Wine and Gun

"I thought about it." Albarino said suddenly.

Herstal paused.

"They'll find out sooner or later, but you can come with me." Albarino's voice still sounded so damn brisk, not to mention that he was still eager to kiss Herstal when he said it. "We can go back to Spain, or Russia, Morocco, Croatia..."

Of course Albarino would say such things, and he could say something as lighthearted as "Let's have Chinese takeout tonight" when he throws out a proposal that could change another person's life. And Herstal was always suspicious that, for this man, there was no difference between such an offer and a takeaway box.

That's how he should have approached Elliott Evans, pretending to casually mention a lawyer at A\u0026H Law Firm to him, and that's how he should have made a proposal to Areola.

There is no distinction between games, no distinction between precious or not, of course.

Herstal suddenly broke free from Albarino's restraint, neatly grabbed the opponent's arm and turned in a circle, threw him against the wall, making a rough movement, and Albarino's back collided with There was a muffled sound when it hit the wall.

Then Herstal put his arm around his throat, compressing it gradually, breaking his neck back, until the sound of his breath and all the words he wanted to say stopped at about the same time.

The fingers of his other hand pressed against Albarino's ribs, then felt the outline of the holster under his arm through his coat.

Sure enough. Apparently Albarino Bacchus doesn't step into danger by inadvertence - he does it on his own initiative every time, with gusto and indifference to the consequences, not to mention that he's not even doing it alone right now: He nearly had an accomplice.

- but still.

"Don't get me involved in all your whims, gardener," he hissed threateningly, leaning into Albarino's ear, "you and I know your enthusiasm won't last that long— And I don't want to be one of your playthings, and I don't lack self-knowledge to the point where I think I'll end up better than Elliott Evans or Areola."

Albarino finally stopped talking, he just stared at Herstal with wide eyes, as if really surprised, the pale iris made him look damn fragile and innocent.

When Herstal spoke to him, he could hear the angry words being chewed between his teeth. He could feel his voice hoarse, but he continued: "I don't think you really care about anything - I should have known, but I've never felt it so clearly."

Then he let go of Albarino, let him slide down the wall, staggered upright, listened to his low cough—and suddenly he couldn't find a reason to stay here, so he chose He left without looking back, letting the darkness and the wind and snow engulf him.

Note:

[1] With the exception of Spain, there are no extradition regulations between the countries that Albarino said he wanted to go to and the United States.

Chapter 57 Funeral of the Dead

Temperatures are still cold in January, and the snow has not yet melted under the leaden sky. Albarino Bacchus stands in the cemetery, his feet on the thick snow and frozen ground, holding a bouquet of flowers.

This cemetery, established in the first half of the twentieth century, is vast and tidy, with white tombstones and crosses erected horizontally and vertically on the lawn, well-spaced and straight for lawn mowers to pass through. The lawn had long been covered under deep snow, and the ashes had frozen under the hard soil.

The newly erected tombstone in front of him summed up a person's life in concise words, so simple and silent that passersby wouldn't even take a second look at it.

Blanca Areola

(1980-2016)

Before the case was closed, Areola's body was kept in the morgue of the Forensic Medicine Bureau. Since her relatives could not be contacted - in fact, most people suspected that she had no relatives in Mexico at all - after the case was closed, she Buried in the cemetery at the expense of the government. That's a perfectly normal process and method, although the vast majority of taxpayers are probably not willing to spend their money on burying a serial killer.

Her bones were burned to ashes, and she was able to occupy a cramped corner of her own in this crowded cemetery. At this very moment, the coroner in charge of Blanca Areola's wrongful death—that is, Dr. Bacchus himself—is standing in front of her grave, as if giving a cheap price to the icy headstone. mourning.

Albarino leaned slightly, reached out and brushed off the snow on the tombstone, and then placed a bouquet of flowers in front of the low artificial marble, the tender petals pressing on the snow on the ground, sending out a faint light. squeak sound. Then he stood up straight, staring at the only tint of color on the pale snow: the tender petals of the flower, and the bone-white marble behind it.

Albarino heard behind him the crunch of thick boots on the snow.

"I wanted to say, 'I'm not surprised to see you here,'" the man behind him said, earnestly, "but that kind of speech itself seems too strange."

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