Nine

17

Castillo del Chapulínes Resort

Near Oaxaca, Mexico

Tuesday, May 20, 2:16 P.M.

The heavyset and graying man who called himself Gerald Majors studied the two new arrivals. He watched from the balcony of his room, where their voices had come to him as he lay thumbing through a magazine full of photos of naked young boys.

The men by the pool were German tourists, evidently. He had heard one of them call to the other in that language and receive a quick answer in the same. The young men were having drinks now, carrying on a low-voiced conversation. He thought they were probably in their early twenties. Not young enough to suit his fancy.

Majors would tell anyone who asked that he felt no desire whatsoever for sexual relations with adult males. The occasional fantasies about men were never as frequent or exciting as the ones he had about boys. His adult sexual partners had always been women, and he was, in fact, still legally married, although Regina had filed for divorce.

The problem, if you believed it was a problem-and he no longer did-was that every so often he felt an irresistible hunger come upon him, an appetite that had to be satisfied, he believed, or the appetite itself would eat away at him, would demand his attention until he could think of nothing else, do nothing else.

At first, it was a desire for sexual encounters with male children of a certain age, boys of not more than nine or less than six. As risky as that was, he had managed it. He was self-employed, and in a not-so-exciting line of work-an installer and repairer of commercial heating and air-conditioning systems who offered his services especially cheaply to low-income school districts, orphanages, and the like. He traveled for business purposes and was careful to ensure he never did anything that would make those closer to home suspect his proclivities.

The use of roofies-Rohypnol illegally obtained on occasional trips to Mexico-was a little dangerous with boys of this age, but the drug made them unsure of what had occurred and definitely prevented Majors from being identified. The actual encounter with the boys took place away from the schools. For a time he even made up employees for himself. “We’ll send Mr. Brown there on Tuesday.” If there were any questions, he would say Mr. Brown had quit without notice. But there were never any questions, so he had stopped bothering. Now the false IDs came in handy, though.

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.

He heard an answer from inside the building, a deep male voice. Majors couldn’t catch all of it, something about trusting Señor Emillio to take care. A moment later, Majors tensed in surprise.

A young Mexican boy, giggling, dressed in only swimming trunks, came running toward the pool. The dark one smiled and opened his arms. The boy jumped into the pool. Majors watched, and for the first time since he had been observing him, the dark one’s face lit with pleasure, transforming him. Majors realized that he was more excited by the young man than the boy.

This was a first for him, slightly upsetting, and yet he found himself unable to stop watching the boy and man together.

The man said something in a low voice, and the boy replied, laughing. Majors caught enough of this to understand that the boy was amused by his Spanish. “No, no, señor, no burro-caballo.” To a soft-spoken question came the answer, “Sí, el poney.” As he moved to shallower water and set the boy gently on his feet, the boy spoke rapidly and enthusiastically to him, telling him of some adventure he had on his new pony, a gift it seemed, from the señor.

The blond watched, smiling, and came closer to them. He glanced up at the balcony and beckoned again to Majors. “Come and meet our friend Justino. He is telling us what a fine horseman he is.”

Majors smiled back, made a decision, and hurried into his room.

After brushing his teeth and quickly washing his armpits, he sped downstairs-but by then, the blond was taking the boy, wrapped in a towel, inside. “Sorry,” he called from the doorway, “he’s scraped his toe and no one but his papa will do for him now. But I forget my manners-I’m Emil.” He nodded toward the pool. “There is my friend, Conrad.”

“Gerald Majors,” he said.

“I’ll take Justino to his father. May I bring you something to drink?”

“Sure-Scotch on the rocks.”

“Conrad, bitte,” he said, “be entertaining, won’t you?”

Conrad smiled at Majors, and in much more awkward English, said, “How do you do? You would like to swim with me, please?”

Majors smiled back and got into the water. He swam toward Conrad, but Conrad, smiling coyly now, evaded him, and for a time they played a little game of chase. The young man easily swam past him again and again, but occasionally brushed against him.

Emil returned with the drink, and refills for Conrad and himself. Majors was quite out of breath by then, and nervous as well-a little afraid of what he was feeling. He drank deeply, felt better, and then belatedly toasted the young men.

“Your first time to the Castillo?” Emil asked politely.

“Yes. Yours?”

“Oh no, we are friends of the family who own it. We adore it. We come here from Frankfurt every chance we get.”

“Frankfurt? I was just there.”

“No! You do business in Germany?”

“All over the world.”

“But how wonderful! Do you speak German?”

“No, I’m afraid not. But so many Europeans speak English so well these days-you and Conrad, for example.”

Conrad smiled and shyly said, “Emil, yes. Mine is…not so good.”

Majors moved a little closer to him, patted him on the shoulder. “Your English is fine.”

Conrad smiled and stepped a little away, but Majors read invitation in his dark eyes.

Majors made short work of the Scotch. It was excellent, smoother than most. He began to feel a slight buzz-he hadn’t eaten much at midday, the heat having taken the edge off his appetite. The young men kept smiling at him, and he found Emil’s conversation more and more charming. Perhaps both of them, together? Why not?

He turned to set his glass on the pool deck and found that he couldn’t quite coordinate the action. Suddenly light-headed, he wondered who it was who said, in perfect English as the sky began to spin, “Oh, at last. I’ll up the next dose. Now, catch him, Cameron-drowning is really too quick and painless.”

The grip on his hair, just before he passed out, was definitely not painless.