Chapter Eight #2
Once I’m satisfied the lower level is empty, I head upstairs and search each room on my way to Frank’s bedroom. I open every door slowly, the barrel of my gun trained on any potential threat before I go forward.
When I finally reach Frank’s room, I find him asleep in bed.
He has a white-noise machine on his bedside table, which probably prevented him from hearing me force the window downstairs.
“Wake up, Frank,” I say, my voice muffled by the mask I am wearing.
He grumbles as he’s dragged from sleep. Then his eyes focus on me, and he jolts upright with an ear-piercing scream. It’s music to my ears.
I keep the Colt trained on his chest, ready to fire if he makes the wrong move.
“Turn on the light,” I order.
He does. If he has a gun within reach, I can’t see it.
“You’ve been a very naughty boy, Frank,” I say, twitching the gun in my hand so he understands the threat is real.
“Wha—who the fuck ar—”
“No, no.” I wag a gloved finger to silence him. “You don’t get to ask questions.”
He coughs and stares at my face. Except it isn’t my face.
I don’t conceal my identity because I’m afraid the men I interrogate might recognize me. That would be pointless when anyone who makes it this far has very little chance of leaving alive.
I wear the mask because it strips away everything that makes me human.
It hides the features that might reveal weakness in moments like this.
Standing here, I am judge, jury, and executioner, and my black mask reinforces that role.
The skull replacing my features transforms me into The Reaper I must become to carry out these unholy acts.
It also gives men like Frank exactly what they deserve. Unrestrained terror in their final moments.
I take slow, deliberate steps around the bed and stop beside him. I’ve already made my threat clear, so there’s no need to train the gun on him again. My presence alone should be enough to make him cooperate.
“I ask, you answer.” I stare down at him, relishing the way his face twists with sleepy confusion as he tries to make sense of this waking nightmare. “Satisfy me, and you might live.”
Frank’s head bobs up and down.
“Two nights ago, you met with Mark Anderson. Why?”
He runs a hand through his thinning salt-and-pepper hair. “He’s an old friend. We were catching up.”
“Unsatisfactory.” I drive my fist into the bridge of his nose.
These things happen. Men like Frank know better than to speak until a point has been made. Threats are only words until they’re backed by action.
“Ah, fuck.” His hands fly to his face, cupping the blood pouring from his nose.
“I won’t ask the same question twice.”
“He asked for my services,” Frank yells through his hands.
“To deliver a message?”
I still don’t know exactly what that means, and this may be my best chance to find out. Perhaps I’ll even learn why my mother died that night.
His bloodshot eyes widen in shock at what he thinks I might know. “Yes.”
“To whom, and what for?”
“Fuck if I know.” I raise my fist again.
“Wait, wait,” Frank squeals, throwing his arms up in surrender. “I really don’t know. It’s not my place. I deliver the message. That’s all.”
“Hmm.” I lower my fist. “Then you send a team to retrieve the item it was delivered in?”
He nods, pinching his nose between his thumb and forefinger.
“Tell me about them.”
“What?” His jaw begins to tremble.
No surprise there. I have the ringleader in the palm of my hand, yet I’m asking about his lackeys. Frank remembers how hard I hit and shifts uneasily against the pillows.
“Three guys,” he continues. “Been working with ’em for years. The one in charge is a skinny motherfucker. Black hair, leathery skin—”
It’s been years, and my memories of that night are blurred by everything that happened.
But this could be him.
“The other two are twins. Aryan dreamboat types.”
“The one in charge—does he carry a knife?”
Of all the details from that night, the rosewood handle remains the clearest. It’s been a long time since I saw the weapon. He may have replaced it by now. But if he’s the sentimental type, it could still be part of his arsenal.
“I’m sure they all do,” Frank says. “But yeah, he carries a knife. Uses it to cut apples, then spits the pips onto my carpet.”
His genuine irritation almost amuses me.
It’s a long shot, but this is the closest I’ve ever come to finding the men who killed my mother. I won’t leave a single stone unturned.
“Where’s your phone?”
He nods towards the bedside table.
“Unlock it.”
He does. Without waiting for another instruction, he opens a message thread with the man in question. I scan the latest exchanges. They keep everything brief. Meeting places. Times. Payment confirmations.
Brilliant.
A message sent from Frank’s phone won’t raise suspicion. To the man on the other end, it will look like business as usual.
Lovemore’s. Nine. Saturday.
I pocket the phone and look down at Frank once more.
“Now, what am I going to do with you?”
Frank stammers something, but I can’t make out the words.
The sensible choice would be to end this. Put a bullet in Frank Coleman and forget his pathetic existence. Unfortunately, he may prove more useful alive than dead.
There’s a greater mystery behind my mother’s death and killing one of my few remaining sources would make finding the truth far more difficult.
So instead, I hit him again. Once. Twice. Then several more times for good measure.
It doesn’t take long before Frank becomes a motionless heap on the bed.
I’ll have someone collect him before the night is over.