything you know the moment you know it. The computer we’ve provided you for this purpose can also be used for research. But be advised, all outgoing communication is restricted to the email address you’ll be using to send your translations. No chat, no Skype, no Twitter, etcetera. Search engines are fine, but they’ll be monitored. Expect a lag while one of our techs approves each query.

  “Finally, and most importantly, I am told this document is an original and that there are no copies. Therefore, if you attempt to damage it in any way, I’m instructed to kill both you and Cynthia in the slowest, most creatively agonizing way imaginable. Questions? Comments? Concerns?”

  Henrik shook his head no in that half-assed, underwater way men do when a game’s on and their wives ask if they need anything from the mall. He was fixated on the sweet holy crack of script-covered parchment awaiting his blessed expertise.

  “Good, good, good… You’ll find further instructions, to which I’m not privy, inside the sealed manila envelope my men have placed beside the scroll. Alllll—right then. I’ll leave you to it.”

  Finally.

  He watched Rocky and his men trudge back up the stairs above deck. Then Henrik approached his destiny. Slowly. Savoring the moment as serious climbers must their first steps onto the base of Everest.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  One-in-a-million looks? Check. Alluring attire? Check. Confidence? Fitness? Vitality? Check, check, and check. But not Cynthia Hernandez, and not a Lure either.

  Because she’s not O-Neg.

  I can smell the Type-B blood on her cinnamon flavored breath, this latter aroma leftover from the Tom’s of Maine brand toothpaste she uses, and the former from a floss-nicked gum. A woman who turns after the first feeding is useless to the enemy as a Lure. So, she’s either a friend of Hernandez, a burglar, or Yuri scammed me with a bullshit address.

  “You going to tell me who you are? Or just stand there and look tough?”

  Her voice is louder than I’d like and I’m concerned it might draw curious tenants outside to see what the commotion is. For now, I’d better appease her. The quieter this goes down, the better. I give her the same name I used to rent the Mustang; the same one printed on my fake CA Driver’s License, just in case she asks to see it.

  “My name’s Patrick. Patrick Daly. I need to speak with Cynthia Hernandez. Is she here?”

  She crosses her arms. “What’s your business with Cynthia? And how do you know I’m not her?”

  She’s playing some kind of angle, but I’m not the type to give up points so easily. “Are you?”

  Instead of answering she gives me the shoes-belt-watch-ring? once-over hardwired into women and elicited automatically whenever they encounter an alpha. Most times, this kind of assessment is one-hundred percent subconscious. This isn’t one of those times. I definitely feel appraised.

  “No. I’m her friend—her best friend—and she’s never mentioned anyone named Patrick before.” She uncrosses her arms, moves a half-step closer, and pushes her hands out against the doorframe, forming a crucifix-shaped barrier with her body. “So, I’ll ask you one more time. What’s your business with Cynthia?”

  I ignore this question, too. Look past her into the dark interior of the apartment. The shades are down. All the lights are off. No matter. I can tell Hernandez isn’t here, and she hasn’t been for some time. That much is clear. I remember her scent from Lucian’s apartment, and it’s stale and faint compared to this freshly showered, subtly perfumed woman standing guard in the doorway. Unless she’s a clean freak who launders her sheets every single day, I’d estimate Hernandez hasn’t set foot in her apartment for at least three weeks. Which means she’s yet to return from Sarajevo, or wherever it is she was sent after fucking Lucian to death.

  “I never got your name.”

  I say this only to avoid an awkward silence while I parse out my next move.

  “It’s Mercy,” but I’m asking the questions, and—”

  I cut her off.

  “—So Mercy, is she here or not?”

  Even though she’s not a Lure, feigning ignorance is the better play. Being able to tell when someone’s not home by smelling their absence scores high on the creep-scale. Plus, playing stupid fits with the stereotype people have towards men as imposing as I am; they’ll often let down their guard. Which would be useful in this context because I want to search the apartment. With Mercy here, the only way that’s going to happen is if I can convince her to invite me in. The only peaceful way, at least. If she stays this obstinate, methods less savory than my good looks and charm will rule the day.

  “Last chance, Patrick. Either tell me what you want with her, or get the fuck out of Dodge.”

  The second the words are out of her mouth a door opens a few units down. A short graying Latino man wearing faded blue coveralls steps out. He asks if everything is okay. The live-in building manager, most likely. Trading maintenance and cleaning duties for reduced rent. His hands are on his hips, but in one of them there’s a cell phone. Three problematic digits already show on the phone’s screen. His thumb is poised over the “Send” button.

  He calls the cops, and a couple people are going to have a bad day. So this needs to be handled delicately. Even with violent options at my disposal, as a rule, I don’t like to harm anyone ignorant of our kind. This isn’t a prohibition from the Codes; it’s a part of my code.

  I need to think fast, though. Obviously Mercy can’t be living here; it’s a very small studio. Too small for two. As for the manager, he’s undoubtedly familiar with Hernandez. She has a face he wouldn’t forget easily, and he looks like the type to keep a fatherly eye on any young women living alone in the complex. If he knows Hernandez has been out of town, then a stranger snooping around her apartment would arouse suspicion. It wouldn’t matter whether the stranger is me, or whether it’s this woman, Mercy. Unless Hernandez let him know someone would be coming by while she’s traveling, he’d be wary of anyone snooping around her unit. With no pet odors emanating from the apartment, I’ll wager that no such arrangements were made. Bottom line, I don’t think Mercy’s supposed to be here anymore than I am. I’ve pulled the trigger on weaker hunches.

  “Everything’s fine, sir. I’m an old friend of Cynthia’s. We went to high school together. It’s been awhile, and I don’t think she recognized me at first.”

  I turn and face Mercy again to judge her reaction. She’s rather astutely taken a step back from the threshold so the building manager can’t see her, confirming my hunch.

  Encouraged, I throw us both a bone:

  “Right, Cynthia? Patrick. Remember? From Pre-Calc? I had shorter hair back then.”

  “Oh! That Patrick…”

  Mercy plays along, speaking with a slightly higher pitch and a bit of barrio seasoning her accent as well—presumably her impersonation of Hernandez. From what I recall of the Lure’s murderous murmurs and moans on the video Yuri played for me, she’s pretty convincing.

/>   “You’re all grown up now, Patrick! Come in! We have some catching up to do.”

  Before the building manager thinks of a reason to protest, I give him a palms-up, what-are-you-going-to-do? type shrug and follow Mercy inside. I close the door behind me and lock the deadbolt. I press my ear against the glass pane and listen until I hear the man retreat into his unit.

  Mercy turns her back on me and walks toward a floor lamp sitting in the corner of the sparse room. She’s wearing a pair of form-fitting jeans, which through some strategic blend of cotton and stretchy synthetics, mould themselves to her long, toned legs like denim skin. I wish the room was larger so she’d have farther to walk and I’d have more time to appreciate the perfection that is her figure. She’s even more beautiful than her Lure friend, Hernandez. More beautiful by a mile. Knowing God had a hand in creating her almost makes me stop hating Him.

  “You knew she wasn’t here. How?”

  Almost.

  “I didn’t know. Not for sure. But the way you were interrogating me, it was clear you were agitated. I figured there must be a reason…like maybe you haven’t heard from Cynthia in awhile, and maybe that’s unusual, and maybe—like the good friend you claim to be—you came over to check on her. Letting yourself in with a spare key when she didn’t answer.”

  Mercy crosses her arms and makes a little hmmm sound like she’s skeptical. While she mulls it over, I survey what little there is of the apartment’s interior.

  There’s a window running the length of the lone exterior wall with a distant ocean view behind the drawn blinds, a stove-sink-plus-mini-fridge combo off to one side, and in the far left corner, a door opening to a small bathroom with a toilet, shower, sink and vanity. A minuscule closet completes the layout. The only furniture is a faux leather futon centered below the window, and a black office chair in front of a small desk, opposite. On the floor beside the desk sits a color Canon printer, a cable modem, and a wireless router for internet access. No computer. Presumably it’s with Hernandez.