Devour, p.29
Devour, page 29
“Nice digs,” Slack mumbled from the back seat.
“No shit,” Stein chimed in, attached to Michael with a chain.
“The grounds are beautiful,” Baxter said, pulling the van next to the house and parking.
Both officers looked at one another and smirked while Michael’s attention was elsewhere. He was observing the points of entry and the cameras posted at both the front and side of the house as well as the garage. He looked from the dense woods in the back to the thick privacy hedges all along the driveway, and all the way back down to where they entered from the street.
“Who knew?” Slack mumbled.
“I don’t see a single house nearby. Unique in a neighborhood this popular, wouldn’t you say?” Michael asked, trying to adjust the chains to be more comfortable.
“And expensive,” Baxter added. “Kentfield is no slouch. And a fun fact? Governor Newsom has a home around here.”
Greeting his guests at the front door, an elegantly dressed Dalton held his arms wide and welcomed the men to enter. “Hello, Officers Jansen and Stein—although I prefer Slack & Ding Dong. However, I promise to try and remain civil. At least for this special occasion,” he sneered.
As the dogs appeared, he took a cautious step backwards. “Hello, Alpha and Zeus. Nice to see you could make it.” Waving for the dogs to be moved, he said, “Officer Jansen, do us all a favor and take the filthy beasts to that porch,” he pointed, “Just off the dining room.”
As they followed his instructions, Baxter stepped through the entrance.
“Hello, Baxter. Looks like you’re ready for a gay parade,” Dalton smirked.
Frowning, Baxter tilted his head to one side.
“Just kidding, you’re very handsome. Please come in.”
Michael, still chained to Officer Stein, stood off to the side. “Suppose you could see your way clear unshackling me, Warden?” Michael said, lifting his bound hands. “Makes it a lot easier to cook, ya know.”
“Of course, how ridiculous,” Dalton spat, pointing for Stein to unlock him, then waved like a game show host for his guests to make their way toward the elaborate and well-stocked bar.
Between the eclectic mixture of music playing throughout the house and the vast amount of booze flowing during cocktail hour, they quickly forgot their normal lives and embraced the current one.
While Baxter and the guards talked around the bar, Dalton watched Michael carve, craft and create one magical dish after another in the kitchen. He was completely absorbed in euphoric feelings—likely a result of drugs and the fact his cooking idol was in his home, using his tools, and preparing a one-of-a-kind dinner.
Pouring a glass of wine, Dalton said, “Michael, I’ve been watching you for, what, 25 minutes, and I swear I’ve never seen anything like it.”
As angry as Michael was with the lunatic, he had to admit, it was nice to hear the compliments. Since he was in his element, enjoying a delicious and perfectly paired wine, he felt oddly content. Besides, he had a pretty good idea how the evening was going to end, so he tried his best to enjoy the ride.
With a state-of-the-art kitchen, a wide variety of exceptional knives, and any cooking tool imaginable, it was obvious to Michael his nemesis took his passion to an entirely new level.
“I’m surprised you haven’t asked where so much of this food came from,” Dalton said with an odd expression.
Michael was caught off guard by the comment because he had not given it much thought. Either way, and in a move to appease the man, he played along. “Well, the sushi is first grade. Looks like you’ve got the bases covered from Ahi and Bincho to Toro Hamachi and Hotate. Let’s see there’s Ika, Maguro, and Sake, plus Unagi and Uni.” Smelling the fish, Michael added, “And supremely fresh. You certainly did your homework.”
“And you certainly know your sushi, Michael. But you should, right?”
“If not, I’m in the wrong business.”
They laughed.
Looking through a cooler drawer of other meats, Michael looked closely at the grain and marble. “Some of this Kobe looks very nice. And the Wagyu’s marbling is superb.”
Dalton’s smile was a blend of glee and guilt. “Glad you’re impressed.”
“This lamb is beautiful. I’m sure it’s grass fed. And escargot? Marvelous.”
Nodding, Dalton grinned from ear to ear. As Michael continued going through multiple drawers of food, Dalton continued going through a memory bank of his donors.
“Between you and me,” Dalton said, looking into the great room where his guests were talking and laughing, “A good deal of this I’ve acquired from unique sources, literally from all over the world. Perhaps the most exotic,” he said, lifting out a glass dish, “Is lamb brains. I’ve tried beef, cow, and sheep, but for whatever reason, this has become my favorite.”
Michael looked at the dish and frowned.
“What?”
“Nothing,” Michael hesitated. “Just don’t know many people who are so into offal.”
“Oh, I enjoy a good many dishes,” Dalton chuckled, “Off the beaten path. You name the pâté, and I’ve had it. Well, like I say, I’m a nut for the exotic.”
“Nut is right,” Michael mumbled as he frowned.
Distraught, Dalton returned the dish back to the fridge. “Why the frown, Michael?”
Ignoring Dalton, he said, “This is really good,” pouring a vintage Pinot Noir. “It will pair so nicely with the foie gras. And to your question, I was just recalling how dangerous it can be eating brains—especially human brains.”
Dalton’s expression was dramatic.
Even Baxter, who was within earshot, turned to watch.
“No, I know,” Michael said, holding up both hands. “Weird, but there are some people that enjoy such exotic food. Anyway, you’re an intelligent, well-read man. I’m sure you’ve heard of TSE.”
Dalton nearly choked on his wine. “What?”
Swirling the wine in his glass, Michael said, “Yeah, Transmissible Spongiform Encephalopathy. A really nasty disease. Actually, a neurological disorder to be precise.”
Dalton’s eyebrows were still raised when he looked at the meats on the counter. He took another sip of wine.
“Sorry, not the sort of talk you want when eating delicacies,” Michael chuckled. “But, I have to know all sorts of things in my line of work. Anyhow, it’s rare. Usually cows, you know,” he waved at the air. “As in the Mad Cow scare?”
“Wait,” Dalton held up a hand. “For curiosity, what are the symptoms?”
Michael took another sip. “Okay, just because you asked, but then we’re back to cooking. TSE usually shows up with frequent insomnia and memory problems. Then there’s personality changes which often include confusion. And that’s if the blinding headaches don’t kill you—which they usually do. Interesting fact, they usually arrive in clusters and can last for months at a time.”
Dalton suddenly felt sick. “Very interesting, ” he mumbled. “Uh, would you excuse me just a moment?”
Michael said, “Please tell me I didn’t ruin your appetite.”
“Oh, gosh no. I just have to take a leak. Be right back. Please, everyone carry on.”
As soon as Dalton left, Michael looked around. Slack, who had been checking in on him all along, was still munching appetizers. Baxter had obviously returned to the bar more than once as he appeared to be feeling no pain. And Stein—the most expressionless person Michael had ever met—looked nearly pleasant.
Glancing out the dining room window, Michael spotted the dogs, looking hungry and restless.
After an hour of sushi and finger foods—which Dalton thoroughly enjoyed watching them devour with reckless abandon—they all convened in the main dining room for dinner.
With Dalton at the head of the table, Michael at the opposite end, and the two officers on one side with Baxter on the other, the scene looked nearly authentic.
However, the darkness beneath was about to reach a boiling point.
73
Frosty Shocktails
The dinner guests were halfway through the meal when Dalton felt his anticipation crawling over his body like a swarm of ants. The earlier nausea combined with the intermittent migraines made his monkey mind hard to tame. Perhaps it was the excitement of the evening or because the magic of his maestro had worn off sooner than expected. It could also be that his other hunger was increasing and, now that it was getting late, would grow into proportions he could not handle.
Perhaps it was because his dinner guests were well on their way to becoming like the food on their plates: Vegetables dining on corpses.
He watched as each man’s reflexes slowed considerably.
It was not because they were drunk—even though he knew Baxter and Stein were loaded because they had been drinking since they arrived. Slack was slow, but not gone. And assuming Michael was a professional drinker because of his work, Dalton did not expect him to go down easily.
Dalton’s homemade Shocktails—as he liked to call them—were created to match the size of each man; thus, the guards consumed more while the other two had less. Either way, he could not wait any longer, and tapped his wine glass with a spoon.
Akin to Pavlov’s dogs, each raised a glass.
“Gentlemen, and I use that term loosely,” he chuckled, “I’m happy you could come to my home and enjoy a time of food and fellowship—if that’s what you want to call it,” he sneered. “And to Michael, our esteemed guest? Bravo on a magnificent meal.”
Each one chanted, “Cheers!”
“I realize dinner isn’t complete, and dessert is yet to come,” Dalton slurred, “But I just wanted to get some ideas of what your favorite dishes have been thus far.”
Seeing that Slack and Stein were still holding their glasses in the air, Dalton motioned to them. “Gents, you can put those down now.”
Baxter stood and raised a glass. “I’ll go first, you nervous ninnies,” he slurred. “I’m a huge fan of sushi, and there wasn’t a piece of fish I didn’t like. So, yeah, the Nigiri and Sashimi were superb,” he laughed, then sat back down.
Stein, usually timid, shouted, “I’m next! Okay, okay. I liked the lamb chops, especially with those Brussels sprouts with bacon. Holy Hell, they were good!”
Dalton gave a hearty nod and said, “Yes, the chops were particularly good. Cheers again to Michael.”
They all clapped.
Slack looked around, knowing it had to be his turn, and without drama said, “The steak and twice-baked potato was probably my favorite. This simple guy likes simple food.” Raising his glass toward Michael, he added, “And the wine was rock solid, Rogan.”
With a grin, Michael replied with a salute.
74
Self Doubt
Jasmine was about to leave her father at the restaurant and let him handle the remaining few hours of hobnobbing when Roman read her body language and leaned toward her face. “Honey, I’m going with you. Something tells me it’d be a good idea. Okay?”
Looking at her father and scanning the room, Jasmine knew there was no arguing. Checking her watch, she waved Hector over. “You’re probably right. But we need to hustle. I probably should have been halfway to Larkspur by now. Just too much business tonight.”
Smiling, Roman said, “And a good problem to have, right Love?”
“Absolutely.”
Hector approached. “Yes, Boss?”
Interlocking her arm with his, she said, “Roman and I have to leave, but I think you’re good to go. Yes?”
“Absolutely. You two get outta here. I’ve got it. And we’ll see you tomorrow.”
They were halfway across the bridge when she turned her attention from the sparkling lights of the city to her handsome father.
“Dad, do you think…” she hesitated, trying to gain the courage to say what had been on her mind the past 24 hours.
“What is it, Jasmine?”
Glancing from her father to the road ahead, she fought to keep her head in the game and avoid emotional derailment.
“Do you think there’s any way, even for a second, that Michael is capable—”
“No.”
“But—”
“No, Jasmine Elaine! I have been around criminals for the better part of my career, and I know—maybe can even feel—when a person is a genuine criminal. There’s something about the way they look at you, the way they react to the world around them. Sometimes, and I know this sounds silly, but sometimes they practically have a different smell about them. Call it endorphins or body chemistry—I don’t know—but it’s palpable. Visceral. And Michael is no more a killer than I’m a ballerina.”
She couldn’t help but laugh. “That, I’d like to see. And I know, you’re right, and I’m crazy to even imagine—”
“No, and sorry to interrupt, but you’re not crazy to imagine it. Just cautious. Mainly because you’ve given, or perhaps are in the process of giving, your heart over to him. And it’s perfectly understandable. Look, in a world of sickos and wack jobs, it’s always best to err on the side of skepticism. But no, I can promise you with all that I am, there is no way on earth your Michael killed his brother.”
With a heavy sigh, she grabbed his hand. “Thank you, Daddy.”
“Now, can he kill it in the kitchen? You betcha.”
Her laughing encouraged him, and together they turned an ominous moment into a light one—before the darkness arrived.
75
No Return
His head was throbbing. His stomach, though fed, wanted more. The incessant humming inside his skull provided a heartbeat cadence that propelled him to keep moving. He wanted to be normal like everyone else and enjoy the company of friends—but he was not normal and he had no friends. Sure, these men were friendly to him. They had to be; he was their boss, and it was part of the job to pretend to like him, but they did not. In fact, he knew they despised him. And because of that, he would take great joy in erasing them from existence—his and theirs.
Even in the slow motion and slurred speech of intoxication—along with a potent mixture of drugs he added to their celebratory champagne—they appeared energized by the evening.
Watching Baxter laugh and prance like a peacock, he imagined how he was going to enjoy taking his “most prized possession” and serve it alongside a dish of apples and sauerkraut with a nice German Doppelbock.
He would call the dish Bawdy Baxter’s Beer-soaked Brat.
There was Slack, his oldest acquaintance in San Quentin. Since he was a self-proclaimed meat & potatoes guy, Dalton imagined merging the classic rump roast with an exotic twist: a porcini coffee glaze served with multi-colored potatoes and bacon-crusted Brussel sprouts—borrowing from Michael’s impressive array of tastes.
A name for Slack’s dish would come later; now, he was too distracted.
Through the haze of his own personal shocktail—a combo different from his guests’ concoction—Dalton turned his attention to Michael whose dish would be the pièce de résistance.
So many ideas. So many possibilities. Perhaps he would use something from his Kathryn stash and marinade along with Michael.
I’m so evil, he thought, hearing a muffled voice in the distance.
“Am I right, Dalton? Hello! Earth to Dalton, it’s command central calling,” Baxter said, laughing loudly.
“What?” Dalton snapped out of it. “Oh, yes, of course,” he said, trying to stand. However, his head spun for a second, pushing him back into his seat.
“Woah, fella,” Michael said, starting to stand and help as Dalton waved for him to sit.
“No, no. Please, sit. It’s nothing. Just a bit too much to drink—like all of you sloppy bastards,” he laughed.
His comment caused the whole table to laugh, and for one brief moment Dalton felt happy. Since the feeling was a foreign one, he stopped to enjoy it.
In that gap of time, Michael pushed Dalton’s button, as his ordinarily charming demeanor evaporated into a beast—within a flicker of a second.
“Had a little too much secret sauce, you sick fuck?” Michael asked with contempt.
Shocked, the entire group stopped laughing and looked to one another, then back to Michael.
“What...did...you...say?” Dalton growled, trying to stand, unsuccessfully.
“You heard me, you fucking lunatic!” Michael growled.
The men’s hands were on the table, frozen in place—eyes at half mast, jaws slack.
Dalton, on the other hand, was only mildly subdued. His mannerisms, while tempered, were still alive. He was a living demon—his guests: zombies at death’s door.
Even the vicious dogs opposite the glass wall stood still as statues.
Dalton looked at his guests’ nearly empty glasses, then his own, and then Michael’s glass: empty.
Michael saw the realization register and grinned. “Yeah, not interested in drinking all that much. Gotta stay sharp. You know, cooking and all.”
Dalton’s dumbfounded expression begged for an explanation.
“See, here’s the thing,” Michael began. “I haven’t even touched the champagne. Fact of the matter is, it’s a little game I mastered years ago when making the cocktail party circuit. Any time I wanted to appear involved in festivities without keeping up with the volume of booze, I used a trick I call, Sip & Toss. Bottom line is, I’d look like I was drinking, when in reality, I’d just toss the drink anywhere possible. In shrubs at outdoor parties, or empty glasses on nearby tables. Fact is, I’m not much for drinking anything at a party that I haven’t personally uncorked or poured himself.”
Dalton’s face slowly morphed into hatred. “Think you’re smart, don’t you, Michael. Big fancy cook,” he spat.
Michael only returned a smirk.
“But even with all your smarts, you didn’t even know what you were cooking, did you?”
