Before the trouble started, when he was experimenting in new and different ways, he realized true fulfillment was not going to come from a young zombie who had little idea what was happening to him. Acts of violence became a necessary component. The pleasure evolved and demanded greater sacrifices-first, he needed only to consider the idea. Then, he had to plan it, and the planning and anticipation were enough. Later, he needed to see their fear. Eventually, it was just better all the way around when they made the ultimate sacrifice-he found nothing could make him feel as complete as the moment of their death. It cleansed them, really, and it cleansed him, too. It allowed him to function-for a time.
Thanks to the Internet, he discovered that all along the spectrum of what he considered to be his own evolution, there were others, most of whom lacked his determination and courage. He made videotapes, and later DVDs, and sold them to carefully vetted customers. He thought of himself as a priest who performed the ritual for his special congregation-those who lacked his courage would pay to see the recordings he made of his activities, and feel pleasure. Some might find the courage to try to seek their own fulfillment because of him. This added a whole new dimension to his own pleasure.
He was a star. And he was rich. Richer than he’d ever been making rooms turn cool in summer and warm in winter. The market for his video recordings was small, but the suppliers were fewer.
For his victims, he felt not the slightest concern. Most were impoverished children, whose single parents could not afford help to find them, living in places where police were unlikely to have the means to chase him as far as he would go to commit his crimes. He was only sparing these children a future of poverty and abuse. He thought of all the children he had seen living in poverty in Mexico. He could stay in Oaxaca for a long time.
He continued to watch the German men below. If they had been wiser, the young men would have sought the shade, as he did, or taken a siesta, which would have been wiser still-if one could afford to sleep.
Majors wore only a pair of swimming trunks, but he was feeling the warmth of the day. He ran a thick, damp palm from his nipples to his navel, drying his hand on the mat of hairs that covered his chest and slightly rounded belly.
The temperature must have been nearly ninety, he thought. Warm for this mountainous part of Oaxaca. Oddly, these Germans didn’t seem to mind the heat. Their tanned and muscular bodies were nearly perfect. One of them, though, the dark-haired one, bore scars on his wrists and ankles-thin, white lines that encircled each in crisscrossed bands. Majors wondered who had restrained the boy. And with what had it been done-handcuffs? Rope? No-wire, he thought. Too thin for anything else.
Being in his line of business-his new business-one had to be wary. Every encounter with others raised questions in his mind, and he especially questioned the purposes of those who came into his orbit at this particular time in his life.
Even with his vigilance, he had been betrayed. While on a trip for his furnace company, which more and more served merely as a cover, his wife, Regina, had become convinced that he was cheating on her with another woman. She broke into his office, managed to guess the password on his computer-his reward for being a good provider and loving husband for twenty years was a wife who could do such a thing-and saw photographs that (she later told him) made her physically ill. She was too stupid to ask him about all the other things she saw, of course.
The bitch went straight to the police with the hard drive. He had missed being arrested by mere minutes. Fortunately, he had planned for making a quick escape if need be. His soon-to-be-ex wife wouldn’t get her hands on much of his money, which was hidden away in offshore accounts. Slick andP.T. were among those whose help had been invaluable. Both had too much to lose to betray him.
He wished Slick were here, to help him find out all he could about the newcomers. But Slick would not return from his journey to Puerto Escondido until late this evening.
Castillo del Chapulínes-castle of the grasshoppers-was a small luxurious hideaway for the well-to-do. There were never many guests, he was told when he was met at the Oaxaca Airport by Alberto, a helicopter pilot who spoke just enough English to communicate a few basics about the resort. The helicopter provided the only easy route into the resort’s location, in the mountains of the state of Oaxaca. This was an area of Mexico where many native tribal groups lived-few of the inhabitants spoke Spanish or any other European language. A beautiful part of the country, Majors thought, when he viewed it from the air. There were still unspoiled beaches along Oaxaca’s coast-Slick had chosen to visit one today.
Majors did not want to be in places like Puerto Escondido and the city of Oaxaca, though, where too many Americans could be encountered. He was glad to be out here in a more remote area.
The golden-haired man by the pool laughed. The other was solemn, only smiling softly now and then. They were handsome, he thought, wondering what they had looked like when they were six. At six, they would have been irresistible. They were angelic even now. Perhaps not so irresistible even now.
The thought disturbed him. He tried to be critical of them. Was the scarred, dark angel a child abuse victim out for revenge on all other abusers? Or a child abuse victim who was now himself an abuser, looking for victims? It could go either way. One had to develop a certain ability to perceive the signs that differentiated them.
And so he studied them.
The men must be filthy rich-even beyond the usual for this resort. Majors had already noticed the deference being paid to them by the staff.
The resort was all Slick had said it would be. A place where he could feel safe and yet be pampered. There were no women guests here, at the moment, although one could send for one for a reasonable fee. The two other guests ignored him, but from Alberto he had learned that they were a Brazilian and a Canadian, apparently here to hold private business discussions. They had arranged the trip to Puerto Escondido and had politely-if somewhat coldly-agreed to allow Slick to take the fourth seat in the helicopter.
“Sorry to leave you,” Slick had said to Majors, “but I could use a change of scenery.”
He didn’t mind. Slick was tiresome, really. One couldn’t expect anything but nervous tension when dealing with a person you were blackmailing. He had several holds over Slick-ones that would have made him a three-strikes lifer in California. Slick knew that if Majors was arrested or harmed, his own freedom and well-being were in peril. It did not make him good company.
• • •
The Germans were going swimming now, in nothing more than those skimpy European swimming suits. He couldn’t take his eyes off them. The dark one was in the water already. The blond stood, then turned toward Majors, his gorgeous green eyes looking at him with amusement. He smiled and said, in the mildly German, strongly British, accented English of the private language school, “You’re American, aren’t you? Come, swim with us-you don’t seem terribly comfortable up there on your-oh, scheisse, what’s the word?”
“Balcony,” Majors said, hearing the carefully pronounced th’s and w’s. Definitely not Americans.
“Of course. Balcony.”
“Perhaps later.”
“Suit yourself,” he said with a shrug and joined his companion.
Majors watched them move through the water, then heard the blond call to someone else in Spanish, another invitation to swim. The man’s Spanish was excellent, although with the soft lisps of Spain rather than the harder sounds of Mexico, and yet again the faint German accent came through. European Spanish. Majors relaxed a little.