“Drop that weapon or I’ll shoot you both, goddammit.”
Marisol looked up to the pier and saw Sheriff Seastrunk standing there silhouetted in the noonday sun with his weapon pointed down at them. She released her grip on the Prince’s wrist and pushed herself back through the water, praying the sheriff would shoot him before the Prince could shoot her. She needn’t have worried; the Prince was not so bold—he kept his hands in the air and dropped his gun into the bayou.
•
Geoff drew Marisol’s gun and held it to his side, at the ready. He felt a controlled, impassioned anger as if winding himself up for a killer closing argument: “Why don’t you tell me what this is all about. Then we’re getting the hell out of here—you have a date with the F.B.I., you sick sack of evil.”
“Don’t be foolish, young man. The Congressman might be dead, but I still have friends in the highest reaches of your government.” A brittle, terrifying chuckle. “The one you call the Prince, your ally who led you to my door—
“He’s no friend of mine—”
“I have known all along that Semitic swine planned to betray me—to sell our science to the drug companies where it might benefit the great unwashed, the degenerate masses. We’re saving a bunk for that swarthy Brutus on a certain Caribbean bay.”
Echoes of T-Jacques again, worried he’d wind up dead or in Gitmo. What elements of officialdom might still be involved in Moth Wing, wittingly or not? From obsolete Cold Warriors toiling in shadowy crannies of the nation’s security agencies, to corporate chieftains and the warped scions of degraded old families, right down to a rogue unit of the Texas Rangers—not working to further the Doctor’s plans in any organized fashion, but following orders by habit from dark forces who answered to men like Duchamp. Corrupted soldiers propping up the Doctor’s minor but demonic empire—an empire he had built through the his sinister intelligence, his aberrant longevity, and the sheer force of his hate.
The Doctor laughed and flipped a switch on his desk and Geoff felt the gun grow hot as a cloud of smoke emanated from a vent along the far wall, engulfing his hand up to the wrist. When the heat became too painful, he dropped the weapon and it clunked onto the Persian rug, dissolving in the smoke. The smoke did not dissipate but returned to the vent—leaving the small pile of reddish dirt the gun had become.
“Nanoparticles,” the Doctor said, with something approaching a dull gleam in those dead eyes. “Hyper-corrosive. My engineers designed those particular molecules to seek out gunpowder and reduce the metal containing it to its elemental structure. A rather peaceful and charming method of arms control, don’t you think?”
Geoff felt fear but pushed it away with an absurd thought that the gun’s dissolution seemed like something from an old cartoon. He considered the possibilities, started to piece things together. “You people, the Moth Wing scientists, you harnessed nanotechnology and engaged in genetic engineering to create the kind of living metal of the disc outside, the razored dragonflies.” Maybe just for the hell of it; maybe for more nefarious purposes. But that still doesn’t explain Joey, his powers.
The Doctor smiled and it was like a horrible fault opening across the front of his face.
“And the boy—you’ve done something to Joey.”
The child looked straight ahead, eyes distant and jaw slack as if entranced.
“He is a powerful young man.” The Doctor said, turning his gaze to the boy. “Aren’t you?”
“Jawohl, mein Vater.”
“We have a connection, here, do we not?” The Doctor pointed to his shiny, hairless temple.
“Jawohl, mein Vater.”
“Willie,” Geoff said. “Snap out of it. He’s got Joey under some kind of hypnosis.”
But Willie only shook his head and wept.
“No, Mr. Waltz,” the Doctor said. “Young Josef, named for my late protégé, is coming into his own.”
The Doctor’s laugh turned Geoff’s stomach.
“No rough beast, this child,” the old Nazi said. “Our boy is the perfected Aryan—vanguard of the master race all right-thinkers have sought for so long. We destroyed or repaired all traces of degenerate genes upon conception—nanotechnology and genetic engineering, as you suspected. To give rise to flawlessness personified. And then we went further. He is self-repairing, as you have seen.”
Geoff started as the old man danced a little jig beside his desk. “Not bad for a 118-year-old, no? I have put that technology to use in my own body. But Josef, ah Josef—he is so much more. We were able to go into the genetic structure of the brain itself, from conception. We have unlocked mental powers about which we could only speculate before. Telepathy, telekinesis, not to mention super-intelligence—Josef! 813 times 1609.”
The boy spoke in a soft monotone. “1,308,117.”
That sick laugh again. “Just a little parlor trick to give you the idea.”
Geoff felt his rage and fear threaten to wash away in a tide of pure scientific fascination. “The embryos—they look brainless. Surely not like Joey—”
“Of course not. The clones are mere vessels for self-repairing organs, which we had just begun to sell to a chosen few. Both to finance the project’s end-game—” a disgusting wink to Joey—”and as part of the grander design.”
The Doctor’s leer toward Joey snapped Geoff to. “What do you want from him?” He nodded in the direction of his client, who stared at the floor. “And what’s Kincaid got to do with it?”
“The old fool provided a test-surrogate, nothing more. Josef is mine. And he will rule the world. Congressman Duchamp—quite a devolution from the elder members of the line, but good stock nonetheless—and his associates, all similarly situated titans of the globe, did not know the details of the project. Beyond the organ-trading, that is. But they knew the general outlines. The women of their class will give birth, as surrogates, over the decades to other fine Aryan specimens like Josef—”
“Their class? You’re talking about eugenics. Worse than eugenics, using twisted technology. That’s pure evil.”
“Eugenics—a loaded term in your society, I know. The so-called American Century has enshrined in Western culture the Christian slave morality Nietzsche warned against. ‘Be mediocre!’ A debased, utilitarian ethics. But you, Herr Waltz: you strike me as a rational man. A man of science. I suspect you must see the beauty, the necessity, of our project?”
T-Jacques in a New Orleans bar: That’s what they’re out to destroy, Mr. Waltz. Everything that swings.
“No. You lie.”
“These first-generation members of the master race will excel in all they do, until they come to rule the world. Soon, there will be no need for the common humans around them. That population—let’s just say that flawed, imperfect humanity as we know it will die out gracefully, Mr. Waltz. Ushering in a new era—the world as one, peaceful and ordered. This is the next step in human evolution.”
The Doctor gave him a wry grin. “How can you—a cultured man—seeing the stupidity, the sheer unattractiveness, of the American masses with their folds of flesh and their short pants and their t-shirts bearing decadent slogans—how can you question our project, so near culmination? For, Mr. Waltz,” the Doctor looked to the ceiling and recited: “‘All beings so far have created something beyond themselves; and do you want to be the ebb of this great flood and even go back to the beasts rather than overcome man? What is the ape to man? A laughingstock or a painful embarrassment. And man shall be just that for the Ubermensch: a laughingstock or a painful embarrassment.’”
“Stop quoting Nietzsche at me, you Nazi bastard. You people got it all wrong—worse, you twisted science and humanism to justify your evil. Just like other terrorists twist religion. But true humanism celebrates life—it doesn’t seek to destroy it.”
Even as he formed his argument against the Doctor’s contorted logic, Geoff felt the pointlessness of attacking the ravings of this madman. He saw the Doctor’s dreams of a global holocaust too farfetched, too attenuated, to worry
him now.
For the old monster was dying. The Doctor’s eyes revealed that he did not accept this—that he believed he had achieved immortality. But Geoff could smell the truth, an odor coming off him like discarded meat in midsummer.
No—his only concern was for the boy. The Doctor had hold of Joey by way of mind control or some such. Geoff would not leave this place alive without breaking that spell.
And Willie, in some way, had been part of all this.
Geoff stepped to his client and took him by his shoulders. “You, Willie. What did you know about this? What have you done?”
Willie still did not look up from the floor. When he spoke, his voice had grown even more distant. “I did it for Sally. Lord, she wanted a little one so bad. Her doctor said it would be a miracle if she ever conceived. That rotten ol’ husband of hers wouldn’t pay for fertility treatments. Then a clinic opened up in town—offering treatments cheap. But still too much for my daughter. So I sold some silver and took her up there. Within a week the place had closed down, so I just figured it was some fly-by-night rip-off. But then lo and behold, she was expecting.”
The Doctor looked smug as Willie recounted the tale. “Yes, we worked on a dozen patients during that week. Only Josef took. We will raise him and harness his abilities. He is destined to become the American president, and then our plan—a true final solution—will unfold.”
The Doctor extended an arm and Joey stepped to it. They stood together now, and, despite the century between them, Geoff saw a resemblance—in the aquiline nose, the full lips. But beyond the familial—as if the boy were no mere descendant but rather an idealized replica of the ancient German. Save me, the boy’s message had read. But he had also pushed them away, had led him to this sociopath he called father. A mind divided. Geoff wanted to reach out to the goodness in the child, but as he watched Joey stand beside the Doctor, he began to fear that the boy alone could save himself.
“I don’t know how I came to know,” Willie said, sobbing. “But Joey—he started changing. To see things. To do things with his body and his mind. Somehow, I knew this … horrible man was coming—”
The Doctor’s laughter lent a chill to the air. “‘Somehow,’ you say? Don’t be naïve—our young Ubermensch has led you all along, haven’t you Josef?”
But the boy only stood there, tacit.
“Let me surmise that you began having dreams, Mr. Kincaid,” the Doctor said. “Or at least intuition. You knew he must return to me.”
“I did.”
“And you led each other here. As his body and his mind matured, reaching their full potential—they took hold of you, did they not?”
“Yes.” He turned to Geoff, sobbing. “I thought I could stop it. Didn’t know what it was, but I thought I could stop it—the nightmares that were coming from this place. I showed Dalia Bordelon the way in—thought a scientist like her could figure it all out. Use your law to kill it. Save me and Joey. Or … save me from Joey.”
Geoff fought back an urge to slap him. He knew that his client’s weakness and his errors stemmed not of malice but from fear.
The Doctor placed a skeletal hand on Joey’s shoulder. “Enough talk. It is time to begin your future, my Josef, my new and perfected Adam. It is time for humanity’s great leap forward.”
He took a key from his pocket and fit it into a lock set into his desk. He turned the key and flipped another switch and a siren sounded and the walls began to shimmer. As if thin streams of water fell in front of them. Like the disk outside. Like Joey’s eyes.
“Let us leave this place, my boy. I have set its destruction in motion. We have ten minutes.” He glanced at Willie and Geoff as he started to turn. “But not these two. Hold them here.”
Then Geoff met the boy’s strange gaze; a great invisible force poured from those eyes. He sensed no motion and knew Willie was frozen as well. Joey’s powerful mind held them there, paralyzed. And the child started to leave with the Nazi, the sick and twisted scientist of death.
“No Joey.” When Geoff spoke, his voice sounded like a record playing on a slow speed. “Don’t go with that monster. He’s got your brain in a vice. Fight it. He’s pure evil. He’s not your father—not really. Let go of his grasp. You may be special. You may have abilities I can only dream of. Use them for good. Look at me. You called to me because you know what’s good and what’s right.” Joey had begun to turn away, to leave with the old man. Janie’s image—pregnant, laughing—floated across Geoff’s mind. “Look at me. I want you to picture your mother’s eyes. Look into her eyes. Follow her … son.”
The walls continued to shimmer and then to melt and Geoff could feel a rumbling in the floor beneath him. He watched Joey’s gaze shift to meet the Doctor’s black hole eyes. They stood there—the four of them like wooden pieces on a chess board. And Geoff thought and hoped he saw fear spread across the Nazi’s face. Then the flames erupted.
•
“Hellfire, is that you Miss Solis?”
Marisol splashed in the opaque water and felt something cold and reptilian slither between her legs. Seastrunk stood on the pier with his gun trained on the Prince, the brim of his Stetson shadowing his face, his khaki uniform starched and creased and almost gleaming in the bright May sun.
“It’s me, Sheriff,” she said.
“Well then climb on out of there so you can tell me what the hell’s going on.” To the Prince, he said, “And you. Get out nice and slow and keep your hands visible.”
Marisol eschewed the ladder from the bayou onto the pier, leaving it to the Prince. She swam to the boat instead. Grabbing hold of its sides, she lifted herself up and on board, spreading her weight to minimize the rocking.
“Sheriff, Bobby Henderson’s hurt. We need to get him to a hospital.”
Seastrunk glanced her way. “God damn it.” The sheriff’s aim never left the Prince as the dripping man climbed onto the pier.
Ordering the Prince to sit with his back against a tall light pole near the end of the pier, the sheriff took his handcuffs from his belt and secured the man there. The Prince grimaced with his arms stretched behind his back and around the pole.
Then Seastrunk trotted over to the boat where Marisol sat inspecting his deputy. “What happened?”
“Insect attack. I don’t know what they were—kind of like those weird dragonflies you have around here. But different. He might be poisoned.”
They roused Bobby enough to work him out of the boat and down the pier, his arms draped over their shoulders. The Prince called out to be set free, but they ignored him.
“Thank God you came when you did,” Marisol said. “How did you know?”
The sheriff seemed to almost stumble, then firmed himself up. “I don’t rightly know. Best not to ask.”
Pausing from securing the semi-conscious deputy into the passenger seat of his Crown Victoria, Seastrunk said, “Dunlap. Is he—”
“Tied up and knocked out inside the store. Let’s go.”
As they walked to the shack, Marisol’s soaked denim weighed her down. She steamed in the sun, and it smelled of swamp. Then she felt a rumbling beneath them, and the water all around rippled with the vibration.
“What was that?”
The sheriff did not slacken his pace. “Lord if I know.”
Inside the store, the elderly proprietor had just regained consciousness. He spoke with a nasal twang. “You get the son-of-a-bitch?”
“Yessir, we got him.”
The sheriff squatted to untie and inspect Dunlap. He looked into his eyes and examined the nasty bump above his temple where the Prince had cold cocked him. “I reckon you got a pretty bad concussion, fella. Better drive you to town, let them look you over at the hospital.”
“Ain’t necessary.” He sat up on the floor and massaged his forehead.
“Heading that way anyhow.”
Seastrunk stood and faced Marisol. “I’ll take the injured to the hospital and the prisoner to jail. I’ll have a full load. Can you
make it back to town all right?”
She shook her head. “I need to get back to the island, to Geoff Waltz. I’ve got a feeling something’s not right.”
The sheriff nodded and did not protest and then they heard the sound of vehicles driving into the gravel lot outside and grinding to a stop. They rushed out and saw six armed men in black suits emerging from three black Town Cars. As the men jogged to the pier flashing badges she had no time to make out, Marisol saw that the cars had U.S. Government plates. The men went to the Prince still secured to the light pole and cut off his restraints with shears, not bothering to ask for a key. Then they frog marched the wet and foul trickster back down the pier to their vehicles, hardly pausing to inform the sheriff and Marisol that the man was under arrest under the authority of the National Security Act.
As the government men shoved him into the back of a Town Car, the Prince announced that he would say nothing without a lawyer. Then the cars and the men left as quickly as they had arrived.
Seastrunk watched the scene with his hands on his hips and his hat tipped back on his head. “Well I’ll be God damned.”
Then another subterranean rumbling, many times greater than before, shook the earth and almost threw them to the ground. As if some vast beast were writhing and dying or collapsing beneath them.
“Shit and hellfire. This whole dang swamp feels like it’s fixing to open up. Maybe you ought to come back to town.”
But Marisol had already loped halfway down the pier, toward the boat. She felt a burning and panicked need to get back to China Island.
•
Joey looked into the dead eyes of his father. He looked into an abyss and saw only madness. And an abiding malice.
He did not understand his own abilities, his difference. One day in kindergarten, he skinned his knee and watched it heal before his eyes. He knew that other children bled, had scabs and bruises. He knew that Paw-paw knew that he did not bleed, scab, or bruise. They never spoke of it; they kept it a secret between them and away from his mother.
His other abilities, his mental powers, grew stronger as he grew older. But he also sensed that they had begun to peak as he approached adolescence.
All the Devil's Creatures Page 31