The Prisoner - Carlos J. Cortes [133]
“Your audio-and video-recording equipment has suffered a glitch. Nothing permanent, I assure you.”
The beam in Stearns’s eye dulled.
“I have two safe-deposit boxes in your vault—large boxes, the ones to store quarto files.” Nikola adjusted one of the keys a fraction of an inch to align them. “Inside each of them are four smaller containers the size of a shoe box—locked, naturally. I call them my armless boxes.”
“Harmless?”
“I had a lisp when I was a little boy; luckily, it’s long gone. No. I meant armless, no h.”
Silence.
“You see, Will—I can call you Will, can’t I?”
More chin jiggling.
“The locks on my boxes are sophisticated and wired to capsules holding an ounce of high explosive—not much, but sufficient to blow the arms off whoever attempts to open them without the correct key and combination. I could have nicknamed them Faceless, since one would probably lose his head also, but I didn’t like the sound of it.”
“That’s illegal,” Stearns blurted.
“Perhaps, but let it be our little secret.” Nikola slid back on the leather and closed his eyes for a few seconds to bask in the definite alteration of the tempo of Stearns’s breathing.
“This bank has offices dotted all over, including one in Santo Domingo, Dominican Republic. I need my boxes removed from this branch and transported there, intact. I happen to have an account in the Avenida Las Americas office, including two safe-deposit boxes exactly like the ones you have here.”
Stearns was shifting his bulk to stand erect when Nikola halted him with a wave of his hand. “Like a magician’s trick. Here are the keys. You only have to make my boxes disappear from here and materialize in the Caribbean.”
“That’s illegal.”
He was repeating himself, although now it wasn’t a formula but a feeble attempt to win time in which to stand, return to his desk, and summon help.
“Will … tsk, tsk, you’re concerned?” Nikola chuckled. “Our souls brim with illegal thoughts from unspeakable deeds. Isn’t that so?”
Stearns’s brain must have been particularly honed, because he froze and lifted his face a fraction, his nose twitching as if sampling remote pheromones.
“We keep our thoughts safe, in the shadiest corner of our dark minds. Deeds are another matter. They happen, perhaps in a flash, but time is a fickle subject—once gone, there’s nothing you can do to recover it.”
And still Stearns didn’t move.
“Unless you can freeze it.” Nikola reached once more into the inner pocket of his jacket and retrieved a small folded envelope. Shunning theatrics that could afford him no advantage, he flicked it onto Stearns’s belly, where it rested.
One hand with stubby fingers reached for the envelope, Stearns’s tiny eyes never leaving Nikola’s. His other hand joined the first to maneuver the flap and withdraw a few glossy photographs. Stearns lowered his eyes, then his color changed to ashen, as if the sun had suddenly disappeared beyond a cloud.
Nikola held the theory that the human brain stored certain events in a section dealing with dreams. It was a survival mechanism. In time, its owner could pretend the sickest debauchery had never happened—unless an image asserted reality. Like an image of a corpse in a roadside motel. Rubber and leather games sometimes got out of hand. With a sleight of hand while he checked the crime scene, Nikola had palmed the bag containing three hairs that could have sent Stearns to a tank. One of the things Nikola hoarded for a rainy day. “As I said, William, a magician’s trick. Don’t let these disturb your sleep. They don’t tie you to the crime, and the bits of biological stuff that do are still safe with me. Cross my heart. Shall we say a week from now?”
Stearns’s chin jiggled once.
“Dear me … You don’t look too chirpy. Tummy upset? You should have someone look at it.” Nikola leaned back in his chair, getting into a more comfortable posture. “I’m an incorrigible romantic, you know? I take a liking to people, and that will be my undoing. Still, it can’t be helped;