Castle of Sorrows Read online

  Chapter Four

  Jorge Navarro had one vice. He loved to eat in the middle of the night.

  It nettled his wife Lucinda, was in fact the sole point of friction in their otherwise happy marriage. Because Lucinda was a light sleeper, she awoke whenever Jorge rose to make himself a snack, and if she was able to fall asleep after he had gone, she invariably awoke again when he returned. So livid did she become when he disturbed her sleep not once but twice within the same half-hour period that she had occasionally ordered him to sleep on the couch because of his nocturnal feedings.

  Jorge whistled as he made himself a peanut butter and ham sandwich with extra peanut butter.

  Lucinda found the combination foul, and because she was so vocal about it, their kids had begun to make sounds of revulsion whenever Jorge fixed himself his favorite sandwich. To avoid their censure he’d begun limiting himself to more traditional fare when they were around.

  But here on the Sorrows, here in this vast gourmet kitchen with a mostly stocked pantry, there were no kids to gag and groan when he slathered the peanut butter on the ham, no Lucinda to snap at him when the box springs creaked as he climbed off the mattress.

  Jorge whistled Kool and the Gang’s “Celebration” as he fixed himself a double-decker peanut butter and ham sandwich. Lucinda was a good woman but she didn’t understand his devotion to Kool and the Gang either.

  Jorge assembled his huge sandwich, took a monstrous bite and described an elaborate spin between the island and the countertop. He knew he’d miss his wife and kids in a day or two. But tonight he was enjoying the high life, eating what he wanted to eat, getting in and out of bed whenever he felt like it and singing the kind of stuff he loved to sing. Jorge took another enormous bite, savored the ham and peanut butter and thought, I may even go outside and take a long, satisfying leak. Lucinda hated it when Jorge peed outdoors.

  The peanut butter was making him thirsty. He knew they didn’t have Mountain Dew, his favorite soda, but maybe they’d have something else like it. Mello Yello maybe. Or at least a Coke. Jorge danced over to the fridge, did a breakdancing move he remembered from an old music video he’d once seen. That was another problem, he thought as he scanned the beverages, his kids thought he was a bad dancer. And maybe he was. But wasn’t that the point of dancing, to let yourself go and just have fun? Jorge broke into a delighted smile as he spotted a green two-liter lying on its side on the second shelf. My God, Christina had even made sure they had Mountain Dew!

  “‘There’s a party goin’ on right here,’” Jorge sang in a loud, out-of-tune voice. The Mountain Dew bottle in hand, he did a little shimmy. Jorge flipped shut the door, turned with the sandwich in one hand and the two-liter in the other and stared into the cold, impassive face of Ray Rubio.

  Who brandished a huge buck knife. “I’m not surprised you go in for that jigaboo music. You bean eaters always do.”

  Jorge swung the two-liter at Rubio’s face. Rubio brought the knife up, impaled the two-liter. Mountain Dew sprayed over Rubio’s front, dousing the man’s moonlike face and making him splutter. Jorge lunged toward the counter, seized on the first thing his fingers encountered. From a distance of five feet Jorge hurled the jar of peanut butter at Rubio. It thunked him between the eyes, the hard plastic knocking him backward, his big arms pinwheeling. Rubio went down in a heap.

  Jorge scrabbled along the counter, searching frantically for something better than a two-liter bottle or a peanut butter jar. He encountered a wooden rack from which depended cooking implements. A ladle, a spatula. Dammit, he thought, gaze flitting around the dim kitchen. He was acutely aware of his lack of clothing. He’d only thought to put on a pair of pajama pants over the boxer briefs he’d worn to bed. No shoes, no shirt. The stupid gun was upstairs in his nightstand drawer.

  Jorge shot a look to his right, found Rubio gone. Upstairs? Or somewhere in here trying to sneak up on him?

  Jorge wrested open a drawer, found the forks and spoons. Yeah, there were butter knives, but that was like entering the Indy 500 with a go-cart. That damned buck knife Rubio was wielding could decapitate a man. Jorge better find something bigger.

  Frantically, he spun around, scanned the kitchen island. Oh hell yeah, he thought, rushing to the knife rack. He had just slid the butcher knife out of its holder when a supernova of pain exploded in his ankle. Jorge bellowed, face upturned, and when he jerked his head down and saw the dark shape on the floor he realized Rubio had scuttled around the island to stab him. And the bastard had gotten him good, had plunged the buck knife all the way through his ankle and was now yanking it out of him. Jeeeezus! He could feel the blade scraping against bone in there. Bracing himself on the countertop, Jorge swept down with the butcher knife and exulted in the enormous slice it made in Rubio’s triceps. The son of a bitch hissed in pain but still ripped his buck knife the rest of the way out of Jorge’s ankle. Grasping his bleeding arm, Rubio scrambled toward the far end of the kitchen, where the big double sink was. Jorge made to give chase, but the moment he took a step his bad ankle gave way, and he pitched forward onto the tile.

  Peripherally, he saw Rubio stop, spotting an advantage. The buck knife whistled down just as Jorge pushed up onto his side. The knife blade chinked on the hard tile, its tip buried there. Rubio jerked the knife free. Jorge rose on one leg, careful not to overtax his injured ankle this time, and dove at Rubio. As he did, he brought the butcher knife down. Rubio tried to fend him off, but the butcher knife chunked into his elbow, the sound reminding Jorge of an axe striking a tree stump. Rubio let loose with a weird, high-pitched cry and rolled away, the butcher knife whipsawing free of Jorge’s hand, the damn thing still embedded in Rubio’s elbow. Somehow Rubio was crouched against a cabinet door now; he sidearmed something in Jorge’s direction. Jorge didn’t realize it was the buck knife until it caught him in the chest. The knife blade connected almost parallel to his body, so that the length of the blade buried itself in Jorge’s big pectoral muscles, but only by about a half-inch or so. He stared down at it in mute surprise a moment before ripping it free. A wave of nausea rippled through him as blood began to weep from the shallow wound and trickle down his stomach.

  Disgusted and enraged, Jorge shot a look at Rubio.

  Who winged the butcher knife at him. Jorge ducked just before the heavy knife whipped over his head and went clattering against the cabinets.

  Jorge started forward, saw that Rubio was fumbling to get at something in the hip pocket of his sweatsuit. A gun? Jorge wondered as he stalked toward the big bastard. Uh-uh, he decided. The bulge in his hip wasn’t big enough. He closed on Rubio, the blood-slicked buck knife raised like the killer in that Psycho shower scene. Oh yeah, Jorge thought. I’m gonna carve you up good, you ugly son of a—

  Faster than he would’ve thought possible Rubio lashed out as Jorge hammered down with the buck knife. Something hit Jorge’s wrist, the pain so sudden and bright that he lost his grip on the buck knife. The momentum carried the buck knife’s tip down into Rubio’s shoulder, but it barely broke the windbreaker’s fabric and went tumbling into the sink behind him. Rubio’s hand shot out again and set Jorge’s forehead aflame. He stumbled backward, a patina of blood drenching his face. Jorge armed blood out of his eyes, blinked through it at Rubio, who advanced on him, Rubio brandishing something slender and glittering. A scalpel, Jorge realized. Rubio had a scalpel. And on the heels of that realization, he thought, Who the hell carries a scalpel?

  For the first time he understood what an animal he was dealing with, what a sadistic bastard Rubio was. The guy wasn’t even human. Was closing on him with a horrid grin on his face, was actually giggling.

  Icy fear clutched him. Jorge took another backwards step to put some distance between himself and the maniac, but a mist of gray enshrouded him and he staggered, went down. He tried to get up, but he slipped and landed in some cold liquid. Jorge thought at first it was his own blood, but then remembe
red the Mountain Dew. He rolled over. A searing strip of fire tore through his back, Rubio slashing him from shoulder blade to tailbone. The giggling grew louder. Blood dripping in his eyes, Jorge glanced askance and made out the vague shape of Rubio’s legs. Impulsively, he reached out with both hands, yanked. Rubio’s feet skated along the slick tile, then left the floor entirely. Growling, Jorge thrust the man’s feet in the air, upending him. The back of Rubio’s greasy head landed on the floor with a flat, smacking sound. Jorge heard another clatter.

  The scalpel. Rubio whimpered. Not so tough without your blades, are you? Jorge thought. Not such a big man now, you psychotic son of a bitch.

  Grinning savagely, Jorge clambered over to where Rubio lay and slashed down at his face with a balled fist. He felt Rubio’s cheekbone crunch beneath his knuckles.

  Don’t like that, do ya? he thought. Don’t want a go at me without your weapons. Rubio brought up a hand to ward him off, but Jorge knocked it aside, hammered down at the man’s face again. This time he got Rubio in the teeth, heard a dull crunching sound.

  I’m stronger than you are, Rubio. I work out instead of putting shit into my body. Jorge swung, tagged Rubio in the mouth. There was a brittle crack—hopefully one of Rubio’s teeth—and he was about to wallop the man again when Rubio’s big fingers began pawing at Jorge’s midsection. Looking for my balls? Jorge thought. Sorry, asshole, those are lower. He swung at Rubio, caught him in the forehead this time, but the blow wasn’t as satisfying, and what was more, Rubio’s hand was still scrabbling up Jorge’s midsection like a persistent spider. He made to brush the hand away but before he could, Rubio’s fingertips delved into the slit in Jorge’s chest, clawed at the tender flesh within. Rubio’s fingers cored in, yanked down. Jorge’s gash yawned wider, the muscle fiber within tearing. Jorge bellowed in pain, grabbing Rubio’s arm with both hands now to pry off his implacable grip, but as he did he realized he’d miscalculated. Rubio was distracting him, occupying both his hands so he could—

  Jorge abandoned Rubio’s ripping fingers to stop the scalpel, but he was too late. The sharp blade punctured his eardrum and continued inside. Pain so intense Jorge could only crumple to the floor gusted through him. He thought he was dead then, but Rubio had hold of the scalpel by the handle, using it like a lever to bring Jorge’s face up to look at him. In the ear that wasn’t punctured Jorge heard muffled gunshots, screams.

  Ray Rubio stared at Jorge with eyes that were black and glittering. “Your bitch of a boss is gonna die upstairs. Her and everybody with her. You failed her, you miserable spick. I wanna be sure you know that.”

  But Rubio’s words were lost in the increasing roar in Jorge’s head. Jorge thought of his kids, of his wife. He wondered how Lucinda would do without him. He wished he were home, even if it was on the couch. As the scalpel was driven into his brain, he closed his eyes and missed his family…

  Chapter Five

  A knock at her door. Loud, urgent.

  At least it’s not Castillo, Jessie thought. He’d be nonchalant about it, try to sweet-talk his way in here.

  “Who is it?” she called, sitting up in bed.

  “Morton.”

  Jessie sat up rigid a moment. Morton’s voice had been as tense as Jessie had ever heard it. She scrambled out of bed, wriggled into her blue jeans. She wasn’t crazy about Morton seeing her in the loose-fitting tank top, but there wasn’t time to worry about that now. Without thinking she retrieved her Glock from the top dresser drawer, crammed it in her pocket. Buttoning her jeans, she hustled over to the door, opened it.

  Jessie’s heart galloped harder. Morton had his .38 out, his expression deadly serious. “We have visitors,” he said.

  Jessie frowned, stepped into the hallway with him. “Are you sure it isn’t Ben? I didn’t see him after we left the—”

  “Down!” Morton shouted.

  A ragged brrrrriiiippp tore through the quiet of the castle, the stone around them exploding in a stinging rain of shards and dust. Jessie hit the floor, Morton beside her. Someone was firing an automatic weapon at them. Or a semi-automatic. It sounded like a Bushmaster or something like it.

  A crashing sound erupted nearer, was repeated three more times—Morton’s .38 returning fire. Jessie’s eardrums rang, the noise unbelievable. Morton grasped her by the back of the shirt, hauled her up and made for her door, but the deafening scream of the automatic erupted again, the corridor a hailstorm of stone fragments. Morton grunted, fell against her. They hit the ground, scuttling backward to evade the assault. Morton brought up his gun again, fired.

  Jessie and Morton turned and bounded for the staircase.

  The semi-automatic opened up again.

  Jessie felt something whiz by her head, let out a surprised gasp.

  Marvin and his men had come.

  Griffin Toomey hadn’t planned on this. He had no idea what he had planned on, but it sure as hell hadn’t been this. Marvin could have been heading out to a cocktail party, he was so casual about it. The Bushmaster clutched in one arm Marvin stopped them on the third floor landing and said to Nicky under his breath, “You go up to the fifth floor,” then looked at Griffin. “That’s where they are, right?”

  Griffin flushed, hoping to hell he’d been correct. “That’s where the luxury suites are, sir. I’m guessing Mrs. Blackwood would want to stay up there.”

  “Mrs. Blackwood,” Marvin said, smiling. “You don’t call a widow Missus, you call her Miz. And Miz Blackwood is about ready to find out why people don’t fuck with me.”

  Griffin thought, She didn’t fuck with you, Marvin. She just refused to pay your extortion money.

  Sounds of a struggle from far below. There was a high-pitched squeal, a series of thuds.

  Oh man, Griffin thought. That’s Rubio I hear. He must’ve run into someone.

  Marvin’s eyes danced with dark excitement. He nodded down the fourth floor hallway. “They’ll have heard that. If they haven’t, they’ll know we’re here soon. We’ll—” Marvin’s words cut off, his eyes growing very wide. “Get back,” he muttered.

  From down the fourth-story corridor they heard soft footfalls. Marvin peered around the corner, and Griffin could see the man’s mouth open, his tongue licking his lips in a movement that reminded Griffin very much of some ruthless predator getting ready to leap on some lesser animal for a feast. Griffin leaned out to get a better look, but Marvin shot out a hand, pinned him against the wall.

  Griffin heard a female voice speaking in hushed tones. The man in the corridor answered her.

  Then Marvin opened up on them.

  Jessie was convinced she would die before they reached the shelter of the fourth-story landing. She considered halting, whirling on the shooter and returning fire, but the automatic weapon’s flow of rounds never seemed to end. Thankfully, whoever was shooting at them had thus far missed her completely.

  But Morton hadn’t been so lucky. He was groaning.

  Jessie and Morton moved the final ten feet to safety in a series of lurching, hunched-over strides. Then they were veering around the corner and thudding into the wall, Morton’s normally steely demeanor now distorted by pain.

  “Where?” Jessie demanded.

  “Doesn’t matter,” Morton said. But in the pooled gloom of the landing, Jessie beheld the dark patch spreading on his left side, wondered how bad the wound was.

  “Who’re they after?” Jessie asked.

  “Think, Agent Gary.” Morton reloaded his .38 as swiftly and efficiently as ever. If the wound was severe, it wasn’t affecting the way he did his job. “There is only one heiress on this island.”

  “I thought he wanted Ben Shadeland.”

  “Only as a means of getting to Christina and her money. Marvin means to take her by force.”

  Jessie bit down on her lip. How could she have been so stupid? The suddenness of the attack. The ungodly roar of
the Bushmaster. She shook her head. It was time to get her mind in gear, to—

  “Look out!” Morton called.

  Shots rang out deafeningly in the stairwell. In the silverlight flashes from the gunman’s shots Jessie could make out the crazed visage of Nicky Irvin, the spoiled and—if all she’d heard was true—completely unhinged son of Marvin. Nicky was staring down at them from fifteen feet above, a maniacal grin contorting his features. Leaning toward Morton, she fired twice, and Nicky, still cackling, darted away from the railing.

  “Come on,” Morton said. “They’ll be going for Christina now. You cover us from the back in case the others try to flank us.”

  Trusting Morton to gun down Nicky if he popped up again like some homicidal jack-in-the-box, Jessie backpedaled up the stairs, her eyes fixed on the fourth-floor doorway. If so much as a shadow twitched there, she’d hit it.

  You were good at training, a dubious voice said. But that’s a far cry from real life.

  No different, she told herself. No different at all. Remember your training. It’s what will keep you safe.

  You really think you’re safe? You’re surrounded. You’re outmanned. It’s just you and Morton, and he’s wounded.

  “Where the hell is Castillo?” Jessie asked in a harsh whisper.

  Morton didn’t reply, only continued creeping up the steps. Watching him, Jessie’s spirits rose a half-notch. Morton was good. If Nicky Irvin appeared again, Morton would kill him. But then again, she thought, Nicky was so erratic, such a nutjob…he could get lucky.

  Nicky’s rap sheet wasn’t very long—just a stint for heroin possession and a DUI—but if the whispers Jessie had heard were true, Nicky was not only a drug addict and a complete waste of life, he was a serial rapist and a killer who got off on torturing his victims. Marvin Irvin was the name everyone knew. But Nicky Irvin and Ray Rubio were just as bad and very likely worse.

  Her skin crawling, Jessie proceeded up the steps. She listened for the sound of gunfire, but for the moment, none came. She risked a glance down. Even though the fourth-floor landing was now obscured, Jessie was pretty sure there was no one pursuing them.