Blood Game: A Jock Boucher Thriller by David Lyons Page B

“Want to show me this place?” he asked.
    “I don’t mind. As soon as you’re dry. We can’t stain the carpets or furniture.”
    “It’s ridiculous to have possessions that control you. When we have our home, there will not be a table or a chair, certainly not a carpet, where I cannot make love to you any time I choose, wet or dry.” He reached out to grab her arm, but she pulled away with a smile.
    “Maybe a little walk would do you good,” she said.
    She toweled him dry, got his clothes, he dressed, and they left the kitchen, Rosario leading the way, closingblinds and drapes, or guiding him through the dark when they walked past windows where they could be seen from the outside. They knew they were surrounded by objects that represented great wealth, though neither could put a monetary value on anything, and the craftsmanship or antiquity made no impression. Javier just tutted constantly about the lack of functionality of everything. Even the master bedroom was inappropriate for its two highest and best uses, he thought. They returned to the kitchen.
    “Where does this go?” he asked, passing a closed door just off the kitchen.
    “The cellar. Señor Dumont keeps his wine collection down there and, uh, other things.”
    “I want to see it.”
    “I don’t like it down there. It makes me sneeze.”
    “You’re probably afraid of ghosts. Are there ghosts down there?”
    “Javier, please.”
    “I want to see.” He opened the door. The stairwell was steep, but a light switch illuminated the descent. He stepped in. “Are you coming?”
    “Javier, it’s time to think about them coming home.”
    “Then we’d better hurry.” He walked down the stairs. She followed.
    The light at the foot of the stairs cast dim but sufficient illumination to allow them to walk through corridors of wine racks. Javier’s gait was unsteady, the resultof poor lighting and rough flooring, perhaps, but just as likely from the tequila shooters. Rosario begged him not to touch the wine bottles, but he ignored her, pulling out one, then another.
    “These are older than me. This one’s older than my father. This is ridiculous.”
    The wine collection holding no allure, he returned to the stairway but spotted a small separate chamber. He stepped inside, feeling the wall for a switch. There was none.
    “Javier, please. Let’s go.”
    “Just a minute. Here it is.” His face brushed against a hanging chain in the center. He pulled it, and a single naked bulb cast a blue light in the small space. “¡Caramba! ” Javier said.
    Against the wall were glass-enclosed gun racks with rifles stacked. Waist-high display cases held pistols of every size. He lifted the glass of one and pulled out a gun. “ ¿Cazador? No. ¿Bandito? Sí. ” He examined the gun in his hand with a smile.
    “Put that back,” Rosario said. “Now.”
    “Or what? You will take it from me? How will you do that, my little parakeet?” The barrel pointed unsteadily in her direction. “What if I told you to take your clothes off right here, right now. I would like to see you naked in this light. You look like a Madonna.”
    “You don’t need a gun to fuck me, you ass. Put it back now.”
    Javier’s eyebrows arched almost to his hairline. “You would speak like that to me?” He pointed the gun at her. “I said I wanted to see you naked.”
    “You’re drunk. Give me that.” She stepped toward him, reaching out. Javier raised the gun.
    The explosion in the small underground space was deafening. The single blue-tinted lightbulb hanging from its cord swung, buffeted by the sound waves. He had been holding the pistol loosely, having had no intention to fire it, and the recoil nearly broke his hand. He dropped it, and a second discharge went off. He fell back against a glass display case, shattering it. But in the second between the first and the second shot, he stared at a vision that seared itself into his brain. He would go to his death with the image of