The Dead Man: Ring of Knives dm-2

by Lee Goldberg

"About that precognition . . . ," he said.

  "It's not as well developed as my disruption of electrical systems," she whispered.

  He had several responses to that. He didn't say any of them.

  Footsteps behind them, fast and light. Matt sped up, dragging the girl by the hand. They rounded a boulder covered in black moss and came to a small clearing containing an amphitheater of cut stone. But between them and the amphitheater was something unexpected: a glowing oak. Someone had strung white Christmas lights all along its thick trunk and low-hanging branches.

  The girl began to scream uncontrollably.

  Matt almost joined her.

  The oak: it wasn't Willy Willow or Betty Birch. It was definitely the Head Tree.

  Why?

  Because it was hung with heads.

  Every bough seemed to have one. Matt recognized the silver-bearded facility administrator, eyes rolled back into his skull, slack jawed, black tongued, bloody chinned. And the dark-skinned CMO with the white mustache, now a lot less dignified than in his portrait in Admin. And the head nurse, her brow still furrowed, her mouth a dismayed slash, her neck hanging in strips from her jaw like the tentacles of a jellyfish. And there were a dozen more dangling from the tree's glowing limbs, garish ornaments for a holiday in hell.

  A pattering sound: one of the heads was new, was still dripping.

  Matt spotted it, recognized the one dark eye, the slanting teeth, the bee-stung lips . . .

  "Dindren," Matt whispered.

  Above him, a flapping sound.

  Looked up.

  Wings outspread . . . glowing eyes . . .

  No time!

  Impact.

  Darkness.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Matt blinked painfully.

  Drew a breath.

  Tried to put his hands on his face—and couldn't.

  Opened his eyes against the fluorescent glare.

  He was in a white room, strapped to a white bed.

  Only it wasn't a bed. But it did have a pillow.

  And straps.

  Five straps, to be exact. Two pinned his ankles, two pinned his wrists, and one was wrapped around his waist. Next to the thing he was on was a large steel console on rollers. It was covered in dials and switches. Behind it was a woman.

  "Well, well," growled the short, toad-faced wreck. "Looks like Lover Boy's joined the land of the living—just in time to leave it."

  "Hirotachi," he croaked. His throat was dry. Head ached. Had he ever been this thirsty before? Impossible. "Where is . . ." He tried to remember her name. Then he had it: Annica.

  Toad-Face grinned. "Your little girlfriend? She's out back, all set for the show."

  "Show?"

  "Oh yeah. Don't worry, you won't miss it. But since it's not the witching hour yet, and since you seem to have some seriously antisocial tendencies, we thought we'd give you a little treatment—on the house. Maloria? Let's get this show on the road."

  Matt stared in disbelief as the fat lady he'd spent the afternoon with waddled up to the console and—avoiding all eye contact—picked up a handful of red and yellow wires and a roll of tape. Her lips were clamped in a tight line as she walked to the side of the bed, squeezed some gel out of a bottle with a farting sound, and spread it on his head.

  "Maloria?!" he said.

  She just kept spreading the gel. It was cold and slick.

  "Maloria, what are you doing? Maloria?!"

  "Save your strength," Hirotachi chuckled. "She's a little more obedient when the night shift's on duty. Aren'tcha, Fatty?"

  No answer. Maloria's big eyes had narrowed to slits, and her lower lip covered her upper as she attached the wires to his forehead with duct tape. She backed away quickly.

  Matt looked back to Hirotachi. "Whatever you think you're—"

  The words died in his throat, along with every thought in his head, as a current of electricity shot through his body, making his back arch and his teeth snap together.

  It ended. He collapsed back against the table with a gasp.

  "Well, whaddaya know?" Hirotachi said, patting the console. "It still works! This is an old, old system. We've got a newer one, but it's pretty painless. I like the vintage systems myself. Reminds me of the old days, you know? Gives me a real"—again she flipped a switch—"charge."

  More juice this time: held cruciform, he lunged upwards, going nowhere, teeth clamped, fingernails digging into his palms, vision shot with fire in alternating patterns of

  RED BLACK RED BLACK RED BLACK RED BLACK RED BLACK

  A cool, wet breeze.

  The smell of lotus.

  And the light: soft and forgiving, the kind that falls from a sickle moon in spring.

  Beneath his feet, the creak of the wooden bridge that spanned the pond at its narrowest point. The stars above the water were reflected in its shallow depths, and between their reflections were pale water lilies and hyacinth, whose fragrance made the air lush and thick with promise.

  He was standing next to his wife, Janey. They stood on the bridge, watching the moonlight make a path of light on the water. Nearby, he could hear the sounds of the band playing at Janey's sister's wedding. The party had been going for two hours when he'd realized that he'd lost track of his wife in the crowds of sweating, laughing, drinking relatives, and on an impulse he'd walked to their favorite spot, guessing that she might have wanted to get away for a few minutes. He'd guessed right.

  "Hey, you," he said, running his hand along her bare back. She was wearing a beautiful backless green silk number that had cost a fortune. It'd been worth every penny when he saw her standing next to her sister at the altar, hair up, eyes wet with emotion, looking so radiant and alive.

  She let out a murmur at his touch and leaned into him. He moved his hand up to the base of her neck and inhaled the soap-and-sandalwood scent of her auburn hair. He loved her scent.

  "I just needed to get away for a bit. Get some fresh air."

  "Me, too."

  "I saw that my uncle Robin cornered you by the punchbowl. Please tell me he didn't . . . ?"

  "Try to drag me into that goofy pyramid scheme he's got, the one with the tax referrals? Oh yes."

  She squeezed his hand and groaned. "I'm so sorry about that."

  "No prob. Although I did have to drag your aunt Myrna onto the dance floor just to get away from him."

  "I bet she was thrilled."

  "Certainly was. Especially when we realized that the song was 'Sexual Healing.'"

  Laughing. "Oh my God. You've got to be kidding."

  He held up a hand, laughing, too. "Cross my heart and hope to . . ." He didn't finish the phrase.

  Her smile trembled, and her eyes got a bit brighter. She turned back to the moonlight on the water. "I'm so glad my sister finally found someone. Someone worthy of her."

  "Me, too."

  She leaned back, pressed her head against his collarbone. "It makes such a difference, to be with someone who's right for you. Who'll stand by you when things . . . when things get . . ."

  Her shoulders started to shake.

  He gently took her in his arms and turned her to face him. "Hey," he said quietly. "Hey. Look at me."

  She did, a tear streak below each eye. The moon illuminated those, too.

  "You and I are going to beat this thing," he said, and she nodded. "We're gonna be toasting your sister on her fortieth anniversary!" She nodded again, fiercely, but still not meeting his eyes. "You don't have my permission to bail, do you understand? Not with your aunt Myrna waiting in the wings."

  At this she laughed—a big laugh, full of relief. She stood on tiptoe, put her arms around his neck, and kissed his cheek. "I love you," she whispered.

  "I love you, too," he said. He ran his hands up her waist, feeling the green silk slide between his fingers. His hands traveled over her ribs, to the swell of her small, firm breasts. She let him.

  Her arms tightened around his neck, and he leaned down so that she could press her forehead a
gainst his. "What are we going to do?" she said in a frightened whisper.

  "You've got the surgery next Tuesday. After that, your only job is to get better."

  "But what if . . . what if the MRI shows that it's in my bones?"

  "Shhh. No use borrowing trouble." The phrase was old-fashioned, was his mother's, but it did its job, and she relaxed a little.

  "I know. I'm such a freak. I'm just wound up so tight."

  "No kidding. So what can we do about that?" His hand drifted carefully down her abdomen and gently played across the cleft between her legs. It would work, or it wouldn't.

  She made a soft sound, and after just a moment, imperceptibly parted her legs. He took it for an invitation and made the most of it. He could feel the heat of her through the silk.

  A moment later, her breathing became raw. "If you don't stop, you're going to spoil my nice new dress."

  "There is a third option," he said, quickly taking hold of the green silk hem and lifting it. When he slipped his hand beneath, he found a surprise waiting for him.

  "Oh, my God," he said. "You went commando to your sister's wedding?"

  She bit her lip and widened her eyes flirtatiously. "Couldn't help it. Forgive me?"

  "Only if you forgive me for this." He gently pushed her back against the bridge railing and sank to his knees in front of her.

  "Matt, are you crazy? Not here—there's people everywhere!"

  "Won't take long," he said, and closing his eyes, pressed his mouth to her warm crux, tasting her soft nest, easing his tongue into the familiar, fragrant groove.

  He heard her gasp as he went to work, felt her fingers clutch his hair, tasted her salty acquiescence. She opened beneath his insistent touch like the night-blooming flowers of the pond, and her scent mingled with theirs until it overpowered him. She let out a small, familiar cry as he drew her into his mouth. Like sucking on an orchid, he thought for the thousandth time.

  When she released, he drank her like he always did, until he had drained away her fear, her anxiety, and her will to do anything other than stroke his head and whisper, "I love you, Matt . . . I love you so much."

  He nodded wordlessly, wrapping his arms around her, knowing it was the truth, knowing that he felt the same way and that nothing that was to come would ever change that.

  RED BLACK RED BLACK RED BLACK RED BLACK RED BLACK

  Matt came crashing back to the reality of the padded table, the blinding fluorescents, the ache in his jaw, the fire in his veins.

  And the smell of singed hair and urine.

  "Well, look at that," Hirotachi croaked. "Looks like someone messed himself real bad. Do we need a dia-dee, Matthew?"

  Matt glanced down and saw that his jeans were stained at the crotch. He couldn't have cared less. The shock treatment had recovered a memory he'd nearly forgotten—recovered it so completely, in such perfect detail, that he couldn't get his mind around the fact that it was gone, that she was gone, and that he was here in this godforsaken hell with this witch, instead of being on a bridge, in the moonlight, with—.

  Hirotachi flipped the switch on and off quickly.

  Matt grunted, went rigid as lightning coursed through his veins, then collapsed, gasping, in a pool of sweat.

  Hirotachi cackled. "God, but I used to love seeing 'em stiffen up like that," she said. "Those were the days."

  Matt turned his head to see Maloria looking at him wide-eyed. She looked down immediately.

  "I think he had enough a' that," Maloria said softly, keeping her eyes on the floor.

  "Oh, you do, do ya? Shows what you know, you fat black bitch."

  Maloria's eyes flashed up, hot with defiance.

  Hirotachi peeled back her lips to reveal a row of small, nicotine-yellow nubs. "Problem?"

  Maloria looked down again, lips clamped shut, muscle twitching at her jaw.

  "Shoe's on the other foot when the night shift's here, ain't it?"

  "Just sayin', what you're doin' is like to kill him. Then he can't be took to the Ring at all, and who'll be in trouble then?"

  Ring? Matt thought. What in hell's the Ring?

  "Don't you worry your fat head about that. He's still got plenty of spunk left in him. See?"

  And she flipped the switch again.

  RED BLACK RED BLACK RED BLACK RED BLACK RED BLACK

  Again they stood together, Matt and Janey, staring at moonlight on water.

  Only this time, there was no warm spring air, no band playing in the distance, no scent of lotus. Instead, the breeze was the dry by-product of the hospital's industrial air-circulation system, and the only scent was the chemical tang of lemon-scented disinfectant.

  He had woken up at two a.m. to find that she'd left the room. When he stepped out, he'd found her standing in the hallway in front of a window overlooking a landscaped industrial park between the hospital and its parking structure. Snow covered the neatly spaced prairie grasses that bordered a small, frozen pond.

  He put a hand on her shoulder blade.

  "Hey, you."

  She didn't startle. Just leaned back a little in that way he'd always found so assuring.

  He cleared his throat. "Want to take a walk? I know a vending machine around the corner where we can score Funyuns for a song."

  She shook her head.

  He let it go. Stopped trying to be clever. Gently stroked the back of her neck.

  "It's so beautiful," she said, staring out the window.

  "Yeah." He looked at the snow-covered industrial park doubtfully, wondering if he was seeing what she was. "You mean the snow?"

  "All of it," she said. "All of it." And began to cry.

  He put his arms around her, placed his cheek against hers, and held her as she shook silently. Behind them, an orderly rattled past with a trayful of meds. Ignored the weeping couple. Nothing he hadn't seen before.

  They stood there a long time, cheek to cheek, staring out at the frozen pond, the parking structure, the cold eye of the moon.

  He was just about to suggest that they go back and try to sleep again when she cleared her throat and shook her head. "I just can't believe it. It doesn't make sense."

  "What?" Although he knew.

  "I just can't believe that, at some point—some point soon—I'll be gone. That I won't just be asleep, or unconscious—I won't be. I know it's true, but I just can't . . . get my head around it."

  "It's not true," he said fiercely.

  "Hon . . ." She touched his cheek. "It is."

  "No, it isn't. No matter what happens to your body, you'll live on."

  "Where?" She gave a weak, knowing smile. "You mean, like, heaven?" Neither one of them was religious, or ever had been.

  "No, not heaven," he said. "You'll be with me." He knew what he meant. But could he say it in a way that would make her understand? He had to. "You'll be with me, Janey. You will. In my heart. I'll take you with me wherever I go. What I see, you'll see. What I do, you'll do. I'll never let you go. Never." He hugged her fiercely. "You've got to believe me. You've got to."

  "I do, Matt." She touched his face with her fingertips. His eyes were too blurred with tears to see her expression. But the words she said were enough, and she said them again, taking him back to the time he'd first stood with her in front of hundreds of friends and family, in heart-pounding terror and elation, and heard her say that life-changing phrase: "I do, Matt—I do."

  RED BLACK RED BLACK RED BLACK RED BLACK RED BLACK

  "Whoo! Now, that was a doozy!" Hirotachi crowed, her froggish face stretched upwards in grotesque delight.

  Matt collapsed back onto the table. Sweat soaked his shirt. Every cell in his body felt scorched. Tears leaked out of the corners of his eyes, pooling in his ears.

  "You definitely gonna kill him, you keep that shit up." Maloria had backed against a wall, her lower lip protruding as she said it.

  "Nahhhh," Hirotachi purred, drawing it out, "you'd be amazed at how much a grown buck like this can take. What's he had, two sessions
? Can't do crap with two. But three . . . three's the charm."

  She flipped the switch.

  RED BLACK RED BLACK RED BLACK RED BLACK RED BLACK

  Darkness.

  A heavy weight, pressing down upon him, crushing the breath out of his chest. And cold, cold, cold!

  Ice packed into his ears, his eyes, his mouth.

  The Christmas-tree smell of smashed pine.

  Can't move his left hand. Right hand throbbing. Right knee jammed against his chin. Teeth feel loose.

  Can't draw a breath!

  Unable to breathe, he starts to hyperventilate.

  Red sparks flash before his eyes in the darkness.

  Far above him, a muffled roar.

  Far above him, impossibly, the weight increases. Like being crushed into a cold marble floor by a giant's icy heel.

  His ribs creak. His lungs rattle as he fights to draw a breath and fails.

  Realizes he's going to die. His only thought: Like this?

  His breathing gets so shallow, it's just the slightest flexing of a single nostril.

  He stops hearing the muffled roar.

  He stops seeing the red sparks.

  He stops feeling the smashed hand, the loose teeth.

  He's blacking out.

  But as Matt's five senses fade, another sense becomes apparent to him. One he's never noticed before. It's almost like sonar: somehow he can feel the space beyond his body: its shape, density, distance. Like his mind has been somehow freed of the confines of his compressed skull.

  He can feel the jagged, dark weight of a shattered boulder to his right.

  He can feel the long, soft, rotting trunk of a felled tree lying diagonally behind him.

  Above, he can feel the chaotic tangle of torn brush.

  Below, shelves of ice lying atop one another like shattered mirrors.

  Help me.

  He doesn't say the words. He doesn't even think them. He's beyond that now. But even so, the impulse behind those words, the raw need they express, pulses out of him like the cry of a bat. And like the cry of a bat it bounces off the jagged teeth of the boulder, the soft line of the fallen trunk, the crown of brush above, the broken ice-glass below.