Chapter 22
Calloway
Aharsh, humorless laugh tears from Jiya’s throat, swallowed by the rain. “So that’s it?” she asks. “We just stand here and watch it melt into the fucking lawn?”
Her arm shoots out, a pale slash in the gloom, pointing at the sagging plastic bin. As if on cue, it lets out a low, wet crack, the sound of failing plastic.
Lazlo stares at the ground, his jaw a tight knot. The architect of our failure. She’s right. This isn’t a solution; it’s a new, more toxic problem.
“No,” I say, turning my back on them. I pull out my phone.
“What are you doing?”
“Fixing this.” I scroll to Thorne’s contact and press call, walking a few steps further from the others.
He answers on the third ring.
“We have a situation.” I keep my voice low. “The disposal method we chose…it’s not working.”
“What do you mean ‘not working’?”
“The chemicals aren’t dissolving the bone; the container is breaking down, and—”
“You’re attempting chemical decomposition? With home products?” Ice cubes clink against glass over the phone. “Where’s Lazlo?”
“He’s here, but—”
“Put him on speaker.”
I walk back to the others and place the phone between us. “You’re on speaker, Thorne.”
“Lazlo.” Thorne’s voice cuts through the night air. “You were supposed to find Calloway and make sure he’s staying out of trouble, not take part in whatever disaster you’re currently orchestrating.”
Lazlo shifts from side to side. “Plans changed. He needed help.”
“I don’t need a babysitter,” I say.
“You sure?” Another pause. “Because from what I understand, you’ve created a mess you can’t clean up.”
“That’s an accurate assessment,” Lazlo admits. “From my side.”
Thorne sighs. “Location?”
I give him Marcel’s address.
“Target?”
“Marcel Durand. Rapist.”
“Current status?”
Lazlo clears his throat. “Deceased. Letter opener through the eye. A hand has been…partially dismembered and is in a failing chemical bath.”
“Christ.” Thorne’s exasperation is palpable. “Stay put. Don’t do anything else.”
The line goes silent for a minute. The only sounds are the rain and the ominous creaking of the plastic bin. Then his voice returns, all business.
“The Concord. Do you know it?”
“Your hotel on the waterfront?” I reply.
“Yes. You have a four-hour window, starting at midnight. The kitchen staff is gone, and morning prep doesn’t start until 4:30. Use the service entrance at the rear.”
Jiya steps forward, her arms crossed. “What are we going to do in a hotel kitchen?”
Thorne pauses. “Who is this?”
“Jiya Kline.”
“Ms. Kline. Since you’re now entangled in our affairs, you should know I don’t appreciate questions from strangers.”
“And I don’t appreciate cryptic instructions when I’m standing next to a dissolving hand,” she fires back.
To my surprise, Thorne laughs. “Industrial garbage disposal, Ms. Kline. Commercial grade. It processes bone. The kitchen has two.”
Jiya’s defiance falters for a second. “You want us to…put Marcel through a garbage disposal?”
“Unless you have a better solution for your science experiment?”
The silence from our end is his answer.
“That’s what I thought,” Thorne continues.
“Dismember the body first. The disposals can handle organic matter, but not whole limbs. Use the knives in the kitchen. The unit by the dishwashing station connects to the grease trap. Alternate with hot water and citrus peels from the compost to break down residue and mask the smell.”
“The hotel staff won’t notice?” Lazlo questions.
“I own the hotel, Lazlo. The cameras in that section will experience a convenient malfunction tonight. No one will know as long as you leave by four and leave the place clean.”
I scrub a hand over my face. “So we just... show up with garbage bags full of...Marcel?”
“Yes. Code is 5–8–3–1.”
Jiya looks at me, then at the phone. “Why are you helping us?”
Thorne is silent for a moment. Then, “I never leave a Society member without assistance. As for you, Ms. Kline,” Thorne continues, “consider this your audition.”
“I didn’t ask for one,” she says.
“No one ever does.” The ice cubes clink one more time. “Midnight. The Concord. Don’t be late. And don’t leave a mess.”
The call ends.
“Well,” Lazlo says, breaking the silence, “at least now we have a plan.”
Jiya stares at the phone, then at me. “What the hell did he mean by ‘audition’?”
“It means,” I say, glancing at my watch, “that we have four hours to cut up Marcel, package him, and get to The Concord.”
I pull my truck into the narrow alley behind The Concord, cutting the headlights as I park. Jiya’s car slides into the space beside mine, its engine quieting with a soft purr. The service entrance looms ahead.
The weight in the truck bed shifts, a reminder of our macabre cargo. Lazlo’s motorcycle is strapped down beside the black garbage bags containing the remains of Marcel Durand.
I turn to Lazlo, his face pale in the dim light. The makeshift sling we fashioned for his wounded arm is already showing spots of blood. “How’s the arm?”
“Hurts like hell,” he says through gritted teeth. “But I’ll live. Unlike my bike’s dignity. Never thought I’d see my baby strapped down like luggage.”
“Your bike will forgive you,” I say, the truck door groaning open. “You’re lucky I had the tie-downs.”
“Just seems wrong having to abandon my ride like that. Felt like betrayal putting her on the back of your truck.”
Jiya steps out and surveys the alley. “Would you rather have tried to ride with one arm? That would’ve gone well.”
Lazlo attempts a shrug but winces. “It’s a matter of soul, not practicality.”
I pull on latex gloves and hand pairs to both of them. “We have bigger problems than your motorcycle’s wounded pride. Let’s focus on getting this done before anyone sees us.”
The trunk reveals six black contractor bags, each double-knotted and heavier than ordinary trash. I grab three while Jiya takes two from her car. Lazlo, still nursing his stab wound, manages the last bag with his good arm.
“Cameras?” Jiya whispers, glancing up at the security equipment mounted above the service entrance.
“Off, like Thorne promised,” I nod toward the small red lights that should be blinking but remain dark. “He’s thorough.”
Jiya surveys the alley. Dumpsters casting long shadows, steam rising from a vent, not a soul in sight. “How often do you use this place for cleanup?”
“This is my first time at The Concord,” I admit. “Thorne has several properties around the city. Different scenarios, different locations.”
She shifts her weight, keeping her voice low. “And you trust him with this? With your freedom?”
I meet her eyes in the dim light. “With my life. He’s never let me down.”
“That’s...oddly comforting.”
“Shall we?” Lazlo interrupts, gesturing toward the door with his chin.
I punch in the code, and the door clicks open. We shuffle inside, bags in hand, into a dimly lit corridor that smells of industrial cleaner and yesterday’s seafood special.
“Kitchen’s this way,” I whisper, leading them through the back hallway.
The commercial kitchen spreads before us. Stainless steel gleams under minimal emergency lighting. Massive ovens, refrigerators, and prep stations stand silent, waiting for the morning crew.
I’m halfway to the garbage disposal when there’s a ripping sound behind me. A sickening wet thud follows as something heavy hits the tile.
“Shit,” Jiya hisses.
Lazlo chuckles, bending down to retrieve the wayward appendage. He picks it up by the ankle, dangling it like a grisly puppet.
“Looks like Marcel is getting cold feet about this whole disposal thing,” he says, wiggling the foot.
“I don’t think that foot is what Thorne meant by putting your best foot forward,” I say, taking the severed appendage from Lazlo.
“Stop making jokes and let’s get on with this,” Jiya says.
The industrial disposal gleams under the kitchen’s emergency lights. A cavernous metal maw ready to devour our problems. I flip the switch, and the machine roars to life with a mechanical growl that sounds like my aunt Gertie after her second martini.
“Alright, who wants to go first?” I ask, holding Marcel’s foot over the grinder like I’m about to christen a ship.
“You’re making this weird,” Jiya says, but a reluctant smile tugs at her lips. “Just put it in already.”
I drop the foot into the disposal. The grinding sound changes pitch as it meets resistance, then settles into a steady churn.
“And down the drain goes Marcel’s dancing career,” I say.
Jiya snorts, then covers her mouth like she’s surprised by her own reaction. “That’s horrible,” she says through her fingers.
“Feeding body parts into a garbage disposal or my jokes? Because one of those things is definitely worse than the other.”
Lazlo hefts a bag. “Less comedy, more body disposal. We’ve got five more bags to go.”
I grab a handful of lemon peels from the container Thorne instructed us to use and toss them down the disposal. “Citrus freshness. Though honestly, Marcel struck me as more of a pine scent guy.”
“Do you always narrate your kills like you’re hosting a cooking show?” Jiya asks, untying the second bag.
“Only the special ones.” I wink at her. “Today we’re preparing a Marcel reduction with citrus notes.”
She pulls out what appears to be a forearm and hesitates.
“Here,” I say, taking it from her. “This isn’t your first rodeo, but it is your first limb disposal.”
I drop the arm in, and the disposal makes an unpleasant grinding sound.
Lazlo opens the third bag and peers inside. “Got the torso pieces in this one. We’ll need to cut them smaller.”
I grab a cleaver from the knife rack. “Time to chop Marcel into bite-sized chunks.”
“That’s disgusting,” Jiya says, but she’s reaching for another knife.
“What can I say? I’ve always had an eye for presentation.”
“Speaking of eyes,” Lazlo says, pulling out a head-shaped mass wrapped in plastic, “where should we put this?”
“I’ve got this,” I say, taking the head.
I unwrap it, revealing the vacant socket where I’d lodged the letter opener. “Look at that—he’s already winking at us.”