“Listen to me. This is for your son and all his stupe killing. He’ll hear of this and know what awaits him.” He let go and looked at Krysty Wroth. “And this waits for you after our talk.”
She ignored him.
Tourment extended a hand to Mephisto, who dropped the severed fingers of their captive into the huge pale palm. Ten pieces of bloodless meat, jointed, with chipped nails tipping, them. The baron smiled and walked to the edge of the dock, scattering the fingers on the surface of the water with a joyous gesture of release.
“First course, my pets,” he called.
Krysty noticed that the front of the man’s elegant breeches was swollen with a truly frightening erection; she looked, away. Mephisto, at a signal from the baron, picked up a large cleaver and ran a thumb along the edge, like a lover caressing his mistress’s body.
Fifty yards out into the Atchafalaya Swamp, there was a rippling of water. Then a long spade-shaped head protruded, eyes glittering under ridges of bone, the ferocious snout raised to the evening air.
“DO WE ALL AGREE?” asked Ryan Cawdor, facing the entire West Lowellton street gang.
Nobody spoke they all watched him with a sullen, grudging respect. “Well,” said Doc Tanner. “They don’t disagree, Ryan.”
“We go midnight,” said Jak Lauren. “Plan sounds good to me.”
“Best we got,” Ryan said. “It works, and you get to drain the swamps and build your windmills around dawn tomorrow.”
“It don’t work, and we get to dig us some graves,” replied the boy, his wolfish eyes glittering.
LORI SHOOK as though she was suffering from some dreadful ague. She held her head in her hands, her palms pressed hard against her ears to try to shut out the hideous mewing cries of the tortured old man. Krysty, her face set like marble, determined not to show the gloating baron and his sniggering sec boss any weakness, watched without flinching. She spoke only once.
“I’ll never forget this. And I’ll be there when the score is settled with you and your sick, stinking filth. I swear it by Gaia.”
They laughed.
By then Father Lauren was close to death. Mephisto had hacked away at both feet, sawing them off at the ankles, again using the hot tar to curtail the bleeding and cauterize the wounds.
Out in the lagoon, the massive cayman waited patiently for each severed limb and bit of flesh. Its jaws, gaping wide enough to swallow a swampwag wheel, snapped at each white foot, gulped it down with no discernible effort or pleasure. Then the creature disappeared into the murk until only its eyes broke the scummy surface.
“Hands next, baron?” asked the sec boss, looking down in irritation at some specks of blood that dirtied his nice clean suit.
“Maybe his cock, Mephisto. Or his ears. Maybe his lips or nose. So many choices. Yes. Ears and then nose. No, wait. Be difficult to use the pitch on his face. That can come later. Hands next and then cock.”
Krysty judged that merciful Death finally spread its mantle over the old man at about the moment when the kneeling sec boss began to hew clumsily at his remaining wrist with the cleaver. The blood, no longer spurting vigorously from the stumps, simply oozed sluggishly across the stained concrete.
“He’s gone,” said Mephisto, disappointed.
“Throw his hands to our pet?”
“What about the rest of the fucker?”
“Carry on with cock and then do his face. There’s the big flagpole in front of the motel. Haul what’s left up there with a notice about what happens to enemies of Baron Tourment. Leave it to the crows.”
The warm humid Louisiana evening was closing in around them as the girls were driven back to the cellar at gunpoint. Once more, the baron bound them to the tables. Leaving them, he said, “Later, sluts. We can talk later.”
RYAN CAWDOR WAS RESTLESSLY pacing around the lobby of the Adelphi Cinema, watching darkness descend on the neighborhood. At Jak Lauren’s orders, most of his small army was resting or asleep, with a skeleton crew on sentry patrol. Doc had also fallen asleep, after having entreated Ryan to wake him should there be any news or action. Finnegan had found his way into the kitchen and was stoking up his boilers, ready for the firefight to come.