Cantata - completing last years Nano

[joegoda]

Murchek Grobchik woke feeling fine. It was a good day to be alive. The memory of a dream was just fading and he kept his eyes closed, savoring it. The dream was about a woman, with long brown hair, who did things to him that no other woman had done. Interesting things, erotic things. It was a fine dream, and as all fine dreams do, the feeling lasted long after the vision had faded.

He tried to open his eyes. At first, he thought it was just the remnants of sleep sticking his eyelids together. His second attempt was no better. Small panic set in and he tried to roll over, unsuccessfully. A larger panic set in, and he opened his mouth to cry out, just as unsuccessfully.

"I have to tell you, Murchek, I wasn't sure if I wanted you to wake up." Wells spoke Bosnian, paying careful attention to his intonation and pacing. "I realize that you are rather panicked right now, and there may be a reason for it. You see, I didn't want you to cry out or call attention to our little discussion."

Murchek could hear a squeal, the sound of a chair being drawn closer to the left side of his bed.

"You're currently paralyzed by acupuncture. It's one of the things I've picked up over the years. There are eight needles in you, one for each of your limbs, one each for your eyes, and two for your mouth and tongue. I was tempted to use one to stop your heart, but I wanted you to hear me first. I wanted to know what you thought about what I had to say. I'm going to talk for a bit, and then I'm going to remove the two needles that are keeping you from speaking. Now, your hands are relatively free to move, so if you understand what I'm saying, tap the fingers of your left hand, twice.

Murchek Grobchik could do nothing. He was raging; he was furious, if he could, he would reach out and kill the man behind the calm voice. He would strangle the man until his neck ran blue with bruises and his eyes bulged, popping from their sockets. He tapped his left index finger twice.

"Good," said Wells. "I'm glad we're going to chat, like reasonable men." Wells cleared his throat. "The reason I'm here, Murchek, is because I'm going to destroy you. I'm going to destroy your little sex slave operation. Every single man involved with it, that you are paying or is making profit or has made profit from it will die. That is my promise to you."

"Some have already paid their debt. The two goons you had guarding your place are gone. I'll admit I even enjoyed it a bit. It's nothing compared to what I'm going to feel killing you, though."

Murchek could feel hands flutter like butterflies across his chest. A tightness he hadn't known was in his throat was suddenly gone.

"It's your turn, Murchek." Wells said.

Coughing a bit of phlegm up, Murchek cleared his throat and said, hesitantly, "Who are you?"

"Who I am doesn't really matter. I'm your death. I'm the revenge of all the people you've imprisoned in your little kingdom.” Wells could feel his rage start to surface, and fought to keep it under control. "Who I am doesn't matter," he repeated.

"What have I done to you?" Murchek coughed out. His voice was getting stronger, and in a minute he would call for Perchek and Daunze, his men.

"You already know that answer to that." was the terse reply.

Murchek started to call out, to Perchek and Daunze. A hand fluttered on his chest, quick as bird wings. His voice failed him as quick as it came back.

"I would think, Murchek Grobchik, that you would be most careful about what you do." The voice was calm, and it was quiet, almost whispering. "I'm very angry, you see. One of the people that you hurt was..." Wells stopped. "Was very close to me."

A long silence came. Murchek listened. It was long enough that he was beginning to think that the man behind the voice had gone.

"That is not the only reason I'm here though, Murchek." A gentle cough. "I'm here because you're a monster, a monster of the worst kind. You prey on your own kind, and feel you are immune from harm. I am the Angel of Death, and I am here to serve you notice."

Another flutter against his chest, and his temple. "You can open your eyes. I want you to see my face. You can also speak again, but please don't try to cry out. There is no one to hear you. They're dead."

Murchek's eyelids sprang open. He was looking at a man. An ordinary man, slightly graying, a bit overweight, wearing spectacles and a brown suit.

"You?" Murchek chuckled. "You're the angel of death? You look like an accountant!" He laughed.

"Yes.” Wells said. "I get that a lot."

"What did you do to my men?"

"I killed them, Murchek. That's all you have to know."

"I do not believe you, accountant. I think that they will come in here at any moment and kill you."

"Murchek, it doesn't matter to me what you believe or what you don't. And I'm tired of this conversation. I'm leaving." Wells stood up and leaned over Murchek. "It would be best if you closed your eyes. Once I insert the needles, your eyelids will be paralyzed. If they aren't closed, your eyes will dry out." Wells shook his head sadly. "Very painful."

Getting no response from Murchek, Wells shrugged. "Suit yourself." He slid two needles into Murchek's temples. Murchek felt a slight pull at his eyelids, but other than that, nothing. He tried to blink and found he could not.

"You think this frightens me, accountant?" He chuckled once more. "Do what you will. My men will...' and then, nothing. Wells had inserted two needles into Murchek's chest.

"I've watched your place for three days now, Murchek. The only people that come here are you and your two goons. They're dead, just outside the door, inside large trash bags, so the smell shouldn't even be noticeable for a week or so. You're pretty much on your own." Wells stood up and walked through the doorway, leaving it open.

Murchek lay there, immobile. His mind was calm, and he knew that his men would show up soon. All he had to do was wait. He had faced many death threats before, and this was just one more. Surely one simple man, an accountant at that, wouldn't have been able to kill Perchek and Daunze. They would show up any moment now.

Wells walked into the lobby of the Hotel Kolovare and noticed that Serge was busy with the check in of new guests. Wells sat in one of the lobby chairs and waited. When Serge was finally free, Wells stood up and walked to the front desk.

"Yes, Mr. Crispin?" Serge was writing in the ledger, not looking up. "I noticed you when you came in, and imagined you needed something," he said. "What may I do for you?"

Well held out a single one thousand Kuna note, which equaled about one hundred eighty five US dollars. "This is for you, Serge. Your service has been invaluable."

Serge looked left and right, to see if anyone was watching. When he was secure, he took the note gently from Wells' hand and placed the note in his pocket. "Is your stay with us over then, Mr. Crispin?"

"Yes, Serge. It is." Wells held out his credit card. "Figure up what I owe you, please."

"Very good, Mr. Crispin." Serge reached out to take the credit card, only to find that it was held by a very strong grip. Serge gulped, hard, and asked, "Is there anything wrong, Mr. Crispin?"

Quietly, so as not to be overheard, and in a deadly serious tone of voice, Wells whispered, "Serge, you could be a good man. You are to never, ever go through the rooms of your guests here again. I know that you are only trying to support your mother and your sister, after your father was killed during the Serbian war. I know that you also sell information about the wealthy guests that stay here. That is to stop."

"As long as you work at being a good man, being the honest and upright son of your mother and the decent brother to your sister that I know you can be, you will find that another one thousand Kuna will magically appear in your bank account, every month." Wells smiled, gently and held that smile until Serge returned it. "On the other hand, if I find that you have not been a good man, Serge..." Wells eyes got a hard, steely look to them. "If I find that you have not been a good man, I will kill you. Is that understood?"

Serge gulped hard, once, twice, a third time, even while he smiled, even while he continued to hold onto Wells' credit card. "Yes sir, Mr. Crispin. Absolutely. In fact," and here Serge's voice dropped to a whisper to match the one that Wells had used, "I've begun to suspect that Zadar is no longer safe. I've heard rumors that there are slavers around. I'm thinking about taking my mother and my sister and finding somewhere that feels safer."

Wells released his credit card. "Zadar is a good place, Serge. You just have to be careful of the company you keep." He watched as Serge swiped the card. "In fact, I may just retire here."

Serge looked searchingly into Wells' eyes, looking for a hint that the man was making a joke. Not finding any in Wells' blue eyes, Serge nodded and smiled. "I have a suspicion that Zadar has been made a safer place, yes?"

Wells took back his credit card and placed it in his wallet. "That could very well be, Serge. That could very well be."