The Bone Church: A Novel by Victoria Dougherty

Author:Victoria Dougherty [Dougherty, Victoria]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Pier's Court Press
Published: 2014-04-13T04:00:00+00:00

*

“It’s a beer delivery,” Liebermann explained in butchered Czech. Felix sat next to him and smiled at the prison guard, nodding his head and playing the idiot.

“At this time of night?” the guard demanded. He grabbed the stack of paperwork from Liebermann’s fist and combed over the names, dates and specifications.

“Big man wants good beer,” Liebermann told the guard. “It’s good, no? For you, too. For everyone. Good job, well done. Have one on me, he says.”

The guard gestured for Liebermann and Felix to get out, aiming his gun at their chests. He opened up the back of the wagon and leaned in over the beer barrels, hitting random kegs with his night stick. He demanded that Liebermann tap one of the kegs.

“Mmm, good, no?” Liebermann urged, as the guard tested the brew. The guard blinked in the affirmative. He stomped back to his station and dialed his telephone, cupping his hand over the receiver as he spoke.

“He wants to see you,” the guard grunted, waving them along with his pistol, and making Felix and Liebermann march – hands raised – down a flight of unlit stairs into the basement. There, they were led through a long series of corridors and a maze of disjointed hallways lined with padded cells, and ushered into a pea-green room lit by florescent light tubes. The guard left, locking the door behind him.

Felix looked over at a simple, metal folding table that hosted an audio recorder, a pen, notepad, and a small, brown bottle. A large Gladstone bag sat under it. There was nothing else in the room – not even a chair. Only the table, what lay on it, and the bag. The brown bottle, Felix realized, was a vial of Thionyl Chloride. A powerful battery acid, it was often showcased during interrogations, though it was rarely used. They’d never used it on him, at least, though they’d threatened countless times to pour it into his eyes and on his genitals. He’d often wondered why they didn’t just do it.

“The beer was too cold.” The voice came from behind them. Neither Felix nor Liebermann had heard the lock being tripped and the door opening.

“It’s a cool night,” Felix said. He started to turn around.

“No, no, no. No need for that,” the man instructed, and Felix pivoted back.

“Did you bring my money?”

“Do you have the woman and the boy?” Felix asked.

“They’re being loaded onto your truck, of course.”

“By whom, Herr--?”

“Friend.”

“So nice to finally meet you in person,” Liebermann said.

Friend took out a small, light gray handkerchief, blowing his nose in three quick snuffs. An interrogation light clicked on and his head spun like a startled bird. Liebermann watched a man with second-rate clothes – new, but poorly made, copying styles from two years past – push open the door. His hair was thick and dirty blonde, with a greasy center part, and his mustache was unruly. Errant hairs poked out of it, tickling his lips and nostrils.

“Gitanes?” he crooned, offering the French cigarette by name.

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