CHAPTER 50
ALLAN LEFT THE basement, went into the kitchen and began washing his hands. He rubbed them with soap and found a sponge to scrub all the blood off. The water in the sink soon turned red. Allan wiped his fingers in a towel, then looked at the clock on the oven. It was almost noon. Sebastian probably had invited the guests to come around seven, so he still had a lot of time. With one more body to get rid of, he had a lot of work to do. But with Sebastian out of the way he was less likely to be interrupted again.
Allan walked towards the barrel when suddenly his iPad on the table lit up. Allan looked at it. There was a new message in the chat. It was probably just from Cogliantry, Allan thought. He probably wanted to see more pictures. The man was always hungry for more. Allan didn't have time for this. But he still checked.
It wasn't Cogliantry this time, he was surprised to discover. It was him. The master himself. The man who called himself Thomas De Quincey. Allan read what it said a couple of times. It wasn't a pleasant message. He wasn't writing Allan to congratulate him on his great achievements. No he was angry. Allan could tell by the tone of his message. It simply said:
Where is my package?
Allan sat down on the chaise lounge with the iPad on his lap. He had to answer this right away. This wasn't just anybody who was writing him these words. He thought about what to write before he answered:
In my basement. I'm preparing it for you.
A minute went by before the answer came. Allan tapped nervously with his fingers on his thighs.
You have two things now that belong to me. I want them, tonight.
Allan took in a deep breath to calm his growing anger. He had other plans for those packages. He was sick and tired of this man telling him what to do and when to do it. This was his mission, his masterpiece and no one was going to destroy it.
I'll bring them both to you tomorrow. Wrapped and everything.
A few minutes went by without an answer. As he waited Allan feared he would incur the Master's wrath. No one messed with Thomas De Quincey. He was after all the one who had started it all, he was the one who had brought them all together. But Allan didn't answer to anyone. Those were his killings, Thomas De Quincey could get the leftovers. Yes, Allan thought to himself. Leftovers had to be good enough. If he wanted to kill them so badly himself then he should have captured them. Why didn't he just do it himself? Allan had been the one offering one of the packages to him. As a gift, a contribution if you like. Why was he now acting like he was entitled to it? What if Allan had changed his mind? What if Allan didn't care about all of that anymore and just wanted out? Wanted to go back to kill for his own sake? For his own pleasure and not to satisfy the Master? Allan could be his own Master. He was after all the best at what they did. He had killed many more than any of them. Why should he answer to any of them? They should be the ones worshipping him. No, he definitely wanted out. He wanted to be on his own.
Allan had already planned it all. After this, he would be gone. He would be out of here and the Master wouldn't know where to look for him. He had a private jet ready in the airport that was ready to take him to Monaco where he had secretly bought a house. Allan had made a lot of money the last years mostly buying stocks on insider knowledge and he would be able to live of it for the rest of his life. Plus the prince still paid him a huge amount every year to keep quiet about his existence. He was unstoppable and even Thomas De Quincey was about to discover that. Hell, if he came to punish him Allan would just have to kill him as well.
I want them tonight, Thomas de Quincey wrote. Alive.
I'll deliver them tomorrow. Dead. Take it or leave it.
Then I'll just have to come and get them myself, Thomas De Quincey wrote.
Allan froze when he saw that the Master had left the chat room. There was no way back now, he thought. The Master was coming, so he'd better be prepared.
CHAPTER 51
I WAS STILL staring at the lifeless body of Sebastian Devalnier hanging from the ceiling of the basement. I couldn't take my eyes off it; I couldn't get the pictures out of my head of how cold-bloodedly Allan Witt had murdered this man without so much as blinking. It actually seemed like he enjoyed stabbing the knife into his chest and took pleasure in watching him die. It scared me like nothing had ever frightened me before. It seemed he took delight in killing.
I knew I had to think fast. This was a man who wouldn't think twice before slaughtering all of us. He hadn't been joking or just trying to scare us by showing us those pictures and letting us know what he was intending to do with us. If I didn't do something soon, we were all going to end up like Sebastian Devalnier. But what? How?
For some strange reason I suddenly felt an urge to have a cigarette. I almost craved it. But I always did in stressful situations, I thought. This just wasn't the time to be thinking about that. That was when it hit me. Maybe it was the right time? I recalled having smoked with Peter in my father's backyard before we ... oh my god, before we did the unforgivable. It was immediately after that I spotted the man behind the hedge. Did I still have my pack of cigarettes in the pocket of my sweater? I put my hand in and felt it. Yes. It was still there. I pulled the pack out and to my great joy I saw that the lighter was still in it. I pulled it out and lit it. Yep, it worked. I almost cried as I held it tight in my clenched fist. In some way this was going to help me.
I jumped as I heard steps on the stairs and the lighter went back in my pocket while I wondered how come Allan Witt hadn't found the package in my pocket? He was too dumb to not have searched me for my phone or a pocketknife. Could it be that he just hadn't found it? The pocket was kind of deep, the package almost empty and I hadn't thought about it myself or felt it was there until now. Had he just made a slip-up? Had he made a mistake?
I watched Allan Witt as he walked slowly down the stairs carrying a big barrel in his arms and a hose over his shoulders while imagining what I could do with the lighter. There weren't many options that didn't include hurting myself somehow.
Allan Witt put the barrel down next to Camilla's box, then unscrewed the lid to the tube leading into her. I watched as she crumbled and shockingly stared at the hose coming down in her box. Her body was trembling while she pleaded for him to not do this.
"Please, Mr. Please, don't do this. Not again. I beg you."
Allan Witt put the hose in the tube, then a funnel at the end of the hose. He lifted the barrel on his shoulders and began pouring. It was heavy, too heavy and suddenly it slipped from his hands and it spilled on the floor and on his apron and pants. As the barrel hit the stone floor it spurted out on the floor almost to where I was. Allan cursed, then picked the barrel up again and continued pouring. The brown liquid ran across the floor towards the dip in the floor next to my box where it blended with the blood from Sebastian's dead body.
My heart stopped as I watched Camilla panic when the brown liquid hit her from the hose. She lifted her hand and tried to stop it from flowing, tried to block the hole, but soon it spurted out anyway and hit her in the face. "Stop, please, stop," she hollered.
I started banging on the sides of my box in anger and frustration. "Stop it!" I yelled. "Why are you doing this to her?"
But Allan Witt kept his calm and never took any notice of me screaming at him or Camilla's crying and begging him to stop. It didn't take him very long to fill up most of the box with the Armagnac. Its sharp smell soon permeated the basement. Camilla was lifting her head trying to avoid getting it in her face, spitting, gurgling and crying at the same time. I felt so helpless, so frustrated for not being able to do anything. I growled and groaned and kicked the box in anger and desperation, but no matter what I did, I couldn't prevent Camilla's box from being filled. Soon she had only her face barely above the surface. More was pouring down through the hose, hitting her directly in her face, making it hard for her to breathe, when suddenly it stopped. Camilla gasped for air. She was holding her head above the surface of the liquid by lifting her torso a few inches with her
arms. If she let go, her face would be covered.
I heard Allan curse and swear. "What the hell ...?" He was staring inside the box, then examining the funnel. Then he was cursing again. He tried to look through the hole in the barrel, then he cursed once again right before he stormed up the stairs.
He had run out of Armagnac.
CHAPTER 52
ALLAN RAN AROUND in the kitchen while messing up his hair with his hands, opening cabinets, going through his collection of liqueurs.
"Just one more bottle," he mumbled frantically going through all of them, reading the labels, then putting them back. He found all kinds of very expensive alcohol, but no Armagnac. He speculated like crazy if it was possible to use something else. He pulled out a six-year old Calvados Pays D'Auge. Could this be used? No, he thought. No, no, no. The recipe explicitly said Armagnac. There was a difference. You couldn't just deviate from the recipe, could you? No, it had to be right. The bird was supposed to drown in the Armagnac so that its lungs and innards were filled with the tasty liquid. That was the way it was supposed to be, you couldn't just make up your own recipe. That wouldn't work. It had to be done right. It just had to. It had to.
Allan was circling himself in the kitchen, mumbling and rubbing his fingers against each other. His eye had an annoying tic that wouldn't go away. What now? he thought. What do I do? He looked at the watch. Still three hours left till the guests arrived. He still had time, didn't he? Could he drive to the store? Was there enough time to make it there and back and then prepare the rest? He shook his head. No, it was too late. The rest of the preparations took time. What else did he have to do? Oh yes, the woman. She needed to be cut open while still alive. Like the fish, like the Japanese fish, yes. He would serve that as an appetizer? But what about Sebastian? What was he going to do with him? Allan's fingers were hurting from tapping against each other while he was speculating. It was like he couldn't stop his mind, like his thoughts wouldn’t stay calm.
Don't lose it now. Don't lose it.
The voices in his head were screaming at him, making it even harder to hear his own thoughts. Plus he had begun to hear a weird drumming sound inside his head that he couldn't escape. It sounded like a pulse, a heartbeat. He tried to shake his head, to get rid of it, he tried to tap the side of his forehead nervously to get it to stop. But nothing helped.
I'm not losing it. I'm keeping calm. I'm not going insane.
Then he looked at the clock again. Half an hour had gone by like this? How could it? He walked to the clock and looked at it. It shifted again. The numbers were shifting all the time! It was as if the minutes were running from him. He held his head between his hands while staring at it closely. Was this some cruel joke? Then he tapped at the glass. Was the clock broken? He turned and looked at another clock above the door. It said the same time. It wasn't the clock.
It was him. He was losing valuable time by speculating like this. This wasn't a time to be thinking, this was a time for action. He picked up the phone and called the store. He offered them a thousand dollars if they delivered three bottles of their finest Armagnac within an hour. He gave his address, then hung up without saying goodbye to the woman in the other end. He turned around a few times, trying to force the kitchen to stand still. Trying to make his mind stop spinning.
Everything is okay now. Disaster averted. The Armagnac will be here soon, and then you can move on.
Allan took in a deep breath to calm himself down. He held on to the kitchen table while forcing himself to breathe steadily. It was going to be alright. Everything was going to be fine. He couldn't let these little things get to him. With a project as big as this, some things were bound to go wrong; he couldn't expect everything to be perfect.
But that's what you do, isn't it? You demand perfection. It has to be impeccable or it isn't done right.
Allan clenched his fist and hit the kitchen table so hard he was certain he heard the bone crush inside of it. But he didn't mind. Just like he enjoyed the pain of others he also took pleasure in his own pain. He stared at the hand that was still clenched. The pain spread from his fist to the arm and into his entire body. He closed his eyes and enjoyed the waves of pleasure and pain going through him. When it was gone he opened his eyes, reached over and picked up his butcher's knife. He walked towards the door, then put his hand on the handle. Behind it he heard the girls crying. He paused and enjoyed the sound. Just before he turned the handle, he quoted another of his favorite horror movies, The Fly:
"Be afraid... Be very afraid."
CHAPTER 53
I WAS FUMBLING with the lighter while Allan was gone. I tried to melt the plastic but ended up burning my fingers instead after a few minutes. It hadn't even left a burn mark on the plastic. I sighed and took a break. Allan Witt had been gone for a long time now and I wondered what he was up to. I talked to Camilla all the time, encouraging her to hold on, to keep her head up. But she was getting tired now. They were shaking.
"I can't hold on," she said. "I can't hold it anymore."
"Yes you can," I yelled back. "I'm getting us out of here. Hold on as long as you can."
"But I can't. My arms are hurting so badly. They are shaking now. It smells so bad in here. I can hardly breathe."
"You have to. Keep holding on just for a little longer now," I said while trying to melt the plastic with my lighter once again.
"It's armored," Camilla said. "The plastic is armored. It can sustain anything, bullets, fire everything. He told us."
"Crap." I sighed deeply and stared hopeless at the box, feeling its edges, its sides. Everything has a weak spot, I kept thinking. Everything and everybody.
"My arms," Camilla cried. "They're caving in. My elbows are hurting."
"Your arms need to move to be able to pump the blood around in your body. You need to rest them, just for a little while. Can you dive under for just a few seconds, then come back up?"
"That's what I did when he filled the box with water, but this smells so bad. It smells so bad, Rebekka," she wept.
"I won't let you die in there," I said. "Neither you, nor Amalie. I will get you out of there. I promise. But for now you have to focus on staying alive. You have to rest your arms and then come back up. Move your arms while you’re under, so the blood can circulate, and then come back up. It'll make you be able to sustain it longer. Trust me, okay?"
"O...okay," she stuttered. Camilla closed her eyes and held her nose as she dove under the fluid. A few seconds later she came back up, crying heavily, coughing, spitting.
"Are you okay?" I asked.
"I got some in my mouth, but I spat it out. It tasted so horrible!"
"I know. Just hold on."
The door opened and I hid the lighter in my hand with a gasp. In stepped Allan with a big butcher's knife in his hand. His hair was slightly messed up and his eye flickering with constant tics. He was smiling widely but seemed less controlled than earlier. If he was losing it, it could be both an advantage since he might be less careful, but it could also have the opposite effect since the crazier, the more dangerous he would be.
Camilla was gasping but holding on in the box next to me, while I had no idea how Princess Amalie was doing and it scared me that I hadn't heard a sound from her in a long time. All I heard was the sound of the pump constantly pushing more of that yellow mush inside of her. I had no idea how long a person could sustain that before the stomach would explode.
Allan Witt walked to Amalie's box, peeked in with a satisfied smile, then continued to Camilla. He looked at her while she struggled to keep her head above the surface.
"You'll give in soon," he said. "But I've ordered more just in case. It should be here soon."
Then he turned and looked at me. I gasped as our eyes met. He bent over my box and stared at me from above. Then he tapped it with his nail like I was an animal and he wanted to get my attention.
"You ready?" he asked.
I stared at the butcher's knife he was holding above his shoulder. Th
en I gulped. I knew what his intention was. "Please," I said. "Can't we find another way? Maybe I can help you with something. I know a lot of people, maybe I could get you out of the country," I lied. "There is still time. You could stop now. Do yourself a favor and stop before it's too late."
Allan Witt laughed loudly. "You don't know half the people that I know. I can get out whenever I want to. Don't you worry your pretty little head with that."
Allan Witt found a screwdriver and began unscrewing some of the screws in the box. "Now I could have sedated you with chloroform first," he said. "But that would be cheating, don't you think? No one sedates the fish when it's cut open." He smiled and looked into my eyes. "I want you to feel the pain."
I swallowed hard as the bottom of my box was carefully pulled off. I was completely still with my hand clenched on the lighter. Allan Witt removed the end wall and reached in to grab my legs. I kicked and screamed as he pulled me out. One kick hit him in the face, another in the chest. But still he managed to tie duct-tape around them and tie them tight together so I couldn't move them.
I grunted and tossed my body as he pulled the rest of me out and tried to catch my arms to tie them as well. I moved them constantly, throwing punches with my fists clenched, when he managed to grab my right wrist and restrain it on my back. I screamed in pain as he pulled it hard and I had to bend forward. I stared directly into the puddle of blood next to me. Allan Witt's expensive Italian leather shoes were in the middle of it. In the middle of the puddle of blood and Armagnac. I looked at my clenched fist as I felt Allan Witt's fingers on me, trying to turn me around and get my other hand. I lifted my head and looked him straight in the eyes, then I lit the lighter and set the small puddle on fire. I covered my face and threw myself backwards. In a matter of seconds the alcoholic drink exploded and caught Allan Witt's pants soaked in Armagnac.