The Six Messiahs - Mark Frost [127]
Dante's eyes narrowed; a shudder of excitement ran to his groin as the sense of the man's tone, if not the words, got through to him. "Yeah. Yes, sir, I'd like that a lot."
"We recruit from all over the world," said Frederick. "Not many men meet our exacting standards. But after months of close observation, I can say with some confidence that you ... measure up."
"How'd you find me in the first place?"
"We have eyes and ears in many places. If it is meant to be, the right person will catch our attention. He is observed, studied, as you have been. If he's found worthy, we move to the stage where you find yourself now."
Dante swallowed; he felt small, filled with wonder, as if an angel had reached down and touched him.
Frederick finished tapping out his message. He leaned down, ripped the telegraph wires out of the wall, and handed the key to Dante. "Put that in a box for me, would you please, Mr. Scruggs?"
"Sure, Frederick."
Dante looked around; there were no boxes left in the room.
"Uh..."
"In there," said Frederick, pointing to the inner office, clearing a stack of papers from the drawers without looking up at him.
Dante nodded and carried the telegraph key through the door; he was immediately grabbed by a dozen grasping hands, lifted off the floor, and spread-eagled on his back across a desk. Dim light filtered through a slatted blind; Dante could barely make out their faces; no, they were wearing masks. Black masks; only their eyes showing through slits. A gloved hand smothered his mouth. Adrenaline pumped through his body; he struggled fiercely but couldn't move an inch, helplessly pinned.
Cows in the slaughterhouse, that's where his mind went; heads stuck through the rack, waiting for the sledge to cave in their skulls. What was that smell? Something pungent in the air; hot, sulfurous, like burning coals.
Frederick's face appeared above him; no smile now, fierce and purposeful. He reached down and pulled the knife from the sheath in Dante's pocket. The other men's hands were rolling up his sleeves, taking his pants down to his ankles. Squeals of terror came out of him; his bladder emptied involuntarily.
Frederick looked at the knife, read the manufacturer's trademark near the hilt. "Green River, Wyoming. How pleasing. The Green River knife is one of the best in the world. If this was a violin it would be a Stradivarius."
What the hell was he talking about? What did he want? What were they gonna do to him? Dante's eyes danced wildly around the room. Where were the Voices? Why couldn't somebody help him?
Frederick slit the buttons off Dante's union suit, spread it open, and ran the knife lightly over his privates.
"Have you even for a moment considered what the experience must be like for the women you've killed, Mr. Scruggs? What they must feel as you go about your work? The abject terror? Fear of dying? The pain as you make your first cuts? I have seen the bits and pieces of them you saved in your apartment; you are very fastidious about the parts you keep, aren't you? That interests me: One collector to another, what makes you choose? What draws you to keep one piece, discard another? The look, the feel? Is it the shape or the texture? The function of the part? Perhaps you don't know or haven't thought it through; yes, I think so. It's just magic, isn't it? The flesh is there, it speaks to you and you simply have to have it. I suspect this is how it's always been: When it speaks, you are bound to listen and obey."
Dante whimpered and moaned.
"Relax; isn't that what you always tell your girls in the beginning?"
He nicked him lightly with the blade; Dante felt a trickle of blood run down and pool between his thighs. Frederick leaned over next