Blood Canticle - Anne Rice [115]
The taller of the two shrugged.
“Say your prayers,” I said.
After that little fatal skirmish we headed for the big restaurant utility building, which stood seemingly vacant and all lighted up, the bar stools standing empty outside under the thatched roof and the tables scattered on its pink tiled terrace.
Stainless steel kitchen, glaring lights, groaning, rumbling, rattling machines. Scent of pine cleaners and soap. Countertops covered with trays of dirty dishes, stench of rotting food. Giant dishwasher churning.
“Come on,” I said, “no life here.”
We pushed on towards the immense palazzo.
We had to pass the ground floor suites with their private swimming pools, and here the internal lamps burnt and there was chattering and laughter.
I caught the sound of the Bossa Nova coming from somewhere deep in the main part of the building, a soft seductive music pulsing over the breeze-swept sands.
In the dark, beyond the low walls of the suites, we weren’t visible as we moved along, scanning room after room. It was all drug goons who functioned as lackeys, bodyguards, unquestioning assassins, whatever the boss wanted, hooked to their giant televisions or chattering away on their cell phones, or even up to their waists in the pools. Blue walls. Bamboo furniture. Their rooms were pits of garbage, girlie magazines, bottles of tequila, beer cans, packaged chips spilling out of bags and bowls.
We scanned desperately for knowledge of the tall people. We got nothing for our pains.
My urge was to kill all of them. “They are all gone aside, they are all together become filthy, there is none that doeth good, no not one,” saith the fourteenth psalm. But who am I, Saint Juan Diego, to mete out such a fate to these souls who might in some distant future repent and become saints of the Lord on High?
Nevertheless! I’m a ruthless dude. And they had to go if we were to extricate even one Taltos from this island.
Besides, there just wasn’t any other way to do it.
Gathering Mona and Quinn to me, I blasted the lackeys one after another, feeling the strength leave me in the instant that it hit them. This was not exhilarating. This was not fun. This became repulsive, and the only thing that made it endurable was my abhorrence of their boot leather souls.
We came on a pair, fancier than the others, Miami-retro Hawaiian shirts. Mona took the comely one with the dazzling rings and the naked chest, and I clamped down on the older, frightened one, who gave up images of contrition in the blood.
“They can’t give us anything!” Mona said, wiping her lip. Her eyes were glassy and large. “Why don’t they know?”
“Because they come and they go, and they know nothing about what actually happened here,” I said. “We’re cleaning them up, that’s the point. When the big man calls for help he won’t get it. Move on.”
Two more suites. Low-level, groveling servants. Snorting coke and listening to salsa. Mad that they couldn’t turn up the volume. Orders of the guy in the main building. The strength was getting a little more difficult, and I let Quinn have a go at them and he took them down swiftly, eschewing the blood.
Then Pay Dirt!
The last suite fitted partially into the body of the main building. Considerably larger than the others. Forget the powder blue walls and the rattan furnishings. This was a palatial cell of pure whiteness. White leather couches, chairs, broad pillow-laden bed strewn with glossy magazines. Vases of fresh flowers bursting with color. A wall of books. Immense dressing table laden with cosmetics. Burgundy carpet. Shining in the night.
And maybe just the strangest creature I’d ever seen in my long wanderings on the planet.
Mona let out the expected gasp, and Quinn put his hand resolutely on her shoulder.
As for the occupation of the beast, he was clacking away on his computer, which had a large printer connected with it, and he did not sense our presence any more than the drug bums in the other chambers. He paused in his work to pick up a full glass of milk and drain it.