Relic of Death

  Table of Contents

  RELIC OF DEATH

  Connect With Us

  The Hit Men

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  The Junkie

  1

  The Poor Woman

  1

  2

  The Peeper

  1

  2

  The Husband

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  The Little Girl

  1

  The Keeper

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  About the Author

  About the Publisher

  RELIC OF DEATH

  David Bernstein

  First Edition

  Relic of Death © 2014 by David Bernstein

  All Rights Reserved.

  A DarkFuse Release

  www.darkfuse.com

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

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  For my brother, Adam

  Acknowledgements

  I’d like to thank Dave Thomas and Shane Staley for helping to make this book the best it can be and for giving it a great home. I’d also like to thank Sandy, as always, for her help with this book. You do such a great job and make this whole process much easier. And I can’t thank my parents enough for always supporting and believing in me.

  The Hit Men

  1

  Bruno held the .45-caliber handgun an inch from the back of Danny “The Blade” Kilpatrick’s head.

  “Please, I’ll do anything,” Danny whined as he stared into the hole he’d dug, his grave. “Anything.”

  Sal Diamante leaned against an oak tree, watching the scene play out. He and Bruno were two born-and-bred Brooklyn boys, looking extremely out of place in the middle of the forest, with their thousand-dollar Armani suits and Rolex watches.

  Sal stuck a cigarette between his lips and whipped out his Zippo. In one fluid motion, he flipped open the top and ran his thumb over the flint. Flame burst to life. He brought the lighter to his face, lit the cigarette, then snapped the lighter closed and returned it to his pocket. The Zippo had been a gift from his father, the grumpy, drunk bastard now resting six feet underground.

  Sal sucked in a lungful of smoke, watching his partner enjoy his work. He neither enjoyed nor hated killing. It was a job, and a good paying one at that.

  Sal had heard it all—the whining, pleading, begging, offers to double, even triple, whatever he had been paid. But the truth was it wasn’t solely about the money. It was about loyalty. He wasn’t a mercenary. He worked for Bobby Falcone, had for most of his life.

  “You’d do anything?” Bruno said. “How about fuck my dog? Would you do that?”

  “W…what?” Danny said.

  “I asked if you’d fuck my dog. She’s a little cocker spaniel. Ugly as sin and a real pain in my ass, but my wife loves the fucking thing.”

  “C’mon,” Sal said. “Get on with it.”

  Danny “The Blade” was a weasel. Sal never liked the guy, but the boss used him for low-end jobs—robbery, car theft, small-time hauls. But the moron had been caught skimming from Mr. Falcone, and now he was going to pay his debt in blood.

  “I got money,” Danny said. “Lots and lots of cash money. It’s yours. All of it.”

  “Yeah?” Bruno said. “How much?”

  “Cut it out,” Sal said. He was halfway done with his smoke. He’d been partners with Bruno for five years. The guy wasn’t right in the head, but he was loyal and tough. Bruno loved watching people squirm before he killed them.

  Sal was different, older. He’d been a young buck once, a hotshot, but he’d never taken pleasure in killing. It was business…well most of the time. Sometimes bumping off an asshole was enjoyable. But at 51, his priorities had changed. All he cared about was saving his money, being with family, and getting home alive. He allowed his victims a few words, and then sent them on to the next world.

  “Please,” Danny cried.

  “You should’ve thought twice before stealing from Mr. Falcone,” Sal said.

  “I didn’t steal shit,” Danny said, putting his hands together in a steeple, as if he were praying. “I swear on my dead grandmother.”

  “So, you going to bang my dog then, or what?” Bruno said.

  “Stop fucking with the guy,” Sal said, exhaling a cloud of smoke. He hadn’t slept at all last night. He’d received a call from his daughter, Melinda, informing him that she had breast cancer. The words had cut his legs out from under him, the pain in his heart was worse than any bullet hole or stab wound. She’d said the cancer had been caught early, so the prognosis was optimistic, but still…

  Cancer was a serious motherfucker. Sal had been shaken to his core, staying up all night, thinking. His baby girl was the epitome of health; she ate the right foods, jogged daily, and was in a good relationship. Sal was a heavy smoker, ate greasy foods high in cholesterol. Yeah, he pumped iron and had some muscle tone, but his lifestyle was hard. He worked all hours, put up with scumbags and whacked people. If anyone should’ve gotten sick, it should’ve been him, not Melinda. The world was a cruel, unforgiving place.

  “I’m just having a little fun,” Bruno said, still pointing the gun at Danny’s head.

  “Is this all a joke?” Danny said. “You guys just fucking with me? Putting a good scare into me?”

  Bruno chuckled.

  “’Cause I’m scared,” Danny continued. “Look.” He motioned to his crotch where a dark stain had formed. “I pissed myself.”

  Sal slapped at a mosquito on his neck. He blew out more smoke and waved it around his head, hoping to keep the bugs away. “I’d have shot you already, Danny. I just want you to know Bruno’s a sick fuck.”

  “Hey,” Bruno said, sounding offended. “Well, I guess I am.”

  “You mean—” Danny’s words were cut short as a bullet from the .45 broke through his skull and tore through his brain. With the silencer attached, the weapon hardly made a sound.

  Danny’s corpse collapsed into the grave, his legs draping along the grave’s dirt wall.

  “Happy?” Bruno said.

  “Yes,” Sal said, swatting his ear. “I hate the fucking woods. Too many bugs.” He finished off his smoke, then snubbed out the butt on his tongue. Pulling a small Ziploc baggie from his suit jacket pocket, he placed the butt inside, sealed the top, and returned the baggie to his pocket.

  “Always so damn paranoid,” Bruno said, shaking his head. “We’re in the middle of the woods, in upstate New York, on over three hundred acres of land owned by our boss.”

  Sal tapped the side of his head. “Smarts. You got to have smarts, kid, if you want to last long, make it out alive. Stay out of the slammer. You never know when some hunter or country bumpkin is going to come along and find the body, or one of the other corpses buried out here.” He held o
ut his arms and turned around. “This land is here for one reason—it’s a fucking dumping ground. You think the folks who live in these parts give a shit about property rights? They traipse all over, and you never know who or what might turn up. And I ain’t going to jail on some fucking DNA swab from my cigarette butt.”

  Bruno rolled his eyes. “I love ya, Sal, but you’re giving me a headache. C’mon, let’s finish this.” The big guy holstered his gun. He pulled latex gloves over his black leather ones and climbed into the hole. Sal handed him a pair of pliers, which he used to remove all of Danny’s teeth, and placed them in a Ziploc baggie, along with both latex gloves. He then positioned the body so that it was flush with the bottom of the grave, and climbed out.

  Sal picked up the bag of lye they had purchased on the way and emptied it over the corpse. The white powder would speed up the decomposition process. When the bag was empty, Sal rolled it up and stuffed it into a large freezer bag.

  Bruno filled in the grave and covered the freshly churned dirt with leaves and branches.

  Both men surveyed the ground, making sure there was nothing left indicating their presence, and hiked twenty minutes back to where the Navigator was parked.

  2

  The sun had dipped below the horizon, leaving the forest riddled in gloom. The dirt road where the SUV was parked glowed in an eerie half-light. Bruno started the vehicle and turned on the headlights, the powerful V-8 engine shattering the countryside’s stillness.

  The two hit men drove slowly along the dirt road that ran throughout the property, bouncing up and down over large potholes. Ten minutes later, they hit the main road, a cracked and sun-faded stretch of asphalt that led back to the small town of Spencer. From there, it was a four- to five-hour drive back to Brooklyn, depending on traffic.

  About a mile from the dirt road, the two men came to the small, wooden bridge they had crossed earlier. Bruno exited the vehicle and emptied the baggie of teeth, along with the latex gloves, into the river below. Next, he tossed the murder weapon into the rushing water, the evidence of the crime literally washed away.

  Bruno climbed back inside the Navigator and drove off. A quarter mile down the road, the SUV lost power and rolled to a halt.

  “What happened?” Sal asked, having settled back in his seat to take a nap.

  “No idea.” Bruno said, and turned the key in the ignition. “Nothing. It’s totally dead.”

  Sal sighed. The last thing he needed was car trouble.

  Bruno popped the hood and got out.

  Sal lit a cigarette and joined him at the front of the car. “See anything?” he said.

  “Nope,” Bruno said, peering into the engine.

  “Timing belt, maybe?”

  “Nah.” Bruno came out from under the hood. “This thing’s got a timing chain, but it ain’t that either. Probably something with the computer. I miss the old days when cars were simple. You know, easy to fix. When you could see what the hell’s the matter with them.” Bruno reached into his pocket and retrieved his cell phone.

  “What the fuck are you doing?” Sal said.

  “What?” Bruno said, shrugging.

  “Don’t even think about it.”

  “What the hell are we supposed to do? We’re stranded in the middle of nowhere.”

  Sal took a long drag on his cigarette while Bruno returned the phone to his pocket. “We walk.”

  3

  With the full moon’s illumination to see by, the two men headed down the road. They walked in the center, keeping the impenetrable darkness of the forest and its inhabitants as far from them as possible. Neither man said much during their journey, and not a single automobile had driven past. There were no other roads, driveways or houses, at least that either man had noticed.

  An hour later, they came upon a dirt driveway, a mailbox indicating that a residence lay somewhere along the path. The men looked at each other, shrugged, and headed down the driveway.

  Darkness shrouded the way; the forest, with its overhanging branches seemed to creep in toward them.

  “This is some eerie shit,” Bruno said, and pulled out his handgun, a 9mm Sig Sauer.

  “Put that thing away,” Sal whispered. “We’re not walking into a fucking crack house. We don’t need any problems from locals. We need their help.”

  “Can’t see shit,” Bruno argued, “And besides, these backwoods hillbillies are worse than crack heads. They’re the ones that’ll ass-rape you, then feed you to the pigs.”

  Sal wanted to smack the guy upside his head, but truth be told, he wanted his gun out too. But he knew better. No one looked kindly on anyone holding a gun.

  “Just put it away for now,” Sal demanded.

  “Fine,” Bruno said. “I’m used to streetlights and sidewalks, traffic jams, people everywhere, not this dark-ass country bullshit.”

  “Believe me,” Sal agreed, “I know how you feel. The faster we get to a phone, the quicker we get home.”

  The driveway extended into the forest about a quarter mile, opening up to a small clearing where a squat, little dwelling sat. Sal had to squint for a moment, the moonlight seeming especially bright now that he was out of the overwhelming gloom. A few pine trees stood tall in the front yard, the ground littered with needles. The house was dark and there was no vehicle to be seen, leaving him to wonder if anyone was home. Maybe the place was a summer residence, though he doubted it based upon the place’s condition. The house was in need of a serious paint job, the roof had moss growing around the corners and was missing shingles.

  “Looks like no one’s home,” Bruno said.

  Sal glanced at his wristwatch. “Nine p.m.”

  “They go to work early in these parts,” Bruno said. “Owner might be asleep already.”

  “Only one way to find out,” Sal said and walked up the porch steps. He pulled opened the creaky screen door and knocked, finding it odd that the door was solid steel. When no lights shone from the house’s windows, he knocked again. Nothing. He tried the knob, but the door was locked.

  The two men walked around the house, checking the windows and back door, which were all locked, but he was sure no one was home.

  Standing by one of the rear windows, Bruno pulled out his pistol and smashed the butt of his weapon against the glass. A dull thud sounded. The glass held. He struck again, harder this time, but to no avail.

  “What the hell?” he said. Reaching down, he picked up a grapefruit-sized rock and smashed it against the window, receiving the same peculiar result.

  Sal approached the window, studied the glass. He knocked on it. Smiled. “Bulletproof. Shit’s at least a few inches thick.”

  “What the hell would some backwoods hick need bulletproof glass for?” Bruno asked, dropping the rock.

  “No idea.”

  “So what now, head on down the road?”

  “No, we break the fuck in.”

  Sal was tired from worrying about his daughter all night. Not just physically, but mentally. Hearing the news about his baby girl had done something to his core, fractured it a little. But this latest revelation, the secured home, had intrigued him, given him a jolt of energy, or maybe it was simply a distraction, like a puzzle. Whoever owned the home had gone out of his way to make sure the place was locked up tight and difficult to breach. Maybe there was even a phone inside, though he hadn’t seen any phone lines leading to the property. If the house was some sort of drug den or hideout, then maybe it would have a cell phone somewhere in it, possibly even a satellite phone.

  Sal didn’t feel like walking another hour, or however long it would take to reach town. It wasn’t guaranteed a garage would be open. Option one would be to see what the house held. If that turned out to be nothing, then option two: the hike to town, where they might wind up sleeping on a bench outside a garage until it opened. If they found a phone inside the house, they could sit and relax until help arrived.

  Standing before the back door, nothing but hundreds of acres of wilderness behind th
em, Bruno attempted to kick the door open, but to no reward. He would’ve been considered an expert at breaking down doors if such a category existed, having performed the task successfully numerous times. When the door refused to cooperate, which Sal figured it wouldn’t, Bruno rammed the barrier with his shoulder.

  The door held.

  “Forget it,” he said, rubbing his arm.

  “Move out of the way,” Sal said, and pulled his .45 Smith & Wesson from his jacket. He twisted on the silencer and blasted the area around the doorknob, causing almost no damage, save for a few dings and scratches.

  “This ain’t right,” Bruno said. “We need a battering ram or something.”

  Sal noticed a huge pile of chopped wood to his right. He glanced around the back yard and saw an oddly-shaped silhouette about thirty feet away. He approached the object, seeing that an axe was sticking out of a tree stump. Grinning, he plucked the wood-splitting tool free and returned to the house.

  “Here,” he said, handing it to Bruno.

  Bruno took it and smiled.

  “Use the sledgehammer side, and bash that fucking door down,” Sal said, and took a few steps back.

  Bruno removed his jacket, giving it to Sal to hold. He hefted the axe and swung it against the door, just above the handle. A dent formed in the shape of a half-circle. The door hadn’t budged. He swung the axe again, over and over like a firefighter desperate to save people from a burning building. With each swing, Bruno grunted with great effort. He quickly built up a sweat, the moonlight glistening off the man’s forehead. Finally the door gave a little. Bruno continued his relentless hammering, the door opening what seemed like a millimeter at a time. The big man took a minute to rest, and then picked up the axe again. His cheek muscles flexed as he squeezed the handle. Then like an angered grizzly, he swung the axe, blunt side leading the way, and bashed the door.