Copefeld's sleeve suddenly snagged on a thorny branch. When he tugged, he heard the material tear. "Dammit," he whispered to the empty black air. Eyes squinting, he held up the cuff to his nose. As he rubbed the expensive silk between his fingertips in search of a hole, Copefeld heard a sound behind him.
A cracking branch.
Fearing an animal attack, he whirled. But it was no animal.
Strong hands grabbed his arms, pinning them painfully behind his back, yanking them up until they threatened to tear from the sockets.
As Copefeld tried frantically to pull away, a figure moved in front of him. The black face was filled with menace.
"What are you doing!" Copefeld gasped.
In response, a balled fist slashed across his face. The man's ring tore an angry gash in Copefeld's cheek.
Unseen men fought with his wrists, tightening something around them.
Rope twisted and knotted. Copefeld's legs were growing weak. Wriggling, panicked, he caught a glimpse of their sweating, gleeful faces.
A smell now. Strong. Something sloshing in a tin can.
"God, please, no," Copefeld begged into the pitiless African night.
One of the men, whom he now recognized as an assistant to Mandobar, carried forward a familiar large doughnut shape. The harmless object-recognizable to even the most rural villages around the world-had a special meaning in East Africa.
A tire. The Goodyear logo was visible along the smooth black side.
Something sloshed within the hollow basin interior of the wheelless ring of rubber. Gasoline. Copefeld wanted to vomit, but paralyzing fear locked food and bile in his knotted chest.
A necklacing. That's what they called it. Mandobar had even gone to trial for it before East Africa's laws had been subverted in favor of criminals. As the others held him, Mandobar's man dropped the grimy tire around Copefeld's neck.
"Please," Copefeld wept. "Please, no."
As the lawyer cried hot tears, an oily rag was stuffed in his mouth. They pushed it in so hard, it triggered his gag reflex. Copefeld vomited his dinner of veal scampi and red wine. Some of it spewed from his nose, burning and mixed with bile. The rag blocked the rest. When he swallowed, the thick acid tasted of motor oil.
As his stomach clenched, gasoline from a can was splattered on his clothes. The men were shouting jubilantly.
Some of the bungalow lights came on. Sleepy delegates had come out onto porches in their nightclothes to investigate the commotion.
Floodlights flared to life, bathing the square in a sick yellow haze.
As he was shoved into the center of the broad road, Copefeld felt dozens of eyes upon him. He saw Sham Tokumo and Jamon Albondigas. On the nearest, largest porch stood Mandobar. Eyes flat, head shaking somberly. So sad.
And in that moment before his murder, Russell Copefeld had a sudden flash of realization.
It wasn't the fight in the conference room that was to be Mandobar's example. It was what would happen to anyone who decided to pick a fight in the new East Africa.
Russell Copefeld was the example.
A match was lit. Copefeld heard the stick drawn across sand and phosphorous.
He smelled the gas, the sharp odor burning with the bile in his nostrils.
Mandobar had set him up. Set him up to make a point. The hook had been baited with Copefeld's own greed.
The match danced before his eyes, the yellow flame quivering hypnotically.
Mandobar on the porch, head shaking sadly. Copefeld wanted to scream about the treachery, but the gag prevented him from shouting.
And in another instant, it no longer mattered. The match was tossed. Copefeld's chest ignited in a blinding, brilliant flash of yellow and orange. The pain was horrible, the heat unimaginable. As the flames engulfed his body, the rag in his mouth ignited, burning his face, his eyes. Screaming, Copefeld spit. The rag came out in a soggy, half-flaming knot. It fell, hissing and smoking to the dusty ground.
Fully ablaze now and already blind, Copefeld mustered his last ounce of strength. Staggering, he managed only a few garbled words.
"Mandobar, you b-"
And the crackling flames consumed him. Russell Copefeld pitched forward into the dirt. Quivering, burning. Dead.
As the sickly smell of cooked human flesh began to dissipate in the warm air, the delegates began slowly returning to their bungalows, softly shutting their doors on the horror they had just witnessed.
No one said a word. Only Sham Tokumo and Mandobar remained.
Eventually, Mandobar disappeared into the last house. The lights inside shut off moments later. The lawyer from New York crackled gently for what seemed like an eternity. Eventually, one of the men who'd set him ablaze put a bullet into the back of his head, just to make certain. After that, Copefeld's killers threw a blanket over the smoking remains.
Sham Tokumo watched the smoldering blanket for a long time. His thoughts were far away. Some remnants of the sweet smell of cooked human flesh clung to the lazy African air. Smoke from some perverse barbecue.
Something told Tokumo this would not be the last body he would see in this venture. Eventually, he turned his back on Russell Copefeld, clicking off the porch light of his bungalow. It was after 1:00 a.m. when he returned to bed.
Though Sham Tokumo closed his eyes, sleep eluded him.
Chapter 2
His name was Remo and what he really wanted to do was bring the baby back to life. Unable to do that, he planned to do the next best thing. He was going to kill the baby's father.
A few dozen mourners clustered together on the damp sidewalk in front of the Simeoni Funeral Home in downtown Peoria. Their eyes were as black and dreary as the upturned collars of their sopped jackets. The stink of damp cigarette smoke hung in the drizzle.
Remo ignored the thin mist that had begun to collect like a wet, gray shroud to the somber, swollen night air. As he walked up the street, he noted that the crowd was smaller than he'd seen on television the previous night.
That he had seen anything about this on TV was repellent. A family's tragedy had been broadcast coast to coast. As a result, the turnout at the funeral parlor was greater than anyone could have imagined. And so, like a popular play, the run had been extended. This was the wake's last night.
As he approached the somber two-story building, he saw that the sidewalk in front of the funeral parlor was piled high with cellophane-wrapped bundles of flowers. Mixed in with these were candles, cards and photographs of the infant victim. Soggy teddy bears drooped morosely against the curb.
It was part of a relatively new practice that clearly heralded the end of Western civilization. People starving for celebrity were no longer content to simply hear about catastrophes. They had to participate somehow. And so now whenever there was a cause for national sorrow, they insisted on stampeding to the florist waving their overcharged MasterCards in a frantic bid to be "involved." As a result, the lives of the deceased and the genuine sorrow of their families were reduced to things no more important than a wadded-up Big Mac wrapper.
This, among other things, did Remo think as he passed the mound of junk near the funeral parlor driveway. He steered a course toward the main entrance.
In his black T-shirt and chinos, Remo could easily be mistaken for a casually dressed mourner. He was a nondescript man of indeterminate age. The only thing outwardly unusual about him were his inordinately thick wrists. He looked to be in his thirties, had a lean build and what had been at times described as a cruel face.
Ordinarily, Remo didn't agree with that assessment. Ordinarily, he thought he had a pretty nice face-in spite of what anyone else might say. This day, however, he wouldn't be surprised if someone thought he looked cruel. This day, he wanted to look cruel. And in the effort, he wore an expression that was light-years beyond cruel. The violence which churned in perpetuity just beneath the surface now roiled in twin pools of menace in his dark, deep-set eyes.