Stolen Souls

9

HERKUS HAD CALLED at half a dozen bars that Tomas frequented. No one had seen Tomas or Darius, they said, and he believed them. People seldom lied to Herkus, even if they didn’t know who he worked for. He had one of those faces that inspired truth-telling. Only the very bravest, or most stupid, would consider lying. There were few brave men in the bars he had trawled over the last two hours, but plenty of them were stupid. Even so, he was satisfied they had been sincere when they told him Tomas had not darkened their doors that night.

With a heavy heart, Herkus drove to the last bar he could think of. This time of night, the doors would be closed, but if Tomas and Darius were in the mood for drinking, then the opening hours would be flexible.

He parked the Mercedes on Holywood High Street, directly opposite the Black Stove Bar & Grill. At first glance, the Black Stove seemed like an upmarket place in a well-to-do part of Greater Belfast. And to many a customer, it was exactly that, but its owner was far from respectable. Not that he was a criminal, at least not in the sense that Herkus understood. He was not a bad man, as such. Clifford Collins merely had certain tastes that only women of a particular profession could satisfy. So, now and again, Clifford played host to Tomas. If Clifford hinted that he might have liked payment for the food or drink served to Tomas and his friends, then he would be quietly reminded that Tomas would settle his bill by simply not calling Clifford’s wife and telling her the specifics of her husband’s more exotic pastimes.

Herkus crossed the street. The heavy outer door stood open. He tried the glass-paneled inner door, but it was locked. A dim glow burned within. He peered through the frosted pane, looking for hazy shapes that might pass for human. He could make nothing out but variations in light and darkness. Keeping his eyes to the glass, he rapped the door with his fat knuckles.

One of the dark shapes moved.

“I see you,” he said in English. “Open the door.”

He knocked again, harder.

“Just a minute,” a voice called. Herkus recognized it as the high whine of Clifford Collins.

“Open now,” Herkus said.

A shadow approached the other side of the glass. Locks snapped, and a chain jangled. The door opened four inches, Clifford peeping out through the gap.

“Tomas is here?” Herkus asked.

“No,” Clifford said. “I haven’t seen him since the weekend.” The little man’s voice quivered as he spoke, but his eyes said he was truthful. And relieved.

Why would he be relieved? Perhaps Herkus had asked the wrong question.

“Darius is here,” Herkus said. This time, it was a statement of fact, not a query.

Clifford shook his head from side to side, his mouth slack as he scrambled for the correct answer. Eventually he said, “No,” and the lie was plain to see.

Herkus didn’t hesitate. He took one step back and kicked the wood, his full weight behind it. Clifford squealed and backed away. The chain held. Herkus kicked again, then once more, and the door swung inward.

“Stay there,” Herkus said to Clifford as he entered.

Clifford nodded and sat at a table.

There at the back, huddled in a booth, Darius and one of the two moronic Irish brothers who ran whores from that flat toward Bangor. He believed this one went by the name of Sam.

But no Tomas.

Sam kept his hands on the table, his face pale, sweat glistening on his forehead. He looked very much like a man in fear.

Herkus spoke to Darius in Lithuanian. “Where is he?”

Darius stared at the granite tabletop. “Who?”

Herkus approached the table. “You know who.”

Darius gave a strained laugh. “You mean Tomas?”

Sam flinched at the name.

“Yes,” Herkus said. “I mean Tomas.”

“I don’t know,” Darius said.

“Look at me,” Herkus said, leaning over him. He smelled whiskey and terror.

Darius raised his eyes to meet Herkus’s.

“Where is he?”

Darius shrugged. “Like I said, I don’t know. I’m not his babysitter.”

“Yes you are,” Herkus said. He kept his voice calm and even, lest Sam realize the gravity of the situation. “I left him with you. You’re responsible. I’ll ask you once more. Don’t lie to me. Where is Tomas?”

“I took him to the flat in Bangor,” Darius said. “He wanted to try out the new girl. He decided to take her out somewhere. I don’t know where. That was around eleven. I haven’t seen him or her since.”

Herkus placed a hand on Darius’s shoulder. The muscles tensed beneath the leather. “You’re lying to me. I’ll have to call Arturas. He’ll be angry. You know how much he cares for his brother.”

Darius held his hands up. They betrayed the panic boiling beneath the forced calm. “That’s what happened. He took the girl. That’s all there is to it. What do you want me to say?”

“The truth,” Herkus said. “And you will. Eventually.”

He turned his attention to Sam, noticed the grazing and dirt on his hands, as if he’d taken a fall.

“You,” he said in English. He spoke it better than Darius. “Where is Tomas?”

The moron looked up at him with drink-heavy eyes. He sneered. “Fucked if I know.”

Herkus grabbed as much cropped hair as he could and slammed the moron’s face into the tabletop. He felt more than heard the satisfying cracking of teeth.

Sam spat blood and tiny chips of enamel on the granite, lurched to his feet, and reached for something at the small of his back. Was the idiot going for a knife?

“Don’t,” Darius said.

The anger on Sam’s face turned to terror as he seemed to realize whatever he sought in his waistband was no longer there. He turned to look at the spot where his skinny arse had been just moments before.

“Don’t,” Darius said again, louder.

Sam reached for something on the seat. He brought it up to point at Herkus’s forehead. Or thereabouts. The pistol danced in his grip like a landed fish while blood dripped from his chin.

Herkus sighed. “You need to take the safety off.”

Sam stared for a moment before turning the pistol in his grip, looking for the catch.

In one smooth, quick sweep of his hand, Herkus snatched it from his grasp. Sam gaped at his own empty fingers.

“It’s a Glock,” Herkus said. “It has no safety catch. Sit down.”

Sam did as he was told while Herkus stashed the gun in his jacket pocket.

“I ask you again, where is Tomas?”

Sam spat again. “My hucking heeth!” he said, tears welling in his eyes. He brought his fingertips to his swelling lip.

Darius wiped red spots from his cheek and spoke in Lithuanian. “I told you already. We don’t know. He went off with the girl and didn’t come back.”

“All right.” Herkus smiled and spoke to Sam in English. “Let’s go for a drive.”