The Missing Link 01: Steve

I read that Moreland married Lady Anne Moresby, a sturdy, well-connected girl with a face to suit her hobby -- horses. Her ample loins duly presented the Count with a son, Roger, and a daughter, Elizabeth, who sadly inherited her mother's equine genes.

To the indignation of their British peers, the family moved to the United States where Count Robert wanted to live for business reasons. Eight years later a homesick Anne and her daughter returned to England, after a remarkably discreet divorce. It provided her with enough money to buy every worthwhile horse in Essex. The Count soon remarried a well-known blonde model not even half his age. The son, Roger, stayed with him. He went to a college that, remarkably, was not one of the Ivy League elite-schools. He excelled in sports and generally followed in his father's playboy footsteps, driving fast cars and being photographed at all the right hotspots, holding all the right hotties.

Then he suddenly married. There was an illustrated account of the day. The bride was a lovely young girl, whose antecedents were kept a mystery. Her name was Liza Shearer, 19 years old and a "college sweetheart." Her smile outshone the dazzling whiteness of her dress. They divorced about a year later. That news only got five lines in a local paper.

There was more, though, Phil said. He produced a hazy copy-of-a-copy of a report from the FBI, concerning the arrest of a Mafia-type group of men in Las Vegas, about a year after the wedding. There seemed to be drugs involved and there was a suggestion of female slave trade and prostitution. The case had been dropped for lack of hard evidence. Liza's name was mentioned; there was even a typed-out interview with her, riddled with "don't knows" and "never saws." The name of Count Moreland wasn't mentioned, but there was an R. Chesterton -- probably him, more likely his son.

After glancing through the information, I looked up. "That's all?" I asked. "There is nothing new in here; nothing she didn't already tell me. What I need is dirt on the damn Count, I mean the real sticky kind."

The man watched me silently. Then he asked: "And if I gave you that, what would you do with it?" I watched him, puzzled by the question.

"Well," I said at last, "nail him, of course. The animal invades my house, rapes my wife, blackmails her into becoming his whore by threatening me, our son and my business -- and you ask me what I should do?" He again waited before answering.

"But there is no evidence, Steve," he then said. "Not a shred -- just hearsay and rumors; just the confession of your wife. Would she testify? And if -- would she be believed, even by you and me? This guy has clout, real clout. We talk about a six billion dollar international tycoon with mobster connections."

I looked at him. "Do you have evidence?" I asked. "Any evidence about anything?"

That's where he made the statement of not being ready to die. It was the first moment I realized the dizzying depth of the shit I was in --¬ and the utter improbability of ever getting out.

***

Phil did produce evidence. Not of the bastard fucking my wife, but of his real business. There were print outs of phone calls, copies of memos, letters, balances. There were pictures of him shaking hands with U.S. senators, with organized crime capos, rogue state leaders and weapon dealers. But there was never anything explicit, only the proof that Moreland moved in bright as well as shady circles. If this was evidence of anything, we might just as well drag every politician, businessman or lawyer into court.

"So he is a bad ass," I said, leaning back. "How many years in prison do you get for bad assery?" Phil shrugged.

"You asked what I got. This is what I got."

I remembered his statement concerning the possible ending of his life. What I saw in front of me would never result in that. There had to be more. So I nudged and poked, but he was adamant. I gave up, returning to what really obsessed me.

"So he visits her at home," I said, picking up on a piece of information he gave me earlier.

"Yes," he said. "Regularly -- sometimes for a few hours, sometimes all night. But she also takes the boy to her mom and leaves for a few days -- sometimes with his private jet: Vegas, Manhattan."

"What is regularly?"

"Once, sometimes twice a week when he is around. He's abroad a lot, but there are others." I winced.

"Others?"

"Buddies, I guess. Business favors, maybe."

"In her house?" I asked. "What about Eric?" He raised his hands.

"The boy is out when it happens," he said. Then, shrugging: "I guess."

"You guess?"

"Look," he said, leaning forward. "You asked me to tail the bastard. Any idea how hard that is? He lives in a cocoon of security guards -- they are everywhere, and they are good. All I can do is follow his schedule, see where he goes, but never what he does inside. Or what happens there." I nodded.

"Sorry," I said. "Of course I know and I appreciate what you found out. When will he visit her again?" He looked up, his eyes narrowing.

"No chance, Steve," he said. "No fucking chance. Don't even think about it." I just watched him.

"I think of nothing else, Phil," I said. "Of nothing else."

***

As it had been my house for years, I knew where to stand close without being seen -- not even by the giant gorilla guarding my ex-front door. He stood like a monument to his profession -- meaty hands folded in front of his crotch, feet rolling backward and forward, eyes everywhere. His suit was black and ill fitting, his head shaved.

I'd arrived at 4:30 in the morning. It was still dark and rather misty when I stealthily took my place in the clump of thick conifers twenty feet to the right of my porch -- my ex-porch. Two hours later I was still there; it was still chilly, moist mist clinging to the bushes. I supposed I was safe. Maybe they'd searched the whole place thoroughly at the first few visits, but I gambled they would have gotten sloppier when this whole thing became routine.

I winced at the word routine.

The muffled weapon felt cold and heavy in my pocket as my hand closed around it. Would I be able to use it? Would I even get a chance? And if I did, would I live? Did I care? What was the point of even caring? If I succeeded and also managed to escape, either the bastard's goons would hunt me down, or the police. It would be death or life imprisonment; take your pick.

I shrugged, steeling myself with the thought that it didn't matter anymore. The loneliness, not seeing Eric, missing Liza and knowing that she didn't miss me at all, had drug me into the black hole of a depression. I was certain that my life would be over after the divorce. Even if she'd been generous at first, I was sure she would find ways to shut me out of the life of our son -- and if she didn't, the bastard would.

After standing there for almost two hours, my feet were numb; there was a growing tension between my shoulders. It obviously had been an all-nighter -- pretty long for a rape, I mused. Was it ever rape? The way Liza told me about her "crazy year" had been like reliving an adventure. It had been dangerous, maybe, and laced with horror towards the end, but exciting nevertheless. There had been lots of money for a once-poor student, first-class travel, expensive clothes, unlimited sex, and cocaine -- just like she has now, I thought. The ending might have been less glamorous, but Liza's mind seemed to travel back longingly, when she told me her story.

Then again, seeing it that way may have just been my overheated interpretation.

I do believe that Moreland's brutal sex when he returned was rape, and for a reason. He must have known Liza well -- better than I did. He knew from the past what rape did to her. It would scare her enough to obey his wishes. She wouldn't tell me or anyone else. At the same time it would get her ready to become his whore. Was the supposed threat to Eric's life and my business meant to break her? Or did he just offer her a convenient outlet for her guilt? Maybe it had been both. Or maybe Liza had added the threats herself, to allay her conscience?

Just thinking about it disgusted me. This was Liza, you know? My Liza? Yes, but who the fuck was Liza?

My train of thought made me wonder. Why would he want Liza anyway? She was a beautiful woman; the most beautiful in my eyes. But Moreland's world must be filled with beautiful women. Liza was great in bed; the most sensual woman I've known. But what do I know, compared to the asshole? He must have been knee-deep in willing women all of his life. So why Liza? Why destroy a marriage only to have what must be thirteen to a dozen for him?

Waiting for hours while your nerves are taut isn't the best pastime to make you think clearly. There was a hired killer standing only yards away and he seemed as alert as a jungle cat. He no doubt had orders to kill at once and those weren't thoughts one should dwell upon for hours. What the fuck took Moreland so long? The fuck indeed.

In these hours of waiting my mind was flooded with fantasies that had spooked me ever since Liza's confession. In none of them did I see her as the resisting victim of a brutal rape. No, my mind watched her arms wrapping tenderly around his fat neck, her legs eagerly climbing the brute's hairy shoulders. It gave him the deepest access to her treacherous cunt, I knew -- a cunt that she'd of course carefully shaved for him. In my mind his cock was huge and his spade-sized claws mangled her tits. I saw her sweet soft lips stretch around his monster cock; I also saw it cleave her ass.

Of course she was very, very vocal in the echoing confines of my skull, and every one of her words was meant to humiliate me -- emphasizing the supposed pencil thickness of my dick. I'd never been able to satisfy her, of course. She'd never had orgasms like she had with the swine, etcetera. It was the purest of porn I watched in my theatre-for-one, but it was porn with the woman I loved more than I did love myself. It was the dirtiest of porn with the woman I once thought was the purest I knew -- my woman. The woman I'd die for.

I grinned bitterly at that. Yes, I'd probably still die for her, but I wouldn't be alone.

After all the waiting, the actual opening of the front door still took me by surprise. I'd told myself that speed was of the utmost importance, but when the door opened, I froze. I saw Liza, naked and on tiptoes, her arms around the asshole's neck, deeply kissing his mouth -- thanking him. The sight made my bile rise. I hesitated, but then a jolt of jealousy set me in motion -- pure, unadulterated jealousy with a generous shot of adrenaline, no doubt. My hand jumped from my pocket. The unwieldy gun recoiled as the bullet popped from its mouth to plow itself into the back of the kissing man. I never knew what made me shoot the second time, but another bullet sprang from my hand to hit the chest of the guard, even before he found the gun in his armpit.

The last thing I saw was Liza's shocked face and the blood splashed on her pale body. She saw me; her hand rose to her mouth, muffling a cry. I stepped from the trees, the gun still dangling from my finger. It was a moment frozen in time. Liza watched me as I watched her. Her hands reached out when I brought up the gun. Her mouth opened wide; she looked like a blood splattered Munch picture. But before I could decide what to do, a hard blow to my head made me fall forward. I hit the stone steps. There was no pain, but the lights went out.

***

Whiteness was my first impression -- the unfocussed whiteness of wooly mist. It cleared and slowly turned into sheets and walls and nurses' uniforms. My head throbbed, but I was awake and I had no doubt whatsoever about where I was and why. I hadn't shot myself. I had been clubbed, I was in hospital and there was someone I knew at my bedside.

"Hi, Steve," he said. "Good to see you made it."

"Roger," I croaked, having to clear my throat to get the name out. "So you came to finish what your daddy's gorillas failed to do?" He smiled. Then he shook his head.

"No, Steve, on the contrary. I came to thank you."

Maybe I was surprised, but I don't think it showed. It must have been the concussion. Go try and surprise a man who has just returned from death; you won't succeed. At best he'll listen, but the miracle of being alive will be such an overwhelming competitor to anything you might say, that you shouldn't expect a response. So I hardly reacted; he must have taken it for incredulity.

"I really do, Steve," he said. "I know you hated my dad, and rightly so. But you can't possibly have hated him more than I do... did." I still offered no response, but it didn't seem to faze him.

"Ah," he went on. "You don't know, of course. Daddy is dead, as dead as can be. You killed him. And his gorilla died a few hours later." He chuckled. "Never knew you were this deadly, Steve."

"Okay," I said. "So you're here to avenge him." He laughed even harder.

"For a dangerous man you can be quite thick, Stevenson," he said. "Didn't I tell you I hated him maybe more than you do? I am here to thank you." His hand grabbed my shoulder, sending a shot of pain up my head. I winced; he apologized.

"The police," I said. "They must have been around already." Roger kept grinning.

"They will be here sometime soon, I guess," he said. "When they hear you can be investigated. I'm afraid you won't be able to explain away the two dead bodies on your doorstep. That's where the 'thanks' are for, you know. Even back at school I knew you'd come in handy one day." He chuckled and rose.

At that moment the door opened and a nurse came in. She was dark, Asian-Indian, and she looked nervous. I told her everything was all right, but her concern was evidently Roger. "Time's up, mister Chesterton," she said and walked over to my side, checking the statistics on the little screen of the beeping machine next to my bed. I wondered if he'd bought her. How else would he have been admitted to my bedside, even before the police?

"Just another minute, Ms Pattel," he said, unperturbed. "I think I have to reassure mister Stevenson before I leave. Can't have him worried. Just a minute, please." His smile was charming and it seemed to work; the nurse muttered, but she left again.

"You hit me, bastard!" I hissed as soon as she was gone. "I could have died."

"No," he said. "You couldn't. It was just a tap with a muffled bat to keep you from doing more damage, but then you fell rather, ehm, unfortunately. Sorry for that."

My excitement had left me dizzy. The surreal twist of events affected my breathing. "You were there," I panted. He grinned and nodded.

"Guilty," he said. "Waiting for what you would do -- and preventing you of doing more than necessary; like killing Liza. I waited as long as you did and I must admit that Daddy's limo was a far more comfortable place to do that waiting in than those clammy, dripping conifers you'd chosen."

"The driver," I said, picking a silly detail in the stress that gripped me as a multitude of paranoid possibilities engulfed me. He nodded, smiling brightly.

"I guess even Daddy's devoted driver knew which Chesterton would ensure his future." I hung in my pillows trying to catch my breath.

"You knew all along," I said. "You knew I was going to shoot the pig. You were there, waiting for it to happen. I bet it was what you came over for from Europe."

"Ah, knowing is a big word," he answered, grinning. "Let's say I gambled. But I have taken too much of your time already. I should have waited until you were stronger, but well, I thought it wouldn't be wise to be seen with you later on."

I struggled to get up, but a wave of nausea threw me back in the pillows. Just then the nurse returned. Roger raised both hands in acknowledgment.

"I'm leaving, nurse. Please treat my friend here well. He'll need all his powers." He chuckled as he turned toward me.

"Be well, Steve. And thank you once again -- for Liza too."

He turned, leaving me while a fully geared roller coaster thundered through my head.

***