The gun went off as soon as he’d deflected Jolly’s hand. The man would have been better off waiting behind his desk. But, like the Beast, he liked to do his work at close quarters. He appreciated intimacy. That was another reason he’d so loved the boy whose bite could kill.
The gun flew down the stairwell with a lock of elbow and wrist, and a wrench. Using leverage, and a quick pivot, he threw Jolly back into the room, stumbling to the front of his desk.
He caught Jolly as he was opening a top drawer, where another gun rested. He grabbed Jolly from behind, by the balls, and pulled him away. He squeezed, and the man doubled over, collapsed his knees, rolled over on his side. Without letting go, he lay down next to Jolly and whispered in his ear, “I’ve blossomed.” He almost laughed, surprising himself with what he’d said.
“What?” Jolly said. “Who?”
He opened his mouth to give his name, but couldn’t remember. He knew it had something to do with blossoming, with flowers, but the word wouldn’t come.
Shishir was the first name that came to him, but not enough time had passed since that name had been attached to someone living. Another came to him, from the lips of someone he’d killed. Or dreamed he killed. Just before Shishir.
He couldn’t remember who she’d been, or why he’d been with her. But a dead woman naming him felt right, for whatever reason she’d had to to do.
“Max,” he said.
“Who?” Jolly asked again.
He understood Jolly was demanding to know who’d sent an assassin to kill him. “Max,” he said, again. He eased the pressure on Jolly’s balls, grabbed and locked a wrist, got up and pinned the man’s head to the floor with a knee and the weight of his body.
Jolly’s eyes lolled, like a cow’s he’d seen die once when hit by a truck as it wandered Calcutta’s streets. “Familiar,” he said, the word sounded more like a croak.
“Just another bud that’s bloomed, in its time.” Again, the words felt right. He could tell by the eyes that Jolly didn’t understand, either, but after a few moments, Jolly’s eyes grew wider, as if just his voice carried a latent power to frighten, and he was pleased.
The Beast wanted blood, but Max sensed this man deserved something more: a deeper taste of the things he knew how to do. He broke the wrist he was holding, then the elbow, and finally separated the shoulder for that arm. Jolly’s screams carried over Calcutta’s din, but no one came to investigate. The body downstairs must have served as a warning.
Max worked on the other arm, then the ribs, one by one, snapping each, puncturing the lung so that Jolly was forced to cough up blood between weakening gasps for air and fading cries. The Beast drank the pain, discovering a form of pleasure that did not rely on gore. It fed on Jolly’s sweat, on the sounds rising through his throat, and from inside of him. The Beast savored his convulsions and shudders as Max applied pressure to a hip joint and a knee. When Max paused, to give Jolly the strength to beg, to offer meaningless information on his rivals and allies, to promise wealth and power, the Beast anticipated the crushing despair that would come when Max tired of words and resumed the breaking.
Max worked through the day and into the night, past Jolly falling into silence, shock and numbness, even his inability to be revived. He practiced on the internal organs, without breaking skin, because the skills came easily, as if he’d employed them often after learning from masters. But the time came when the Beast lay dormant within him, satisfied, slumbering, dreaming its dreams of horror, and Max was bored by the lack of any reciprocity from his victim. So he severed the last thread connecting Jolly to life, putting his hand over nose and mouth to suffocate him, and let the body fall to the floor.
And when the body had settled, its death like smoke rising from the burning ghats, signaling the end of a karmic turn he felt had taken him on a long journey only to come to the beginning of still another path, Max looked over to the man who’d been watching all along: the American, he remembered. The one who’d laughed at a little boy jumping out a window to avoid the certainty of that same smoke, that same death.
“Quite a repertoire you’ve got there, son,” the American said. “What’s your name?”
“Max.”
“Nice. Simple. I like that. How old are you?”
“I don’t know.”
“Huh. You look about eighteen to me. What kind of accent is that? It ain’t from around here.”
“I don’t know.”
“Could pass for some kind of American.”
Max didn’t answer. He didn’t know if the man was playing with him.
“You look familiar.”
“No, I don’t.”
“You wouldn’t happen to have a younger brother, would you?”
“No.”
“Well, that’s fine. A mommy or daddy near abouts?”
“No.”
“Even better. I take it you’re kind of like these chandal fellows around here, the shit cleaners and corpse carriers, right? Untouchable?”
“Yes.”
“Well, we have some work for you. Here and there. Got a little project in Nam I could use you in. Interested?”
“Why should I work for you?”
“We pay better. We can offer legal status, rights, safe harbor, absolution. You know, like what they do with those Bengali tigers. Build a sanctuary around them. Protect them in the wild.”
The man stood. Drifted toward the doorway. Max saw that he was armed, underneath his suit jacket and pants, but he was sure he could cover the distance between them before any shots were fired.
“What do you need?” the man said, glancing out into the hallway before fixing Max with a quizzical eyebrow raised.
“A woman,” Max said, listening to the rumbling purr of the dreaming Beast.
The man smiled and waved his hand for him to come over, and when Max did, he put an arm over his shoulder and led him to the stairs. “Don’t we all, brother, don’t we all. You sure you’re legal?” He burst out laughing, slapped the banister, and went down. “Come on, son, let me show you how to have a good time.”
Max followed, eager to learn.
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When Max pulled up to the corner of Lisbon Place and South Moshulu Parkway, Lee came out of the building entrance alone. That was not part of the plan. Max took a deep breath, fought through the sluggishness of a sated predator, and raised himself to his killer’s edge.
The Beast within him rumbled, its suspicion dulled by the evening’s pleasure. Still drunk on blood and pain, the Beast rolled over Max’s memories of their fresh excesses and barely acknowledged Max’s alarm or its cause.
Max put the Lincoln Town Car in neutral, turned off the headlights, and stepped out into the brisk early-April air. He put his hand on the Ruger in the back holster under his old French surplus motorcycle duster and scanned for an ambush. A half-dozen eight- to twelve-year-olds played under a set of lit ground-floor windows. Locals hurried past, burdened with bags or focused on their destination, taking no notice of him or Lee. Spiced meat and pizza scented the breeze. Latin and hip-hop music melted into the rhythm of passing cars and buses, children’s voices, TV commercials. Ordinary stimuli, he decided.
The roofline and darkened building windows drew Max’s attention, along with the cars parked along the street, then the buildings to either side and across the wide avenue, where they were obscured by gloom and budding trees. Lee waved, as if to distract him. Max’s heart beat quicker, and the Beast pricked its inner ears. The avenue provided long lines of sight, but neither Max nor the Beast caught the sense of watchers behind cars or trees targeting them. The Beast resumed its slumber. Sensitive to the terror of prey, Max felt something was going wrong, that he was slipping into danger. But there was no sense of another predator’s focus. At least, not yet.
Without a clear target for his suspicion, Max let his hand fall from the gun. He drifted towa
rd the trunk, checked the curb and roadbed for blood. The seals were good. And, of course, there were no stifled moans or cries for help coming from under the hood.
Lee held both hands open and out as he closed the distance between them. Max nodded his head, acknowledging Lee picking up on his discomfort. Lee’s weathered face, surprising Max with the age folded into its terrain, brightened at Max’s acceptance. The man’s army fatigue jacket flapped in a gust, showing the slight paunch covered by a skull T-shirt and the unbelted waist of a pair of black jeans. No weapons showed.
Before Lee could speak, Max leaned back on the Lincoln, pressed his hands against the cool metal, and asked, “Where is she?”
“Change of plans,” Lee said, joining Max in leaning up against the car. “We have to pick her up.”
“I have my own plans. I need to get her done, then dump the bodies.”
Lee jumped off the Lincoln, glanced at the trunk, paced three steps back and forth in front of Max. “Dump the bodies? What bodies? What do you mean, get her done?”
Max went to the back, checked for anyone nearby, opened the trunk. A stench rose out of the car.
Lee stared, coughed. “Damn, Max. You were going to put her in there?”
“Of course. After I killed her. I was going to have her get in the back with you, behind the front passenger seat. We were going to take a ride on the Saw Mill River Parkway. I was going to reach across and put a round in her head when we got off on the Tuckahoe exit. You were going to help me get rid of the bodies.”
Lee closed the trunk for Max. “But you’re not supposed to kill her. And you’re sure as hell not supposed to do that shit to her,” he said, waving a hand at the back of the car. “What the hell, are you having a South America flashback or something? We’re not in Guatemala anymore. You’re supposed to take her to Omari’s safe house and protect her.”
Max froze. The Beast hissed. “What?”
“Weren’t you briefed? Aw, fuck,” Lee said, stamping his foot and shoving his hands into the jacket side pockets. “They set me up. They didn’t want to tell you themselves, so they put me up to do it. Goddamn, I hate when they do that shit.”
“I’m not a guard.”
“Yeah, I noticed. But you’re all they have left.” He stopped in front of Max. “The FBI’s being a bitch over the World Trade Center thing, and the Russian mob’s acting like they know how to fix and launch the missiles they stole. The President’s in town for an international summit, so there go the best of the locals. The NSA is going through an identity crisis trying to find a new Great Satan, so it’s best not to attract their attention right now. The best security team available is a couple of freelancers in town catching Broadway shows, and the pick of third-world embassy guards.”
“You do it.”
“With my schedule? You see I’m working as a runner. The regular guy got popped. All we found in his car were a pair of eyes and a heart on the front seat. And a shitload of blood. Figured the organs and blood belonged to him, since that kind of action isn’t in his profile. Just what we need in the middle of all this: a goddamn human sacrifice.” Lee glanced at the trunk and waved exhaust fumes away. “I have another handoff tonight, then an Air Force flight out of Plattsburgh. Got an insertion into Bosnia, though I’m not sure if I’m supposed to bury bodies or dig them up.”
Max watched a dented delivery van go by on the other side of the Grand Concourse. “I’m not babysitting meat,” he said, trying to catch telltale antennae sticking out from the undercarriage.
“Yeah, well, I’m not the one to talk to. Come on, let’s dump the shit in the trunk and get going.” Lee headed for the passenger side of the Town Car. “Hey, I don’t mean to get personal, but is this guy the girl’s boyfriend, or are you, like, switch-hitting these days? Should I worry about turning my back on you?” Lee’s smirk showed teeth like thorns, sharp enough to pierce.
Max closed his eyes. The Beast rose to challenge Lee’s taunt, but Max assuaged its rage with memories of work performed with the operative in the hidden arenas of Southeast Asia, South America, Eastern Europe during the Warsaw Pact days. Blood spatter and screams filled his head. The Beast remembered, growled, slinked back to its nest of pain.
Max sympathized with the Beast’s caution. He preferred working alone, keeping as little contact as possible with the people who contracted his services. But tactical and political imperatives sometimes demanded partnerships. Almost always, he felt more endangered by the people he worked with than by the opposition, precisely because of the kind of chaos unfolding around him. Often, driven by the Beast or by his own judgment, he had eliminated his team members along with targets because they had provoked his inner demon, or simply to ensure his own survival. Lee, in his prime as good as any Max had ever witnessed, reminded Max of himself. Calm in the face of obstacles, he passed no judgments on assignments and never let personal preferences, agendas, or desires interfere with the work. He was consistent, a rock limited only by the frailty of his human body, and the darkness writhing in the crevices of his face. He trusted Lee more than anyone else involved in their kind of work.
Which did not prevent him from scanning the street one last time when he opened his eyes, got up from the car, and slowly walked to the driver’s-side door.
“He belongs to the twins,” Max said, at last answering Lee’s good-natured taunt.
“Looks like he died a happy man.”
“But I don’t think he was happy to die.”
“Still cleaning up after them?” Lee asked, trying the handle on his side of the car. It was locked. He gave Max a quizzical look, picked up on his counter surveillance routine, and joined Max in studying the vicinity.
The area still felt secure. Max let himself be drawn to the children play-fighting, dancing, showing each other moves learned from video games and TV wrestlers. He envied their boundless energy, the innocence cocooning the darkness within them. He had always had an abundance of the first, though during the past decade the Beast had provided him, through its madness and abandon, with more of the prowess he had taken for granted in his younger days.
Innocence was foreign to him. He had lived another kind of life when he was their age. Now, when the Beast was not pacing in the cage of his mind, he wondered what it would have been like to be innocent, to be as vulnerable, and as ignorant of vulnerability, as children, his targets, or his victims.
Max hesitated before opening his door, let his gaze linger on Lee. In contrast to the youngsters, he looked even older than Max remembered. The reality saddened Max. The darkness Lee harbored was wearing him out. The killing and torture and agony he had witnessed, the atrocities he had performed, clouded his eyes, haunted his expressions. Time itself, as if in punishment, had slowed him, dulled his senses, and sapped his strength. The shreds of his youthful innocence still ran through him, but instead of infusing him with vigor and charm, the vestiges of his early life served only to expose his fragility. He was no longer in his prime.
Max caught himself. Of course, time had worn him down, as well. The hard, fast current of years had run through them both, ripping youth and its blessings from their grasp. Time was part of the bond Max shared with Lee. With it had come the trust built on shared hunts and kills. The other part of the bond, for Max, was the piece of himself he saw in Lee, the man he might have been without the Beast. He saw that man on the other side of the Lincoln: weak, flawed, crippled by the conflict between needs and appetites.
The bond, he was certain, ran both ways. Lee also looked at him as the model of a man he might have been: a stronger man, if only his gifts and appetites were as terrible and voracious as Max’s, if only his human needs did not war with his dark nature. Not even Lee knew about the Beast. For Lee, Max’s strength, talents, and hungers were unusual, but mortal. Max understood that his image to Lee was a man who carried himself with the self-reliance of a pure predator. Max, and even the Beast, found cruel gratification in their role as the occasional companion Lee shared a kil
l with, admired, envied. Hated.
It was the Beast within him that separated Max from Lee, and from everyone else in the world except, perhaps, for the twins. The Beast filled Max with power, obliterating the desire, space, and interest to build stronger connections with his surroundings. Power protected him from time’s ravages, made him feel he belonged to something greater than the meat of his body. The Beast was the vision of order and meaning in his existence; the luck protecting him from the consequences of his acts, contracted and personal; the comfort, cold and savage, in the lonely midnight hours between his hunger’s satiation and the roaring, all-consuming madness of his appetite.
Pity for Lee and his thorn-tooth smile touched Max. He could never be what Max was. Their masters had chosen well by sending Lee with news of plan changes and foolish assignments. Another messenger might have had to answer to the Beast for the night’s deceptions.
The Beast stirred, a jealous companion disturbed by soft sympathy. Its howl sent a shiver through Max, and whetted cruelty’s keen edge. Max savored the advantage of his strange legacy. Sympathy evaporated. His mind turned back to Lee’s question. He gave Lee a slight smile, showing him more than thorns.
“They’re my nieces.” Max opened the driver’s-side door and got back inside. Best to keep moving, he decided, until he escaped the twisted prank of having to protect instead of kill. Even worse, guard a woman.
“Adopted nieces, Max,” Lee shouted through the car window. “Makes all the difference.” He tapped the glass. Max let him in. “Not to me.”
Lee gave Max a wink and a leer as he settled into the passenger seat. Over the years, Lee had witnessed Max and the Beast at play. Whether he watched for sadistic, masochistic, or other reasons, Max had never quite understood. But Lee always proved sensitive enough to his own frailties to know to never join in the game. And even though he showed interest in the twins, Max made certain he saw the result of their lovemaking and understood they were a Beast of their own. For all of Lee’s talk, Max was sure his comrade knew he would not last ten minutes with the twins. If he pursued them on his own, Max could not, would not, save him. But the talking was cheap enough.
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