Flanking the elevator stood a corridor of free-standing glass panels entombing ancient Japanese parchments. Swirling, colorful designs depicted dragons, samurai, Kraken, and beautiful geishas in some of the most intricate patterns Dr. Nassiri had ever seen. As Alexix gaped at the view, he bent closer to inspect one of the panels, staring in fascination as he realized the parchments were not paper.
They were human skin.
He stood abruptly and moved away before Alexis could turn her attention to the parchments and make the same discovery.
He recalled learning about this practice some years ago. Upon death, a poorly-favored or debt-ridden yakuza gangster might be flayed and tattooed, as their skin, in samples as small as postcards, were highly prized by darkspirited collectors. Bettencourt’s collection must have been years in the making — entire bodies, male and female alike, skinned and stretched out like human canvas, encompassing necks, back, buttocks, every tattooed inch of flesh. What these macabre artifacts said about their collector, he did not know. And did not want to find out.
The high-backed chair swiveled to face them, revealing Charles Bettencourt. He rose and walked around the desk to greet the pair, wearing a wide smile and no shoes. “Welcome to Anconia Island,” he said.
Jonah Blackwell stretched out on a deck chair of the Fool’s Errand, adjusting his position for optimal sun absorption. Beads of sweat wept from every pore, drawn out by the intense heat. He’d already gained a few pounds, filling in between his stringy muscles, giving him a fuller, healthier look. It wasn’t like he needed a tan. Prison 14 had many things in short supply, but sun wasn’t one of them. He just liked the feeling of freedom.
He took another bite of the bacon sandwich he’d prepared for himself. It’d been too long since he’d felt the satisfaction of a full stomach, but for some reason it also bothered him. It made him feel lethargic, dull-edged. The skills imperative in prison — observation, speed, brutality, paranoia — were all unnecessary here.
Buzz lay on the deck chair beside him, snoring loudly while wearing Louis Vuitton sunglasses appropriated from the master cabin. Jonah wondered if Youssef knew they were women’s. Or maybe they weren’t, Jonah wasn’t exactly up on the latest fashions.
Buzz yawned and stretched, slowly waking up from his midday nap. Over the last few days, he’d practically inhaled a case of Bollinger champagne and endless cigars, so much that he’d developed a budding alcohol-plumped belly. It wasn’t enough to be distracting, but it did look just a little out of place on the former soldier’s otherwise athletic frame.
Without missing a beat, the ex-soldier reached over to a small glass table next to the deck chair and retrieved a silver cigar case. He opened it, ripped off the end of a cigar with his fingernails, and tried to light it.
“Motherfucker,” he mumbled with irritation as the lighter sputtered twice before catching. Succeeding, he sucked in two big lungfuls of cigar smoke and coughed as he exhaled.
“Too bad we don’t have some em-jay,” he said to Jonah, waving the cigar theatrically. “Razor this shit open, get our smoke on for reals.”
“Buzz, that’s a $600 cigar,” said Jonah.
“Mother… fucker…” mused Buzz as he considered the expensive cigar with no small measure of respect. Jonah realized the Moroccan would probably still razor it, even if all he had on hand was a dime bag of skunk.
Before Jonah could respond, a loud crashing sound emanated from below decks. Both Jonah and Buzz froze cold, staring at each other, listening. It sounded like an entire rack of glass dishes had suddenly hit a tile floor, too loud to be an accident.
“You suppose Hassan and Alexis are back?” Buzz said, his voice low.
Jonah shook his head, picked up the pearl-handled 1911 pistol from the side table and secured it in the small of his back.
Unarmed, Buzz allowed Jonah to lead as both men carefully tread down the stairs towards the main galley. A massive man with a shaved head stood next to the bar, his back to the pair. Easily six foot six, his swollen shoulders, arms, and neck gave him the look of a man who could knock down buildings with his bare hands and pull apart rail cars with his teeth. A trail of dirty footprints marched across the expensive white carpet, and a customized Kevlar and ceramic plate vest had been tossed over the back of the nearest chair. The man’s muscles flexed underneath his sweat-soaked shirt as Jonah and Buzz approached from behind. He didn’t turn around.
The man stumbled from foot to foot, humming to himself, infusing the air with the distinct malodor of expensive booze as he casually mixed himself a White Russian from too much Swedish vodka and too-old milk.
Jonah took a closer look at the bullet-proof vest and realized he could make out colonel’s bars, completely out of place on a mercenary. The live grenades dangling from the vest seemed much more apropos, enough explosive power to sink the Fool’s Errand. Drawing the 1911 pistol from his waistband, Jonah kept it in his dominant hand and leaned against a wall, concealing the weapon from the uninvited guest.
“You lost?” asked Buzz.
The intruder hesitated for a moment, and then slowly turned to face Jonah and Buzz. Jesus, he looked like hell. And he was drunk.
“I am not lost,” he answered. With a broad, cruel smile and dirt, rust, a thousand scabbed-over cuts, and sweaty, unwashed clothing stained with blood, the colonel looked like he had just stepped off a battlefield. Maybe Anconia Island wasn’t libertarian Disneyland after all.
“Then what are you doing here?”
“A janitor tried to kick me out of a bar. Something about them not being open. I told him to mix me a drink anyway.” He brought the glass to his mouth and sucked down half the liquid in it, then held it up in a mock toast. “He was stubborn, though.”
The colonel’s hand was bloody and busted open along the knuckles. A chill shot down Jonah’s spine. Buzz flinched. “So I asked myself,” continued the colonel without waiting for any further prompting, “where would be… the best place… to get milk?”
Facing them, the colonel leaned back up against the wall. He held the White Russian in one hand and a H&K pistol in the other. Jonah kicked himself for not noticing it sooner.
“Buzz,” said Jonah, more to his companion than the stranger, and without ever taking his eyes off the colonel. “Fuck off.”
Buzz didn’t need to be told twice. The only one in the room without a weapon, he ducked his head and retreated back up the main staircase. Neither the mercenary or the former prisoner spoke until the footsteps faded.
“I don’t think your friend liked me,” said the colonel.
Jonah still couldn’t tell whether or not the he was trying to pick a fight. Safety off, his finger rested on the trigger. He didn’t want to put odds on it, but guessed he could probably outdraw a drunk.
“What do you want?” asked Jonah.
“Didn’t I tell you? I needed a proper drink.”
With that, the colonel slurped down the last of his White Russian with one gulp and tossed the empty glass on the floor. It bounced a couple of times on the carpet and rolled under a chair. The smell of bad milk again reached Jonah’s nostrils.
The colonel shrugged and pulled out another bottle, tequila this time, slapped two glasses on the bar and poured two overflowing shots. Holding his pistol with one hand and the shot glasses in the other, he stumbled towards Jonah.