Guest-Aww, thanks! I don't think she will, if only because Matt's like 'NO MURDER' and Angelique's like, 'is it murder if they were tripped onto the subway tracks? 'cuz I think that's an accident'.
It's cold. Wet. Windy. Same as it has been for the last three nights.
He talked to the boy. Well, sort of. Once the kid was done freaking out about the ninja at his window. He felt a bit bad about that one, but it was an unavoidable misfortune.
The boy-Michael Wilson, aged seven and three quarters-had been cooperative, once he was assured that he was not going to be kidnapped again. Still hadn't let go of the baseball bat, but he wouldn't begrudge him that.
He knew more than du Maurier had, a lot more. He had been at the park-he'd snuck out because there'd been a stray dog he'd been feeding-when a man and a woman had set upon him, chased him a little ways through the park, and grabbed him and flung him into the back of a white van.
Always the white van. Always.
The woman had smelled like his mom's perfume. He could smell that from here-a cheap, popular brand sold in Sharpe's Department Store. She'd been built like a linebacker, with broad shoulders and beefy arms. The man, by contrast, had been thin, and he'd worn glasses. There had been a scar under one eye.
Good kid.
Good kid or not, he can't track anybody in this weather, perfume or not. That, and 'built like a linebacker' isn't exactly helpful. But it's not like he's got anything else to go on.
He should, he supposes, give du Maurier the descriptions, have her put the word out, but the less he has to deal with her, the better.
Radio
Talk show
Argument over money
"SOMEBODY HELP ME!"
He zeroes in on that one-two blocks south, alleyway, what is it with people and alleyways at night, come on.*
It's nothing serious-attempted mugging, looks like. It's just one guy, shaky-fingered and liable to pull the trigger by accident. He goes down easy. For once.
"Oh, oh god-"
"Go home."
"Jesus-"
"Maybe stay out of the alleyway next time."
The man stops his blubbering long enough to say, in the most injured tone imaginable, "I was yanked in."
"Don't walk by them, then."
And with that parting remark, he disappears thanks to a convenient fire escape-smells like rust, it's breaking so many health and safety violations.
His hand is throbbing a little-he'll put some ice on it when he gets home. It's more of an annoyance than anything, but still.
Opera radio
They need new brakes
They're having a threesome...didn't need to know that
Heartbeats-he's getting over a heart attack, he should be careful
Just cut herself with a kitchen knife, that's gotta hurt
Dale a tu cuerpo alegria, Macarena, hey Macarena!-no more Kareoke, man, you sound like a dying goat.
He sighs, tunes out Bad Kareoke and Threesome and everyone else-but especially those two-and heads to the park, cursing the weather. Wind throws him off, distorts everything.
There's no one out in this that doesn't have to be, and no one in the park-not even a desperate junkie. All the same, he circles the place twice before finding a convenient tree-all splinters and misery-to lurk in.
This. Absolutely. Bites.
A few blocks south, in the first building to be rebuilt after the alien invasion-honestly, an invasion, and in those horns? Really?-Angelique stands by the kitchen counter, waiting for her kettle to go off. Honestly. Horns, of all the ridiculous...
Although, she'd seen the footage of him without them. Not bad. She might have appreciated him more if he hadn't been the cause of an alien fish through her lounge window at three in the afternoon, the asshole.
What is taking the kettle so long-what was that?
It screams just as the door open and she sighs, picks it up with a towel. Her staff always knocks. She's drilled that into them-not knocking is for uncultured swine, you have the bare minimum of manners.
"Don't move." There's the familiar sound of a gun being drawn. "Don't move."
"Just a moment, dear." Glig-glig-glig, goes the water into her mug. "I've waited ten minutes for this damn kettle."
He comes closer and she clips the spout shut, makes as though to put it down-
-and swings, hard, catching him upside the head. He goes down with a yell of surprise and she proceeds to pour the remaining water onto his face. Oh, look at that, instant blister! Fascinating. Good to know for later.
"That wasn't very polite." she tells him, kicking the gun away and setting the kettle down. "If you wanted to speak to me, you could have made an appointment...come in!" The door flies open and her own dear...helpers...enter, guns drawn. "See what happens when you don't knock, boys?"
"Mademoiselle?"
"Never mind...take him away, ready him. I'll join you shortly."
She's certainly not about to interrogate her houseguest in a dressing gown. That's just tacky.
They prepared him well-tied him firmly to a chair and made sure his hands were easy to get to.
"Good boys." She adjusts Mama's ring a bit and steps forward. "Who sent you?"
"Fuck off."
Hm. Someone needs a lesson in manners.
She backhands him across the face, the diamond ring gouging in deep and dragging the skin towards his mouth. Red, blistered skin peels off and falls to the floor.
"Who sent you?"
"Go to hell."
She backhands him again, giving him a matching gouge on the other cheek.
"Answer me."
"Bite me."
"Roger, fetch my meat tenderizer, there's a good boy."
The man in the chair spits at her feet and she plucks a handkerchief from the side table and begins removing blood and flesh from her ring.
"This is very inconvenient, you know." she informs him. "I was about to go to bed, and now you're keeping me from my beauty sleep." Roger returns with her meat tenderizer-a heavy, wooden thing with blunt spikes that really does work wonders for steaks. "Such a sweet thing. Thank you, dear." She rewards him with a peck on the cheek. "Take care of him, would you?"
"Oui, Mademoiselle."
He steps forward, looks their guest up and down, and smashes the tenderizer into his left kneecap.
This is going to be a long night.
An hour later, she knows his name-John Fleek-his employer-small timer Alexander Welsh-and his motive-assassination. Moron. She'll deal with Welsh in the morning, but for now, she's got a crying man in her basement and she would like him to shut-up, please.
She waves Roger off and comes forward, wraps her arms around Fleek's neck and lowers herself into his lap. Bones shift and he screams.
"Shh, shh." She pets his cheek. "It's okay. It's going to be over soon."
"Ohh..."
"Do you know what they call me?" she continues, motioning for David to bring her that lovely curved knife that rather looks like a sickle. "Do you, John?"
"Mm..."
"Say it." He moans and his head falls back. She frowns. "Say it!"
"Angel...of death...god..."
"That's right." She shifts, provoking another shriek of agony. God bless earplugs. They don't drown out everything, but they do enough. "And do you know why?"
"No..."
"Because I grant you mercy." Ah, knife. Lovely. "Now...open wide, dear..."
"Please-!"
She rams the knife into his mouth and pushes, the curved blade meeting resistence before going upwards and pushing forward. There's a squelch, and a glimmer of silver emerges from his left eye.
There. All done.
"Get rid of him. And clean this off." She thrusts the knife at David. "Good night, gentlemen. Pleasant dreams."
"Rêves agréables, Mademoiselle."
She walks away, intending to take a nice bubble bath. Maybe she'll ask Daphne to come and give her a massage...that girl is a bit of a twit, but those hands of hers are magic.
Shame she has to deal with Welsh tomorrow...a damned shame. She almost liked him. A real cutie, gorgeous cheekbones.
Oh, well. Such is life.
*Yeah, Wayne family.
