Coffin Collector (2 page)

From his peripheral vision, Travis saw one of the men snatch a shovel. The other two goons dragged Travis to his feet. He protested and pulled away, so they pistol-whipped him again for good measure. The world swam in and out of focus as it had the night before at the bar. That moment seemed so far away now, part of another reality. For a split second, he entertained the hope that it might all just be some nightmare. A warehouse full of coffins, the prospect of being buried alive, mummified corpses—this shit was text-book Freudian. But the sensation of his body being roughly lifted and dropped into the casket, the cracking of bones as his weight landed on the skeleton, the foul stench of the remains next to him... The tangible patina of reality felt too raw, too vivid to be a construct of his subconscious even if helped along by some potent Italian liqueur the night before. Not even a full bottle of absinthe could conjure such a fucked-up mindtrip.

This shit was happening for real. And there was nothing he could do to stop it. He wanted to scream, but his lips didn’t work. The casket’s lid slammed shut, drenching him in renewed darkness.
 

The next sensation was of one of movement as the goons heaved the casket toward the waiting hole. Moments later, Travis’ whole body shook as the coffin landed at the bottom of the freshly dug grave. The corpse’s bones poked into him, and his head bounced against the sealed lid. He weakly pounded the walls of the coffin, blood bubbling down his lips.
 

The oppressive darkness sapped his will to live, to fight.
 

A slight vibration of something hitting the casket. Dirt, Travis realized.
 

They were beginning to fill up the grave. Bury him alive. A last vestige of survival instinct surged through his body. He pressed against the lid with all his strength, but it wouldn’t budge despite his efforts. Tears stung his eyes. His pitiful sobs filled the yawning darkness. More dirt kept landing on the coffin, but the sounds quickly became muffled.
 

Distant.
 

A strange feeling of peace and tranquility replaced his terror. Finally, the noise died down completely, the goons having completed their task. The stuffy air made him wonder how much oxygen was left in the casket. How long would he have? An hour? Thirty minutes?

He remembered stories of people being buried alive, horrific tales of bodies being exhumed, revealing broken, bloodied nails—even bitten-off fingers or swallowed tongues. Travis didn’t want to go that way. Would he just pass out, or would each breath begin to slowly strangle him as the precious oxygen turned into poisonous carbon dioxide? He thought of his mother back in Florida, of his younger sister about to start college in the fall at NYU. He thought of the last girl he’d slept with, the beautiful and spirited Maria. He’d hoped to run into her again at the bar where they first met. God dammit, he was leaving so much behind.

No, this couldn’t be happening, he wanted to live…
 

Another sensation broke into his thoughts. Something stirred in the coffin. His hairs stood up as an icy hand closed around his throat. Maddened shrieks shattered the peaceful silence, and Travis realized he was hearing his own screams of terror.

The hand tightened, crushing his throat, and his desperate cries abruptly silenced.

C
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T
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NINETY-ONE YEAR old Marco Giallo observed in silence as his men dragged the American toward the waiting coffin. The art student was young and strong, a perfect specimen and well-suited for the ritual. For the coffin he would soon be buried in was no ordinary coffin. This was the casket of the famed German stage magician Bruno Zamora.

Anticipation built inside of Giallo as the coffin descended into the grave. The boy would have at most an hour’s worth of oxygen. They would dig him up long before he would run out of air, though. Unlike Giallo’s previous victims, who now wiled eternity away in his collection, the plan wasn’t to kill the American. Ten minutes below ground should be enough to determine if all the stories about Zamora’s legendary coffin held any truth.

As far back as Marco Giallo could remember, coffins had been part of his life. Giallo Cofani was one of the largest coffin manufacturers in Europe. His family had controlled the death industry for four generations and was still going strong. The colorful details of the business might change with time, but the grim bottom line remained the same: bodies needed to be put in the ground. Generally this required a coffin or a casket. The company’s motto was to produce beautiful coffins that you would love to die in.
 

While the world succumbed to mediocrity, Giallo prized beauty. Unfortunately, the latest trend was to build less expensive models while expanding cremation offerings. Eco-friendly biodegradable bamboo caskets were one of the newest fads that threatened the artistic integrity and craftsmanship that went into the creation of real coffins. Considering how poorly some people lived their lives, it shouldn’t surprise him they’d be willing to rot in a wicker box. It saddened him, but Giallo Cofani had learned to adapt.

And even if his company was forced to churn out cheap boxes, undeserving of being called coffins, he would always have his precious collection. The warehouse, which was located in the wooded and secluded outskirts of Florence, housed a collection of the most unique coffins in the world. Only Giallo and a few of his closest, most trustworthy associates knew of the existence and location of his little museum. Some pieces were originals produced by Giallo Cofani, and others heralded from all across the globe. His collection included deluxe stainless steel caskets, marvelous bronze and copper creations, carved mahogany coffins decorated with crystals and hand-painted accents, and even a 24k gold-plated casket.

As much as Giallo appreciated creativity, he frowned upon novelty coffins like the ones popular in Ghana, where people opted to be laid to rest in wooden lobsters or coffins designed to resemble boats or cars. His collection had no place for such vulgar displays of bad taste. Who in their right mind would want to be buried in a giant Coke bottle or next to a Karaoke machine? He considered himself a staunch traditionalist, and no KISS coffin would ever grace his treasured warehouse.
 

Considering how much Giallo loved coffins, it was ironic that he’d once feared them as a boy. His dad would bring him to his factories in Brescia, north of Florence, where carpenters and craftsmen built the caskets that would soon welcome the recently deceased. His father was a cold, austere man with a sadistic streak. If he felt his son had disrespected him—and almost any behavior could trigger this perception; one day he might be too loud, another too quiet—the punishment was swift and horrific. He’d seal Giallo in a coffin and threaten to bury him alive.

The first few times, Giallo had been overcome with terror. Gradually, in the darkness—each successive breath becoming thinner, not knowing if this would be the last time he’d disappoint the old man—he changed. He began to look forward to his confinement, finding an inner tranquility in the dark that he couldn’t duplicate in the bright world outside the coffin. Locked inside the box, he imagined being below the ground, the responsibilities and challenges of the living giving way to the peace of the dead. Punishment had become reward, a secret he never shared with his father lest his disciplinary tactics might change. As he grew to adulthood, his initial fascination with his family business turned into a bona fide obsession. It wasn’t enough to make and sell coffins; he started collecting them, too. He’d track down the most unique caskets and coffins from around the world so he could lay in them, thereby recreating the feeling of peace he’d come to appreciate in his youth.

Eventually, lying inside of them failed to achieve a sense of blissful transcendence. A more powerful outlet was needed, and that’s when he turned to murder. The act came easy to Giallo—not surprising, considering that death had been part of his life since the beginning. His victims were selected at random and buried alive. Experiencing their fear allowed him to relive his own delicious terror of being locked inside a coffin. As his collection expanded, so did the number of his victims. Their haunting faces remained burned in his memory: some terrified and pleading, others furious and defiant, but all of them full of life. By the time he dug them up, their expressions would be quite different. Even though their features might be distorted and grotesque, their eyes wide and the skin discolored, there would also be a sense of peace in their lifeless stares.
 

Giallo had lost count of how many lives he’d taken in this manner over the years. He’d allowed himself to indulge his darker impulses when he told his men to place the American in one of his coffins. He had derived a sick rush from seeing his men hunt the boy through the mazelike collection, his terror providing Giallo with a visceral physical thrill better than any drug. But the time for fun and games was over. A different fate awaited the American. He wasn’t just another victim to be added to the collection; he represented the key to Giallo’s own future, a stepping-stone to his impending transformation.

He checked the time on his gold watch. Only five minutes had gone by since the burial of the American student, and he was already giddy with anticipation…
 

A sharp whistling sound distracted Giallo. Ten feet away, his bodyguard DeLuca’s head snapped back in a spray of red, and the giant man crumpled next to the burial site.
 

Instinctively, Giallo lurched behind a steel casket as more bullets chopped his coffins. Who would have the insolence to desecrate his collection in such a manner?
His remaining men returned fire, and he saw two wooden caskets shatter.
 

“Stop shooting, you idiots!” Didn’t they realize the irreparable damage their careless action was causing his treasures?

More shots stitched the wall behind him. Giallo couldn’t wrap his mind around what was happening. No one knew about the warehouse and his collection. It made no sense.
 

The gunfire ceased. Silence descended.
 

Giallo cursed inwardly. How could he be experiencing such a setback when all the answers were within his grasp? They had to stop this shooter, whoever he might be.
 

C
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T
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A FURIOUS BARRAGE of bullets ripped the mahogany coffin apart that Talon was using as cover. When the onslaught eased for a second, he popped up and returned fire, the bullets of his Glock lashing Giallo’s unholy coffin collection. The stench of cordite hung in the air as more bullets erupted next to him. Giallo’s men were trained professionals and clearly didn’t plan to make this easy on him.
 

Talon dipped below the coffin and crawled along the floor, now covered in wooden splinters, swiftly navigating the maze of caskets. He’d checked two of the coffins when he first broke into the warehouse and was well aware of their grisly contents. How many people had Giallo murdered and preserved during his ninety years on this planet?
 

Too many too count.
 

The man was as much of a monster as some of the nightmare creatures Talon had faced over the last six months. He’d seen some sick shit in his time as a Delta Operator, but Giallo’s warehouse of horror might just qualify for a spot at the top of the list.
 

Now that the shooting had stopped, Talon was able to focus his still ringing ears on other sounds. He detected a faint hint of incoming footsteps. Giallo’s two assassins were closing in on him. His lips curled into a cruel smile as he eyed a titanium casket in front of him, his mind having formulated the beginning of a plan.

Five minutes later, one of Giallo’s guards appeared inside the alley of caskets. He immediately made out the figure slumped in between the row of coffins. Three bullets holes were visible in the downed man’s back.
 

He approached the body cautiously, never taking his eyes from his target. He didn’t see the casket behind him pop open. He crouched before the corpse, and his cold eyes widened as he saw the mummified visage of a long-dead man. When blood splattered the creepy mummy’s face, he recoiled, too shocked to realize the red spray had come from his own perforated chest. An instant later, Giallo’s guard collapsed next to the mummy.

Talon slipped out of the casket from which he’d removed the decoy corpse. His eyes roamed the dark warehouse, his Glock leading the way.

One guard remained.
 

And then Giallo.
 

Even though the sick mastermind behind this insanity was old enough to be his grand-father, he could still pose a threat. Even an old man could get lucky, and a bullet was lethal no matter what level of training the shooter might possess. One moment of inattention could change the tide of the battle. He had to keep his guard up.
 

Eying the blood-flecked mummified corpse, Talon wondered what sick demons drove Giallo. The question made Talon’s mind return to three days earlier, when Simon Casca had first told him about the cursed coffin …

C
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F
OUR

“HAVE YOU EVER heard of the German stage magician Bruno Zamora, better known as Der Hexer?” Casca asked and took a sip of his Cabernet. “That’s German for ‘the sorcerer,’ by the way. Ring any bells?”

Talon finished the last bite of his surf and turf and took a long pull from his Pilsner. Casca had invited him for lunch at a Silicon Valley seafood restaurant and the food had lived up to its reputation. Judging from the serious tone in Casca’s voice, it was time for business now. Talon scanned his memory and said, “Didn’t Zamora give Harry Houdini a run for his money at one point?”
 

“You’re quite right, Zamora and Houdini were bitter competitors, each of them trying to outdo the other. Certain sources claim Zamora took their rivalry one step further and sold his soul to the devil in exchange for the ability to practice real magic during his stage shows. Some of the tricks he preformed still baffle magicians to this day. And according to the stories, he saved his best trick for last.”