The Deeps (Book Three of The Liminality) Read online

  The guy just chuckled and hauled me up a concrete sidewalk with sides still encased in wooden forms, right up to the McMansion all encased in yellow vapor barrier.

  The unfinished interior was a mix of dry wall and skeletal framing. The floors were plywood, though bundles of exotic, tongue and groove hardwood lined the far end of the great room, awaiting installation.

  He hauled me upstairs, down a hall and into one of the more finished rooms, the floor gleaming with blonde, lacquered maple. It seemed to be a master bedroom, but the only furnishings were a portable banquet table piled with blueprints and invoices and a couple of folding chairs.

  There were a couple of guys with guns already up there and waiting. They made me sit at one of the folding chairs while they rolled in one of those fancy mesh-backed executive office chairs from the next room. A girl came in and plopped down a Starbucks grande and a couple of cinnamon scones.

  I sat there and fidgeted. The minutes dragged by. I could see the car that brought us here out the window, parked next to an outbuilding that looked like an overblown carriage house.

  “Where the fuck is he? His coffee’s getting cold.”

  “Shut the fuck up. He’ll get here when he gets here.”

  I didn’t like this guy treating me like I was some dog turd. Another little fire stirred in my belly. I stared down one of the invoices on the table and got one of its corners to curl. I cultivated that feeling inside me, stoking it like a hunter tossing splits of hardwood on a camp fire. That curled corner kept crinkling until the entire sheet of paper was crumpled up in a ball. The assholes watching over me, too busy staring at their iPhones, didn’t even notice. I went to work on the next sheet of paper and then the next until there was a whole pile of crumpled paper balls on the table.

  A door slammed below. I heard some loud voices guffawing and carrying on. Some of them were conversing in a guttural language that sounded Russian, though not quite. It was something Slavic, for sure.

  Four more guys piled into the room, all with baggy jackets bulging with God knows what kind of hardware. A fifth guy followed. This one had to be Sergei. He had a high forehead and a bad haircut. He looked thirtyish—younger than I was expecting. He was wearing a sports jacket over a T-shirt and shiny, pointy-toed dress shoes. The others didn’t look at him directly. They didn’t get too close to him, either, letting him maintain a large personal bubble.

  He plopped down into the mesh chair and glared at me.

  “This little twerp is the guy? Him? Really? He doesn’t look at all like the pictures.”

  Sergei’s English bore only the faintest trace of Eastern Europe. His accent made me think he had left his native country before his teens, but had lived in a household of non-native English speakers.

  “Must be all the crappy food in England,” said one of the cronies. “He’s freaking scrawny.”

  “Meth,” said another guy, spitting onto a potted plant.

  “I’ve … been sick. Injured,” I said.

  Sergei’s brow crinkled and his dropped. He thrust back in his chair, his face gone apoplectic.

  “What the fuck? Who crumpled up all my invoices?”

  I kept my stare fixed on him steady and cool. His eyes were scrunched with irritation as his swiveled his gaze around the room. His guys were clearly uncomfortable. Being the object of his scorn had consequences.

  “I mean, what the fuck? Who the fuck did this? Why?”

  The other guys just sort of shrugged and mumbled and looked away.

  “It was like that when we got here,” said the guy who brought me into the room, though he and I knew better.

  Sergei reached over and began un-crumpling the sheets one by one.

  “Shit man. This shit is important. I mean, look at this. Invoices for the plumbing and the electrical. What the fuck’re you guys thinking, crumpling my shit like it was scrap paper?”

  “Wasn’t us, Serge,” said one of the braver men. The others could only cringe.

  “Then who?”

  He glanced up and found me staring, all calm and focused. I could tell that my something in my expression disconcerted him. He wasn’t used to people looking at him like that.

  He glanced away and wriggled out of his sports coat, leaving him in a T-shirt over dark jeans. The guy worked out. He had the biceps of a gymnast. No tattoos. Not an ounce of bling. This guy was old school.

  He gathered himself and stared back at me.

  “You put us on quite a wild geese chase, Jimmy. You had quite the adventure. No?”

  I shrugged. “You don’t know the half of it.”

  He smoothed out his crumpled invoices with a straight edge. “Well, it’s all over now. No more running.”

  “So what are you gonna do? Off me?”

  Sergei frowned. “Listen. I’m a busy guy. Got things to do, places to go. I’m done with you wasting my time, so let me get right down to it. This is your last stop, Jimmy. You did a very bad thing, taking off with my property. You know you did wrong. But did you own up? No. You kept on running and running. Slippery little bugger, you are. You wouldn’t believe the amount of resources I put into finding you. Good thing I got cousins on the continent. We couldn’t let you get away clean. You’re a bad example. Bad for business. We can’t have guys like you pulling this kind of shit and getting away with it. Time to pay up. But we’re gonna get it on video. You’re gonna be a lesson for any other asshole who decides to get a wild hair up their butt.”

  “Never would have happened if your guys didn’t stiff me.”

  “Shut up, twerp!” The brave guy came charging up to me, brandishing an assault rifle, stock first. “Who said you could talk?”

  “Back off Joe. What the fuck, let him talk, while he still can. Let’s hear what he’s got to say.” He leaned back in his chair and meshed his hands behind his head.

  I squirmed up taller in the chair. “I made that delivery. Wasn’t my fault it was late. If they had paid me what we agreed, then none of this would have ever—”

  “Yeah, but then you ran off … with the goods. So, technically, the delivery was never made.”

  “They paid me half what they promised!”

  “Because you took twice as long to get to Cleveland as it should have taken.”

  “Wasn’t my fault. The truck broke down.”

  “Doesn’t matter. Bottom line is, you didn’t get there on time. And what do you do? Instead of sticking around and explaining and negotiating like a reasonable person, you take off with the goods. Sell it for cheap to a bunch of losers in Pittsburgh. Next thing you know, we’re chasing you all over Europe. Rome. Paris. London. Even fucking Scotland. What the fuck were you thinking? That we would just forget about it? You know, word travels fast. Everybody was laughing and joking about the kid who got away from the Serge. Even our associates in fucking Guatemala were laughing about it. Do you know what happens when the respect goes away? That is bad. Bad for business.”

  I just shrugged. I didn’t give a shit about his petty problems. I didn’t care what he had planned for me.

  Sergei rose up out of his chair. “No matter. The joke ends right here. Nobody’s gonna be laughing at Sergei after we make an example out of you and your girl. Jozef, bring him down to the gym.”

  Chapter 9: Snuff

  A pair of Sergei’s goons shoved me out the door and down the walk to that overgrown carriage house. The builders had tried to make it look quaint, with all this fake, Victorian gingerbreading, but the place was big enough to hangar a blimp.

  Sergei strolled lazily behind us, chatting on his phone with some subcontractor about a concrete delivery. His behavior confused me. For all his absorption in the building, one would have thought that the drug trade some minor hobby. He switched gears so effortlessly.

  The carriage house turned out to be a private gym with a caged weight room and a basketball court with a parquet floor. The goons led me to a bench and cuffed me to the backrest facing center court.

  The floo
r was covered with large sheets of clear plastic to protect the finish. There was a makeshift table at center court—two boards spanning some saw horses. Tools were arrayed like surgical instruments across the top—a reciprocating saw, a soldering iron, a pneumatic hammer, a power sander. Orange extension cords coiled like snakes. A couple guys wearing all black were setting up equipment.

  Sergei swooped by the bench and leaned over me, smirking. He still had a phone pressed to his ear, on hold, probably.

  “Look at him, so cool. Not even rattled. What is his deal? Does he not know what is going to happen now?”

  “Tough guy,” said a man in black jeans and T-shirt, who was setting up a heavy-duty tripod. “That’s good. I love tough guys. Nice contrast. They’re all cocky up front, and then you get the transition to when they finally crack. Makes for great video. It’s the whiny ones bore me to tears. There’s a market for it, but that’s not my bag.”

  There was video equipment everywhere. At least three cameras. Lights and reflectors. All of it arranged around an old wooden chair with an arched back. Above it dangled a microphone and a set of cables and chains suspended from the rafters like some kind of circus trapeze.

  “What’s all this?” I said.

  “Meet your director, Jimmie,” said Sergei. “You’re gonna be famous. We hired a real pro. Mr. Raoul, here. An artiste. Master of snuff. He’s making me an instructional video. What not to do if you work for the Serge. You’re gonna be all over the internets.”

  This Raoul guy glanced at me, but he refused to make eye contact. Apart from the name, which was probably fake, he looked pretty straight-laced. Conservative haircut, rosy cheeks. He could have worked for H&R Block.

  His assistant, on the other hand, working on the chains, was a real basement dweller. Sunken chest. Acne-pocked face riddled with piercings. A mullet that looked like road kill. He had no trouble at all fixing his gaze on me.

  I wasn’t thrilled about the situation, but I knew I could handle it. I was no fan of pain, but I had been through this before. I had ways of tuning out, of vacating my body and senses. If death was on the agenda, so be it. It was not a deal killer. I knew my soul would persist. I had friends in other places.

  “Ooh yeah!” said Sergei picking up a drill fitted with a massive bit. “Look at this baby! Nobody’s gonna mess with me after this. No one’s gonna be laughing at the Serge anymore.”

  “Whatever,” I said. I frowned and shook my head.

  Sergei chuckled. “Listen to him, acting all brave! Bring in his girlfriend. Let’s see what she thinks about all this.”

  As Jozef, his right hand man, pulled out his phone, a jolt ripped through me.

  “She’s … she’s not my girlfriend,” I said.

  I was half-hoping, expecting they would leave her out of all this, let her go. Sergei was watching my reaction closely and grinning.

  “Woohoo! Did you see his reaction? Did you get that on tape?”

  “Camera’s rolling,” said the director.

  “But she’s not. I don’t even know her. She’s just some girl who happened to be deported same time as me. They sat us together on the plane.”

  “That’s fine,” said Sergei. “How about we pretend she’s your girlfriend, just for show? What do you think, Raoul? Doesn’t that add a little more drama to the situation?”

  “You betcha,” said Raoul, as he untangled a knot of microphone cords. “I think it’s sweet how much he cares … about a stranger.”

  “Listen. She’s got nothing to do with what I did. You guys … you should just let her go.”

  “Nuh-uh. No way,” said Sergei. “She’s gonna be your co-star. Your leading lady. A pretty face will only help make my point.”

  “But I’m telling you, I don’t even know her.”

  “Then why do you care so much?” said Raoul. “Let it go.”

  Sergei kept grinning. Catching me had really made his day. I must have really been a bug up his ass.

  “You’re gonna have to go with the flow, tough guy. So what if she’s not your girl? It’s all for show. It adds to the story line.”

  I looked at those tools spread across the table and my gut tightened. This was no longer just about me.

  A door flew open and one of the flunkies shoved Ellen out onto the parquet, hands bound behind her back. They marched her down and had her sit in a chair facing me. Her face was flushed and streaked with tears.

  “James, what’s going on?”

  “Don’t worry,” I said, in a low voice. “I’ve got this.”

  Sergei snickered. “Listen to him! All brave in front of his girl. This is going to be one hell of a show, Raoul. Too bad I have to run. Got stuff to do. People to see. Not to mention … I’m a little squeamish—in person. Don’t like blood. But don’t worry, I’ll get to see it all on the video, all clean and neat. Hasta la vista.”

  He turned and headed for the door, taking along most of his entourage, including Jozef. My eyes latched onto Ellen’s. There was a touch of patience and confidence in her gaze, an unwarranted calmness that told me she had faith in me, that I would somehow keep my promise. I couldn’t help but think of Karla, in the Deeps, if she felt the same.

  ***

  Sergei left two of his guys behind to watch over us. They hung back near the main entrance to the gym, leaning against the padded wall, assault rifles dangling from shoulder straps. As the video guys set up their booms, I pried at the backrest with my fingernails, working at a crack on the edge of one of the slats. I managed to peel off a splinter a couple of inches long and tucked it in my palm. Instinct told me I would need it to focus my will, the way Urszula used her scepters.

  The rope they had tied me up with was some cheap, coarse and scratchy hemp. I held the splinter tight and closed my eyes, imagining the cut ends of the hemp slithering back through their knot. I strained to make it happen. Slowly the knot began to respond, loosening slightly, enough to give me a better grip on the splinter.

  The splinter buzzed and writhed in my grip. It almost wriggled right out of my hand. Something powerful was flowing out of me and into it. I kept it contained. When the release came, I wanted it to be something big and focused. I chose my target with care. I might only have one shot and had to make it count.

  My eyes kept gravitating to the pretty hardwood underneath all that plastic sheeting. It was expensive stuff, slab-cut birds-eye maple with the curly figure and sheen of the back of a fancy violin. All those ripples looked three-dimensional, like a landscape.

  This wood had character. I could almost picture the big, old rock maple it had been harvested from, growing all alone in a hilly meadow, its branches sprawling unhindered, majestic in profile, scarred beneath its burls and knots and healed-over wounds from ancient lightning. Me and this dead tree, we had a connection. I could feel it grow.

  The video guys were still fiddling with the lighting. I kept my eyes on the skinny one. I was pretty sure I could take him down if I got the chance. Of course, there were the two flunkies with the assault rifles I needed to think about. But then again, I had that squirming splinter tucked firmly against my palm. I would have no trouble focusing my ill will this time. Poor Ellen, quivering again over there on that chair like some scared bunny in the paws of a coyote, she didn’t deserve any of this. Sergei and his zoo were going to pay.

  Raoul’s assistant grinned at me, again exposing those gray teeth that had probably never been flossed. It looked like he was going to part of the show as well. He slipped on a bright yellow rubberized apron, matching gloves and a pair of goggles. He picked up a pair of garden shears and walked over to Ellen.

  I worked the splinter out to my fingertips and let the pointy end protrude. It quivered like a divining rod. It was all I could do to hang on.

  He grabbed a fistful of Ellen’s hair, snipping off a hunk down the middle of her bangs. Ellen whimpered like a puppy with its paw caught in a door. Raoul laughed from behind his main camera, which was sighted over Ellen’s shoulder str
aight at my face.

  The assistant mugged for the camera. “Foreplay,” he said and turned to wink at me.

  He picked up a reciprocating saw, leaving it switched off for the time being, dragging its teeth across her face until it etched red lines into her dermis. Raoul had two cameras live. One on her. One zooming in on me.

  “Don’t worry, baby,” he sang in a high and tuneless falsetto, providing both lead and backup, call and response. “Everything will turn out alright.”

  Something writhed and uncoiled deep in my belly. The parquet floor began to creak as if an invisible elephant had stepped into the room.

  “What the fuck was that?” said the assistant.

  “New house. Still settling,” said Raoul.

  Boards snapped through their tongues and out of their grooves. They keeled up, lifting, ripping the plastic. Turning to expose their protruding nails, the pieces came together in a swarm, bound by an invisible force that shaped them into a column not unlike the tree trunk that spawned them.

  I twirled the splinter in my fingers and it responded like a joystick. The subtlest twists and tilts were all it took to bend the column over and whip it across the room like an extension of my own arm. The assistant had dropped the saw and was hauling ass, stumbling across joists exposed where the sub-flooring had peeled away and crumbled into a mass of splinters that now communed with the main body of my wood-conjured beast.

  I swung an iron-studded tentacle, catching our would-be torturer in the back of his legs, cutting him down. He howled like a stuck pig as the nails bit and fell between the joists into the crawlspace.

  Sergei’s guys already had their rifles on full automatic and were pouring slugs into the beast, to little effect. More wood broke away. My beast continued to grow extending its reach forcing the gun men out of the building.

  Raoul remained at his post, on a patch of flooring that had so far not been affected by my spell. I sent a sub-tendril coiling after him, smashing his camera to bits, swatting him aside like a moth. He screamed as he thudded across the court, slamming into the wall beneath a digital scoreboard. One camera remained standing on its tripod, untended but still rolling. I let it stay. I wanted Sergei to see who he was dealing with.

  I diverted my attention to the rope binding my wrists. The strands were eager to do my bidding, sliding in and out of their knots. That moment of inattention, however, took all the oomph out of my parquet monster. It had gotten too big and acquired too many limbs to hold itself together without my will fully exerting itself.