The Death Sculptor

Sixteen

‘So, do you know what the problem is?’ Andrew Nashorn asked the mechanic, who was hunched over the inboard engine pit inside the cabin of his midsized sailboat.

Nashorn was fifty-one years old with a full head of light brown hair, a thick chest and arms, and a swagger that told everybody that he still knew how to handle himself in a fistfight. The scar above his left eyebrow and the crooked nose came from his early boxing days.

Nashorn spent the entire year waiting for the official start of the summer. It’s true that in Los Angeles, and most of southern California, summer is an almost endless season, but those first few official weeks were considered by many boat owners as the best for sailing. The winds were kinder and practically unceasing. The ocean calmer than ever. The water was clearer, and clouds seemed to go paint the sky somewhere else for a couple of weeks.

Nashorn always filed for his two-week holiday at the beginning of every year. The period was always the same – the first few weeks of summer. He’d been doing so for the last twenty years. And for the last twenty years his vacation had been exactly the same, he’d pack a few clothes, some supplies, his fishing gear, and disappear into the Pacific for fourteen days.

Nashorn didn’t eat fish; he didn’t like the taste of it. He fished simply for sport, and because it relaxed him. He’d always throw his catch back into the water as soon as he unhooked it from his line. He used only circle hooks, because they were kinder to the fish.

Despite having many friends, Nashorn always sailed alone. He’d been married once, over twenty years ago. His wife, Jane, suffered a heart attack in their kitchen one afternoon while he was out working. It happened so quickly she never managed to get to the phone. They’d only been married for about three years. Nashorn never even knew she had a heart condition.

Jane’s death devastated him. To Nashorn, she simply was the one. From the first day they met, he knew he wanted to grow old with her, or so he hoped. The first two years after her death were torturous. More than once Nashorn thought about ending his life so he could be with Jane again. He even had a special bullet set aside for the occasion – a .38 hollow point – but that day never came. Little by little, Nashorn managed to step out of his dark depression. But he never remarried, and since then, not a day went by that he didn’t think of her.

Officially, summer had started yesterday, and Nashorn had planned to set sail this afternoon, but when he tried engaging his 29 h.p. diesel engine, the motor coughed and rattled a few times before stalling. He tried it again, but the engine just wouldn’t start. Some sailors might’ve considered taking off with a dead engine – after all, it was a sailboat – but that would’ve been careless, and careless was something Nashorn was not.

He was lucky, though. He was about to call Warren Donnelly, his usual mechanic, when another mechanic, who had just finished servicing the boat right next to his, heard the engine coughing like a dying dog and asked if Nashorn needed any help. That saved Nashorn at least a couple of hours, maybe more.

The mechanic had been looking over the small engine for just over five minutes now.

‘So,’ Nashorn said again, ‘how bad is it? Can it be fixed today?’

Without looking up, the mechanic lifted a finger, asking for one more minute.

Nashorn moved closer, trying to look over the mechanic’s shoulder.

‘There’s a crack in your lube-oil pump,’ the mechanic finally said, in the calmest of voices. ‘You’ve been leaking oil for a day, maybe two. Some of it has dripped onto the fuel-injection nozzle and clogged it.’

Nashorn looked at the mechanic with a blank stare. He knew very little about engines. ‘Can you fix it?’

‘The oil pump can’t be mended, the crack is too big. You need a new one.’

‘Oh, you’ve gotta be kidding.’

The mechanic smiled. ‘Fortunately, that’s one of the most common oil pumps around. They don’t crack that easy, but it happens. I think I might have a spare one somewhere in my bag.’

‘Oh, that’d be awesome.’ Nashorn lips broke into a half smile. ‘Could you check?’

‘Not a problem.’ The mechanic moved back from the engine pit and checked the large toolbox by the steps. ‘I guess it’s your lucky day. I’ve got one. It’s not brand new, but it’s in good condition and it will certainly do the trick.’

Nashorn’s half smile turned into a full one.

‘But before changing the pump, I need to clean the oil mess and unblock the fuel-injection nozzle. It shouldn’t take more than ten minutes, fifteen tops.’

Nashorn checked his watch. ‘That’d be just awesome. I can set off before sundown.’

The mechanic returned to the engine pit, and using an already-stained cloth, started cleaning away some of the oil that had dripped onto the fuel line.

‘So, are you sailing far?’

Nashorn walked over to the fridge and grabbed two beers. ‘I don’t know yet. I don’t really plan anything. I just try to go with the wind. Beer?’

‘No thanks. I had too many of those over the weekend.’

Nashorn twisted the cap off one of the bottles, had a sip and returned the other one to the fridge. ‘This is the only vacation I take in the year. Two weeks away from everything.’

‘And you can’t wait to get started, right? I know exactly what you mean. Me, I can say that I haven’t had a vacation for . . .’ The mechanic paused for a second and then laughed, sadly. ‘Wow, I can’t even remember the last time I had a vacation.’

‘You see, I couldn’t do that. It would drive me nuts. I need these two weeks to myself.’

‘Oh shit!’ the mechanic interrupted, jerking backwards. Liquid squirted up from the engine and onto the floor.

‘What happened?’ Nashorn moved forward, looking worried.

‘One of the high-pressure fuel-injection lines disconnected.’

‘That doesn’t sound good.’

The mechanic looked around quickly as if searching for something. ‘I need to get a clamp to fix it back in place. Can you do me a favor and hold this hose just like this while I grab a pressure clamp.’

‘Sure.’ Nashorn put his beer down and held the hose in place as the mechanic showed him.

‘Don’t let go of that, I’ll be right back.’

Nashorn kept his finger and his attention firmly on the thin dark rubber pipe. He could hear the mechanic rummaging through the toolbox behind him. ‘This isn’t gonna delay you fixing the engine is it?’

No reply.

‘I’d really love to set sail before nightfall.’

Silence. The rummaging had stopped.

‘Hello . . . ?’ Nashorn twisted his body awkwardly to look back.

At that exact moment the mechanic swung a metal wrench around as if it were a baseball bat. Time went into slow motion for Nashorn. The wrench collided with his face with a chilling cracking sound. His jaw fractured in one, two, three places. The skin started to rupture at the base of the jaw, and did so all the way to his chin, exposing flesh and bone. Blood splattered high into the air in all directions. Three of Nashorn’s teeth shattered and were violently projected against the wall. A large bone splinter broke loose from his fractured jaw and perforated his gum, just under the now-missing first molar, its tip touching the exposed nerve left there by the missing tooth. Pain darkened his eyes. The hit was so powerful and well placed that Nashorn’s body was catapulted backwards; his back slammed against the engine, his head against the wooden panel above it.

Nashorn’s vision blurred instantly. Blood flooded his mouth and trickled down into his throat, blocking his airways and making him gasp for air. He tried to speak but the only sound he could muster was a pitiful, gurgling noise. Just before he lost consciousness, he saw the mechanic standing high above him, still holding the wrench.

‘You . . .’ the mechanic said with an evil smile. ‘I’ll take my time with.’