Behind The Hands That Kill

FOUR

The Stone Family are royalty in the crime world, primarily Venezuela, Haiti, Cuba, and Brazil. And the siblings—once a total of seven—were all named after mythological deities. Osiris Stone, the eldest, is who started all of this fifteen years ago. Gaia Stone, the second eldest, was a black widow. Ares, third eldest, did not live up to his ‘God of War’ namesake—I killed him as he ate a pancake, sitting on a barstool in a Waffle House; his embarrassing death brought shame upon the Stone Family. Hestia, fourth eldest, was in a Guatemalan prison last I heard, and murdered nine prisoners in her first two days—she was the deadliest one of them all. Then there was Theseus; nothing special about him—I killed him too.

Apollo and Artemis, the youngest of the Stone Family, were born eight minutes apart, Apollo’s cord wrapped around his sister’s neck. The family, coming from a long line of superstitious people, thought that when the twins grew up, there would be jealousy and conflict between them, and that Apollo was destined to kill his sister because he tried to do it in the womb with his umbilical cord.

But that was not what happened.

And that was not how they lived.

And that was not how she died.

Apollo and Artemis were as close as twin brother and sister can be. Vengeance—it is most certainly what fuels Apollo now. But money always lit a fire beneath him, too. As with the entire Stone Family. And now he has me. And now he can have everything he has ever wanted since his sister’s death—his revenge, and my head for the biggest payday of his life. And it is my own fault that we are here.

“So then shall we get on with it?” I suggest. “No need to drag this out, I suppose. What do you want?”

Apollo’s smile softens, but behind it I know there is nothing but malice.

The chair legs, uneven on the stones, tap against the floor as he stands. He walks around my cage, his eyes never on me, but I know they are watching every move I make. Then his tall figure disappears into the shadows again, and although I cannot see him, I can plainly hear his voice.

“I know you probably wonder why I never came after you for killing my mom and dad and two of my brothers.”

“I never thought about it much,” I say, “to be completely honest.”

“But you’re thinking about it now—aren’t you?”

He knows that I am. No need to answer the question.

Apollo moves around in the darkness; I cannot make out what he is doing, but I get the distinct feeling I am not going to like it.

“Then tell me,” I urge. “Why haven’t you come after me sooner, for killing them?”

He shrugs. “Dear ol’ Dad and Mommy Dearest deserved what they got. Ares was a smart-mouthed little shit and I’m still not that fucked up over his death, if you wanna know the truth. Theseus?” He shrugs once more. “He was like a blip on a screen—easy to miss—and he fucked my girlfriend, so there’s that.”

Growing tired of the runaround, I ask, “Is that what you want, Apollo—the conversation?”

I don’t have to see him grin to know that he is.

“Actually, Victor, that is exactly what I want from you.”

His answer surprises me.

“You…want to talk?” I ask, leery. “About what?”

“About you, of course.” He steps out of the shadow, carrying a cattle prod in one hand. Interesting. Perhaps I am just too accustomed to the macabre interrogation methods of my Specialist, Gustavsson, but I am curious as to what Apollo expects to get out of me with a simple cattle prod.

Waving his hands in gesture, he says, “I want to know all that I can about the man behind the hands that kill, the man I hear about in dark corners, the man I think of whenever I eat a fucking pancake”—he points at me with the cattle prod—“I used to love pancakes; had to ruin that for me too.”

“Then your revenge will be that much sweeter,” I say, not trying to provoke him, but surely it does anyway.

A long, deep sigh rattles in his chest; his shoulders rise and fall heavily.

“Yeah, I guess it will,” he says, and leaves it at that.

Apollo turns as a door opens behind him, flooding the dark, dank room with dull gray light from what appears to be a hallway.

I practically throw myself against the bars of my cell, gripping them in my hands, furious that I can go no farther, when I see Izabel, bound and gagged, sweat and blood and grime dripping from her face. Behind her is a woman. Tall and angry. Brown hair pulled into a ponytail behind her. A birthmark underneath her left eye. Breasts bursting out of her blouse. A knife in a sheath around her upper thigh. She looks Latin, with no Haitian roots like Apollo.

Izabel’s eyes find me almost immediately when the woman pushes her farther into the room. She loses her footing; with her hands tied behind her back and no way to cushion the fall, she hits the stone hard. A sharp muffled sound and a painful grunt follows. I grit my teeth, my eyes staring the woman down with purpose and malice, with retribution and threat. She smirks, turns on her open-toed heels and leaves the room.

Izabel raises her head from the stone, and she tries to speak, so desperately, to tell me something, to warn me, I do not know, but her words are muffled and I can make nothing out.

Apollo moves in behind her—I grip the bars harder, grind my teeth together more harshly, wanting to get at him, daring him to hurt her. What am I doing? This will get me nowhere.

Upon realizing I am acting absurd, I drop my hands at my sides and steady my erratic breathing.

“There is no need to hurt Izabel,” I say calmly—on the inside I feel the rage vying for control. “I will cooperate, Apollo; all you need to do is tell me what you want.”

He lifts Izabel to her feet, his hand gripping the rope binding her wrists behind her, and shoves her harshly onto the chair just feet from my cage, close but not close enough. I look only at her; many emotions are well-defined in her eyes, but not one of them is fear. Anger. Vengeance. And desperation—mostly desperation. But for now, nothing will be getting past her lips; a thick cloth has been packed tightly inside her mouth, and another has been wrapped around her head, tied within her dark auburn hair.

Apollo looks at the wall, pauses in some kind of concentration, and then turns back to me, and although I find his behavior peculiar, I focus only on Izabel, and what he intends to do to her.

Izabel’s entire body tenses and her face twists with pain before she falls over sideways and out of the chair; the static sound of the cattle prod rings sharply in my ears long after it’s gone. So it is Izabel who will suffer the torture if I refuse to speak—knife, box cutter, fire, ‘simple’ cattle prod—suddenly there is nothing simple about any of it.

“That’s enough, Apollo!” I grab the bars again, letting the rage have the control, my teeth crushing together so hard that pain shoots through my lower jaw and up the back of my skull.

In my peripheral vision I see Izabel, lying on her side against the stones, trying to catch her breath, but my eyes and my focus remain on Apollo.

He places the cattle prod on the floor behind him, and then approaches the cage.

Yes, that is it—come closer, Dead Man Walking, and give me one opportunity, just one, and I am going to take it.

He stops just shy of the opportunity.

“Let’s begin,” he says, taunting me, “with Safe House One.” His smirk deepens, and my confusion grows.

“Safe House One?” I ask.

“Yeah. That’s what I said.”

“I do not understand—what about it?”

Apollo helps Izabel back onto the chair; she tries to wrench her arm from his hand; words that can only be of a profane nature push through the fabric in her mouth and come out as a series of high and low sounds. But her eyes say everything her voice cannot: “I’m going to fucking kill you.”

“Her name was Marina, if I remember the way Artemis told the story.”

Marina…

I try not to look at Izabel anymore, but it is difficult to avoid. I just hope she does not see the guilt in my soul.

“So, Artemis told you about Safe House One—how is that relevant?”

“My sister told me everything about you before she died,” Apollo reveals. “She and I were close, being twins and all; she didn’t keep secrets from me.” He seems lost in a memory suddenly, the pain of losing his sister evident on his dejected features. But he shakes it off, looks at me again. “Except your sexual relationship”—he waves a hand dismissively—“I drew the line with that shit.”

“Why do you want me to talk about Safe House One?”

“Marina,” he corrects me.

“Why do you want me to talk about Marina?”

For a fleeting moment, Apollo’s eyes skirt Izabel sitting on the chair.

Ah. Now it makes sense. Now I understand—everything. And my heart stops beating; I feel a crushing sensation in the pit of my stomach.

This is it.

Today, it all ends.

Finally, I make eye contact with the woman I love, still hoping she does not see the guilt, but in my heart I know that she does. There is a brief but distinct flicker in her eyes as she gazes at me; the fact she is no longer attempting to speak is proof that Apollo has her attention.

“Izabel?” I whisper, but not in an attempt to conceal my voice. “You probably know why we are here. Do you know why?”

Izabel nods slowly—she has an idea, but she cannot possibly know what I am about to tell her.

Ignoring Apollo’s amused gaze, I keep my eyes only on Izabel.

I take a deep breath. “We are here because of me,” I say. “And you are…” I cannot finish the sentence; my breath feels like it’s fleeing my lungs; my heart pounds in my ears and in my stomach.

I look away from her, but the sound of her mumbling voice beneath the fabric brings me back, to face her—to face and to accept and to tell the truth.

I owe her that much.

“Izabel…you are going to die today”—my hands begin to tremble and sweat—“…and…and there is nothing I can do to stop it.”

I see Izabel’s chest fall, followed by her eyelids; tears seep from their confines and stream down her dirty cheeks. If only I could kiss the tears away, just one more time.

I am sorry Izabel. I am sorry for the day we met, for not taking you back to Javier Ruiz’s compound, for not handing you over to Izel when she came for you in the motel; I am sorry that my weakness has put your life in peril; I am sorry that because of me you will die long before you have had a chance to live your life. A real life. A life untouched by the pain and the horrors in which suffocate me and the only life I know. I am sorry for falling in love with you. I am sorry for everything.

These words I wish to tell her.

But I cannot.

I cannot because…I am afraid.

I look down at the soiled stones beneath my feet as if they can comfort me somehow. But they turn their backs on me instead, leaving me not even a shoulder.

“No need to scare the girl,” I hear Apollo’s voice distant in my ears—mostly all I hear are my thoughts. “You didn’t have to tell her the truth. And I wouldn’t have said anything, bro. As a courtesy. But whatever. Your fuckup, not mine.”

“I will tell the truth about Marina—I will tell many truths on this day,” I announce, but then turn my face to Izabel. “But let it be known that I will do this only because Izabel deserves to know the real me.” I look away from Izabel and glare at Apollo. “Nothing that I say is because you want me to say it.”

He smiles.

“You don’t have to say anything,” he says, laughter in his voice. “If you know you’re gonna die—that she’s gonna die—then why dig your grave that much deeper? You’re a fucking enigma, Victor.” He laughs out loud.

I look Izabel in the eyes again, and all I can think about as she stares wordlessly back at me, is if she will be able to forgive me for all that I have done.

But in her eyes I see nothing but pain; no accusation, no confusion, no more desperation. Just pain. And it tears me up inside.

Apollo wants more than my death as revenge for his beloved twin sister—he wants the woman that I love to know the real Victor Faust; he wants to expose me to the one and only person in the world who can hurt me; he wants the woman whom I love to suffer in place of his sister who loved me deeply, and died because of it.

He wants me to suffer. And on this day, he will get it.

“You have the stage, Victor Faust,” Apollo announces, pulling me out of a guilt-induced trance.

Izabel shakes her head, her way of telling me that I don’t have to do this.

I nod at her once, slowly and with repentance, telling her that, yes, I must.

Softly she closes her eyes.

Softly I close mine.

And regretfully, I open the doors wide to my past, and let in the sterilizing light.