The Charmers: A Novel(35)
“Pervert.” An odd word for a state of mind, of body, that to him was acceptable. How else would a man enjoy himself if not for a few perversions? There were women that catered to his brand of sexuality; the dominatrix in London was a favorite, as was the Russian housewife in his old hometown of Minsk, where it had all started. She had known instinctively what he liked, the whip, the knife, the threat, the danger. The knife edge of danger was what he called it, with a knowing smile. God, how he enjoyed it. The only thing he enjoyed more was money.
A quick sprinkling of Rohypnol had disappeared in Verity’s third glass of champagne, sufficient to send her wobbling away, into the arms of his handlers who’d caught her before she made it to the bathroom.
He’d watched from the library door, heard her quick cry of surprise when they came from behind; saw one throw an arm around her neck, the other lift her feet off the ground, then both run with her out through the sliding glass doors, into the darkness.
Now, Verity was safely ensconced in his concrete bunker, its design based on the ones Hitler had built at the old Nazi fortifications along the Normandy coast in France. This one was equally impenetrable. Nobody could get in there without a special key, but before that they needed to know where the door was, and where that special key was kept.
To the naked eye, just walking past, there seemed to be no entrance. It was cleverly hidden beneath the swathe of miniature-leaved ivy that softened the bleak appearance of the concrete cube. No windows looked out from it. The only person with access was himself. All the Boss’s perversions, all his black thoughts, all his murderous past was enshrined in there, in videos, recordings, writings, on computer. A narcissist supreme, he kept a record of his doings. It did not make attractive reading, or viewing.
He stood at the window in the main house, which was open to the terrace and the gardens, taking note of his guests, seeing Chad still wandering around looking for Verity.
Others were busily chatting, drinking champagne, eating. Mirabella stood next to the Colonel, her eyes fixed on him, one hand worriedly to her face. The large sapphire ring she wore over her silvery glove glinted in the light. Of course the Boss knew why Mirabella wore those gloves. There was little he did not know about every one of the guests in his house right this minute. And that included the Colonel, who was far too attractive to be a cop. Women doted on him, despite his meager salary and lack of possessions and the two kids he had to bring up, alone. Still, he was not smart enough in these circumstances to pose a threat to the Boss, whereas the doctor was. The doctor was a man used to jungle tactics, who knew to look for the unexpected. And in this case the unexpected was Aunt Jolly.
The Boss had noticed Mirabella was wearing Aunt Jolly’s pearls. They were probably the only jewelry of value she owned, apart from the sapphire ring, of course, both of which had once upon a long time ago belonged to the gorgeous Jerusha. He doubted Mirabella was aware of that; she only knew that the ring and the pearls came from her aunt. Along with the villa, and the painting, both of which the Boss desired. He needed the property for the immense amount of money to be made developing it; and he wanted the painting because of its history. In fact, he lusted after that painting.
He was a man without a past, not one he could speak of anyway, and he had almost succeeded in putting it out of his mind. The future was all he’d ever thought about since he was a boy in Minsk lopping down trees, his hands cracked from the bitter cold, bleeding as he worked. He’d sworn then to get out, to leave it behind, never to tell anyone where he came from; never to remember a single emotion, except the urge for revenge against the world. And the need to kill. The knife yielded ultimate power, and he liked to use it on women. Verity was to be his next “guest,” as he liked to call his victims.
He had thought about the act of killing many times before he’d enacted the role of murderer. To kill was easy enough; to dispose of the victim’s body and also any evidence that might lead back to him was less easy. Still, he had perfected it. He was simply the stranger, passing through town, dressed like any workingman, a cap over his head, a knife in his pocket. He had studied the art, as he called it, of the famous Yorkshire Ripper, as well as the predecessor, Jack the Ripper, who to this day had never been traced, though speculation abounded.
Their tactics had been the same. A woman unknown to them. An area they did not inhabit. A method of getting in and out without exciting notice, like an autoroute stopover, where often the little runaway girls might be found, begging a lift, with promises. That was his beginning. He had quickly moved on to much more sophisticated venues and classier women. And he’d never been traced as being in the area, even the city where these murders took place. There was nothing to match the thrill of it.
Clever, of course. Having money made it easier. But this was the first time he had flirted with danger in exactly this way, on his home ground. What, he wondered, had made him do it?
Well, first, he’d wanted Mirabella out of the way so he’d have access to her land. Then he had an overpowering urge for Verity that he could not deny, which was why he had to hide in back of the bar so his excitement would not be noticed. Also, Verity was available. But she was in his way. And biggest and most important was ego; he knew that by instigating a search, offering a great reward, talking publicly on TV and radio about his sorrow that one of his young guests had disappeared, by vowing to find her, to find who was responsible, he would become a national hero.
Right now, though, Verity was sprawled on the narrow bed in the concrete bunker, in the space behind the sitting area, divided by a wall with a large-screen TV from his office. She had been bound and gagged. The two Lithuanians who had carried out his instructions were paid and gone, exactly the same way the failed killer on the Ducati had left immediately after sending Mirabella and this stupid girl over the edge into the canyon. Money talked.