Left To Die

It was the magician from the bar.

The young man muttered beneath his breath, allowing a sardonic smile to twist his lips. He felt silly all of a sudden, reacting as he had. The tourist with the thick accent had been annoying, but clearly nonthreatening.

Enes shoved his hands in his pockets, refusing to return the small wave flashed in his direction from the magician.

“Excuse me,” said the tourist, his accent grating.

“You shouldn’t sneak up on people,” Enes snapped. Some of his friends liked to slow their speech when speaking to tourists. It allowed the foreigners to understand better. But he had no such aversions to rapid cadence. Tourists, as far as he could tell, were a bane on the city. They robbed Paris of much of its identity.

The magician continued to approach, smiling genially. He had a wool cap pulled tight over his head with stray strands of reddish hair poking out from beneath the hem.

“You forgot something,” said the magician.

Enes frowned. Instinctively, he checked his pants pocket, but his wallet was still there. He glanced back at the tourist and shook his head.

“Come with me,” said the stranger. “I left it back over on the trail by accident.”

Enes scowled now. He didn’t like this tourist, and he didn’t like that he’d been startled at night in the middle of the park. He glanced around and thought he spotted a couple teenagers on a bench in the distance. But they weren’t looking his way.

“Go away,” he said.

“Come, you forgot something. Your wallet. It’s just back that way.”

Enes checked his pocket again, this time pulling his wallet out enough so he could glance at it. He opened it slightly and spotted all his cards and the ten-euro note he’d expected.

He shook his head. “Not mine,” he said. “Go away.”

The magician had stopped, both his hands out of sight behind his back, a quizzical expression on his face. “You really are twenty-three? What’s it like?”

This took Enes off guard. Now, part of the earlier fear had returned, once more circling his system. Perhaps he’d been too quick to dismiss the threat presented by this tourist. He began to turn to walk away, limping along quickly, heading toward the opposite end of the park.

He continued to glance back, refusing to leave the strange, creepy man out of sight.

“It must be nice,” the magician said, following in his footsteps, moving quickly, but confidently. Like a predator stalking its prey. “Youth is wasted on the young. I’m only a bit older than you. Look at me; can you guess how old I am?”

Enes shook his head wildly, and began glancing around for a tree branch or some rock he could use as a weapon.

“I’m only forty,” said the magician. “But I don’t look much older than thirty-two, do I? That’s what my friends say. I’ve had a lot of work done.” He laughed in a would-be disarming manner.

The young man felt anything but put at ease. He felt a hand suddenly reach out and grab his wrist, gripping him tight and sending his heart catapulting into his throat.

Enes caught a wicked gleam in the magician’s eye, followed by the flash of something metallic as the tourist’s other hand came darting forward.

A needle. Enes shouted and swung a wild punch, which missed the magician, but did enough to knock off his aim. The twenty-three-year-old turned and tried to sprint away, but again his ankle failed him.

Now, the tourist snarled and lunged after him.

Enes kicked, bit, and scratched, trying to go for the magician’s eyes. But the tourist held on tight; there was a pause, a quick grunt, and Enes felt a sudden sharp jab of pain in his waist. He glanced down, realizing suddenly that he somehow found himself on the ground in the dirt with the magician above him.

A horrible, pale little syringe was stabbed into his hip. The plunger had been pressed.

Enes stared, stunned. Then he tried to rise. A second passed… two… His arms felt funny.

The magician emitted a cooing sound and reached down to caress the young man’s hair in tender, affectionate strokes.

Another chill crept across the college student’s skin. But, just as quickly, the sensation up and down his spine faded. He tried to regain his feet, but found they wouldn’t move either.

Had he broken something in the fall? Terror filled him. A childhood spent playing sports, fearful of injuring his spine, flooded his mind. But, as he tried to speak, he found his lips wouldn’t move either. His arms hung limply at his side like wet strands of pasta. He could hear, see, he could feel the dirt trail pressed against his chest and cheek. He could feel the sharp pain now, returning to his side. His senses, if anything, seemed heightened. The magician was twisting his arm, evoking further pain as he tried to roll his prey over.

Enes wanted to resist, but his muscles, his tendons, his limbs didn’t respond. He could feel, but he couldn’t move.

Now fear pumped through him, swelling his system with adrenaline. But the adrenaline only stirred him to more anxiety. The adrenaline wasn’t being used; it had nowhere to go. He was helpless.

He tried to scream, and he could hear the shout, the bloodcurdling screech in his own mind, but there, beneath the moon-laced tree branches, staring up at the dark sky, he heard nothing. His lips remained numb.

He saw a glint of something metal, and then a muttered oath. The magician was shaking his head and murmuring something to himself in a language the young man didn’t understand. The tourist grabbed his victim by the wrists and began to drag him roughly along the trail, toward a darker portion of the park.

“Have you ever heard of the Spade Killer?” said the magician in a low voice, grunting in between the words. “He once created artwork in a park too. Not this one, but close enough. I must thank you for leading me here. It’s fate.”

Enes couldn’t respond. He could feel dirt getting into his shirt though, scraping against his back as he was dragged along the path. Somehow, the sensation was double. The pain in his shoulder sockets worsened, the rash along his back rubbed with dirt and gouging rocks.

He felt himself deposited unceremoniously beneath a dark tree.

Above him, he glimpsed another flash of metal. The magician was holding a small knife. He stared down at the young man, a tender expression on his face. He stooped, still smiling, and removed Enes’s shirt. The college student couldn’t resist; he couldn’t fight.

The magician loosed a shuddering gasp, an orgasmic sound. He studied his victim’s exposed chest. “Where to start?” he said. “Twenty-nine was too old. This park—it’s funny we should be here. Not far from here, in another park, the Spade Killer had his first. She was forty-one, you know? Twenty-three, forty-one. The numbers both add up to five—get it? That’s where he started. He stopped at thirty—imagine that? Forty-one to thirty. The authorities don’t even know all of his tapestries. I picked up where he left off. You’re just a youthful piece to a grand tapestry. I once had a body like yours, you know? I still do. Look.”

The magician lifted his shirt, revealing a trim, pale body, and he seemed to flex his abdomen, trying to press his muscles against his skin. The vanity and the terror of the moment mixed, settling on Enes’s helpless form like a smothering blanket.

“Rock hard,” said the magician, slapping at his abdomen. “And the work,” a long, pale finger traced his cheeks. “Most people can’t tell it’s professional.” He reached up, prodding at his nose and beneath his eyes. He smiled down at the shirtless victim. “This is going to be fun. Please, whatever you do, don’t scream.” He chuckled at this. “Not that you could…”

Then the knife flashed forward, descending toward Enes’s chest.

Voices exploded from behind them.

“You! What are you doing with him!”

The magician froze, a horrified look curling his features, his leering grin morphing to a wide-eyed look of fear.

Hope surged in Enes’s chest. He wanted to cry out, to plead. But the words wouldn’t come.

“It’s nothing,” said the magician, keeping his face forward, refusing to glance back toward the sound of the voices.

Enes thought of the teenagers he’d spotted on the park bench. Perhaps they had noticed him. He’d never much liked teenagers in recent years. They were notorious for leaving glass bottles around the park or vandalizing the statues.

“What are you doing with him?” came an angry voice.

“We’re in love,” retorted the tourist. “Leave us to our privacy!”