He was thinking about such matters more all the time.
On their second day in hiding, Marlene had moved into a separate bedroom, displacing Jerry, who had been forced to share a room with Al. (“But he snores!” Jerry had whined. “Tough shit,” Marlene had sympathized.)
And then a couple of news items caught Malcolm’s attention enough to shatter his fantasy and convert Felicia Finewine’s mouth from an object of erotic speculation to a conduit for vital information.
“In the Rocky Mountain city of Piketon, two bodies were discovered in the Pike River, which flows through that city. The bodies of two elderly white males, their feet encased in cement, were discovered by early-morning joggers on a path that runs beside the river. Since the river is only about a foot deep at that point, the bodies were clearly visible from the knees up. The dead men had been shot in the back of the head, and both have been identified as having links to organized crime on the West Coast. The names of the victims are not being released until police can determine which federal penitentiary next of kin are serving time in.
“Also this morning, a mysterious explosion and fire destroyed the Southern California headquarters of a weirdo cult, a bunch of losers who worshiped flying saucers, the Brothers and Sisters of the Saucer People. Fire department officials report that the building was engulfed in flames when they arrived and that their men could do little. The building is reported to be almost completely destroyed. A number of bodies were found inside the building when firemen were finally able to enter. Apparently, all the members of the bizarro cult had committed mass suicide.”
Felicia broke off to smirk at the screen as though to reassure her devoted fans that no one who looked like her would ever do something that dumb and pointless.
She continued. “One of the bodies has been tentatively identified by means of beard-styling records as that of Harold Jaminchkovich, better known as Brother Harry, the self-styled, quote, Enunciator of the New Christian Space Enlightenment, unquote.”
Brother Harry! Malcolm thought. Translated to a higher and far mellower plane of being! Maybe I should start channeling him now.
Jerry burst into the room. “Hey, guess what, Mr. Erskine, sir! Agent Muchley just called in to say we can take you guys back home now. The danger’s over. We’ve already got you both tickets on a commercial flight to Piketon this evening, so start getting packed, and after dinner, Al and I’ll take you over to Dulles and drop you off.”
“About fucking time!” Marlene called from somewhere. “Keep it down! I’ve got some phone calls to make.”
* * * * *
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Malcolm climbed out of the unmarked Secret Service car feeling nervous. Behind him was a stream of cars letting people off or picking them up, in front of him was a row of glass doors leading into the airport, and in between was a broad expanse of concrete filled with arriving and departing passengers, piles of luggage, porters, and electric carts. The number of places a man with a gun could be hiding stunned him.
The weather was chilly, and everyone he could see was wearing some sort of coat or jacket, some of them quite heavy and bulky. Any one of those seeming passengers could be fingering a pistol concealed in a coat pocket, ready to walk up to Malcolm and remove the Devil’s agent.
Or the assassin might not even be here. It might be someone quite far away, with a high-powered rifle aimed at the back of Malcolm’s head. He spun about quickly, as if to catch sight of the distant killer or at least confuse him.
“Well, come on!” Marlene snapped at him. “I want to get back to Piketon.”
“Uh, yeah, right.” Malcolm picked up his suitcase. He paused to wave goodbye to Jerry and Al, but they had already driven away. He noticed that Marlene had left her suitcase for him to carry, so he picked it up in the other hand and staggered after her and into the building.
After they had checked their two cases through to Piketon and let the ticket attendant do her mysterious ripping of some illegible pages from the ticket and making cryptic marks on other pages, they found themselves with an hour to wait. Marlene put both tickets and boarding passes in her purse.
“I guess we can go down to the gate,” Malcolm said.
“No hurry, now,” Marlene said. “I’m curious. Were the stories those guys had you read any good?”
Malcolm thought about whether to tell her the truth.
Al’s story wasn’t a story. Rather, it was the outline for a novel titled Nuts to Your Guts. It was an action-adventure tale about an astonishingly brave, resourceful, and tall Secret Service agent named Hal Stone who, after a series of adventures, half of them sexual and the other half bloodily violent, defeats the secret organization that has been trying to undermine the industrial world. A grateful United States President then rewards Hal with the hand of his beautiful daughter and promotion to head of the Secret Service.
Jerry’s was a science-fiction short story called “First Landing.” It told about two alien beings fleeing from the destruction of their planet. They seem to be quite human in appearance and behavior, and, if the reader can judge from the occasional arguments they have about proper usage, their native language is English. The male alien, Jerdam, is short by alien standards, but possessed of a mighty intellect and record-setting sexual abilities. The appreciative female alien, Evelyn, has admired and desired him from afar for many years (each year being divided into twelve “mununths”) and is delighted to have been the woman Jerdam chose to heroically save from the disaster that has destroyed their race. They land on a verdant planet populated only by placid animals and vigorously set about regenerating their species. Jerdam shortens his name to “Adam,” Evelyn shortens hers to “Eve,” they name their new world “Earth,” and the garden spot they live in they call “Eden.”
Reading all of this earnestly written tripe, Malcolm had felt that special surge of joy known only to a moderately successful writer who discovers that a would-be writer is emphatically not a rival to be feared. At the same time, he had grown to like the two Secret Service men during their enforced vacation together in Virginia, while Marlene had clearly disliked them, so he told her, “Rough, but promising. With lots of work and the proper guidance, I think they could both do okay. They’ll never reach my level, of course, but pretty soon they’ll surpass, say, Joe Hoffman.”
He had expected that to elicit at least a scowl, if not an insult, but instead Marlene looked happy.
“I read an interesting magazine article while we were shut up in that stupid house with those two promising authors,” she said. “All about trends in popular culture. Seems channeling’s on its way out. I think that maybe, real soon, your level won’t be so high, Malcolm.”
“Worried about your milch cow, my beloved? I think the goose has a few more golden eggs in him.”
“Planning a sex change, Malcolm?” She smiled broadly, but not, Malcolm realized, at him. She was looking over his shoulder.
“Hey, Teeny,” said a voice from behind him.
It was Fred Seicht.
While Malcolm stared with open mouth, Seicht stepped to Marlene’s side and put his arm around her shoulders. “Hi, baby.”
Marlene smiled happily up at him, notably unsurprised to see him.
“What?” Malcolm said. “What? What?” Suddenly he was struck by the feeling that the goose had become more important as a source of pâté de foie gras than of golden eggs. “Marlene, what the hell are you up to?”
“Cashing in my investment, darling. Hellooo,” she added, looking over his shoulder again.
Malcolm saw the look of arousal on her face and the look of awe mingled with fear on Seicht’s face, and he felt the prickles in his own neck, and he knew who was standing behind him without needing to turn around. “Hello, Mongo.”
“I suppose you’re going to come with me quietly and not give me an excuse to mangle you, huh, Erskine?” Mongo said.
He needed an excuse? Malcolm turned around finally. “You know me by now, Mongo. I save m
y heroism for the appropriate moment.”
Mongo seemed to snicker, but then his face relaxed into its normal placidity. He said to Marlene, “Check’s in the mail. Now the two of you use those tickets and take that flight to Piketon.”
Marlene began to protest that the arrangement had been that Mongo would have the money with him, but Seicht, his face white, yanked her away in the direction of the gate.
“Erskine, your taste in women is all in your mouth.”
Actually, Malcolm thought, in her mouth. “As bad as your taste in bosses, Mongo. My month’s not up yet.”
Mongo actually laughed very slightly. Or perhaps it was merely a heavy breath. “This hasn’t got anything to do with that. Let’s go see my boss. Sure you don’t want to make a run for it? Crowded place, cops all around, and all?”
Malcolm gave him what he hoped was a scornful look and gestured for Mongo to lead the way.
The way led out of the airport and to a waiting limousine with a uniformed driver. The license plates, which Malcolm got just a glimpse of, read CHANNL.
Mongo gestured Malcolm into the back seat ahead of him, then climbed in and said, “Go,” to the driver. The car moved smoothly away from airport and out into traffic. The path home receded behind them.
At first, Malcolm tried to remember their route, memorizing landmarks and highway names and numbers. Since he did not know that part of the country, he hoped he would be able to reconstruct the trip later when talking to the police. Then he noticed that Mongo was watching him with amused tolerance, and he realized that Mongo knew that he would never have the opportunity either to talk to the police or to remember this trip. Malcolm pressed himself back into the seat to try to hide his trembling.
I’m going to die, he thought. Actually and really going to die. And I’ve never published a really successful novel.
He looked at Mongo, sitting relaxed and comfortable beside him.
And it’s going to hurt a lot.
* * * * *
Their destination was a house in a rural setting, surrounded by enormous trees that shielded it from the highway. The day had grown increasingly gray and cold as the light faded, and now, as dark was coming on, it was raining. From a light drizzle, the rain turned to a heavy downpour.
The car pulled up in front of broad, white stone steps leading up to an ornate doorway. Mongo leaped out, yelled, “Come on!” and ran up the steps.
Malcolm got out more slowly. He stood beside the car, looking up at the sky. The blowing rain stung his cheeks and soaked his clothing. Perhaps if he stood like this with his mouth open, he’d drown, as credulous folk believe turkeys do in the rain. Drowning might be a less painful death than the one Mongo was no doubt planning for him.
Mongo, however, was not to be cheated. He returned, grabbed Malcolm’s arm, and yanked him up the stairs. “You trying to catch your death?” he shouted at Malcolm. “Jesus, what a lame brain.”
Thank God, Malcolm thought, stumbling up the stairs. He’s here to protect me, not kill me! Relief overwhelmed him, and he felt like crying.
“I don’t want you all fuzzy-minded with a cold virus, or dying of pneumonia,” Mongo said as he pulled the door open. “I want all your nerve endings working at peak level.”
Inside, the house was elegant, featuring much old, well polished woodwork, antique furniture, and nineteenth-century portraits hanging on the walls.
Mongo stopped in front of a small table of red wood with curved, slender legs.
“See this, Erskine? Genuine eighteenth-century piece. Imported from France before the Revolution. Theirs, I mean, not ours. Look at the workmanship, the delicacy. Beautiful, huh?”
“One of the loveliest tables I’ve ever seen.” Whatever might make Mongo feel more kindly toward him, Malcolm would say it.
“Course, the old stuff gets fragile as the years pass.” Mongo picked the table up with one hand and squeezed, and the wood splintered. He dropped the shattered thing, and when it hit the floor, it fell apart into three pieces. “Come on.” He strode off down a long, portrait-lined hallway.
Malcolm followed hurriedly. The table, after all, had had a long and full life. What right did it have to complain? Malcolm, on the other hand, was still relatively young, and there was so much he had not yet experienced.
He stifled a sob of pity for himself. I haven’t been that bad, have I? he asked an uncaring universe. I don’t really deserve this, do I?
Mongo led the way to what, in the house’s youth, must have been one of many small sitting rooms. In these more degenerate times, it was equipped with a large color television set. And an array of leather straps and whips hung from the walls.
“A torture chamber, Mongo?” Malcolm asked, his amazement temporarily chasing away his fear. “I know editors can get unpleasant when authors miss their deadlines, but this — !”
Mongo looked insulted. “You kidding? You think I’d need any of this shit? Hell, no, it’s not for torture. The boss uses it for sex.”
It did not fit in with Malcolm’s preconceptions about Jimmy Flicker. Lukas of Aldebaran would surely have disapproved. But now that he looked more closely, he noticed an armchair with an improbably large dildo built into its seat, and what might have been a gynecologist’s table, complete down to the stirrups, but also with a hole built into it.
But no Jimmy Flicker was to be seen. “Is he tied up, heh, heh?” Malcolm asked.
“Who?”
“The boss.”
Mongo exhibited the faintest trace of a smile. “She’s on her way. You just stay here and wait for her.” He turned and left the room.
Earlier, Marlene had made some weak joke about Malcolm’s planning to have a sex change operation. Now he began to wonder if Jimmy Flicker had had a sex change operation.
Well, why not?
It would fit in with this alternate universe he seemed to have stepped into, this odd world in which nothing was as it seemed. His placid life as a cynical hack-writer con man had been interrupted by Secret Service men and inept Piketon detectives and madmen firing rifles at him and goons the size of two-story houses and a former president’s wife who wanted to be president herself and an ex-wife who had hated him and then seemed to be crazy about him and now had apparently turned him over to a young, amoral entrepreneur — scratch that: all entrepreneurs are amoral — who murdered his subordinates because it was cheaper than laying them off and now had had his sex changed.
And all because Malcolm had dreamed up an ancient stellar spirit who dispensed business advice telepathically.
It wasn’t as if I hurt anyone, for Christ’s sake, Malcolm sulked mentally. I just took their money. But they could all afford it. I’m really just a modern Robin Hood, that’s all. Just what does this fucking universe have against me, anyway?
Looking around, he became aware that the room also contained more conventional furniture. Did Julie Flicker, or whatever he called himself now, like to relax in a comfortable armchair while whipping his well-restrained sex slaves? For that matter, how did one get sex slaves? Classified ads in certain magazines? There was a sex magazine in Piketon, the Piketon Pearl. Malcolm had sometimes fantasized about answering some of the ads in it, but he had never screwed his courage to quite so unconventional a sticking point. None of the ads had been for sex slaves, though.
“Ah, so! We meet again, Mr. Malcolm Erskine!”
Malcolm would have laughed at the B-movie corniness of the line, had it not been for the fact that the woman speaking those words struck fear to his core. As it was, he stared speechlessly at Atlantica, his face betraying his fear.
She smiled with satisfaction and locked the door behind her.
Malcolm at last regained the power of speech. “I thought you were in California.”
“My horses told me they preferred the southeast.”
“Oh. Well, okay. And so now you’re working for Jimmy Flicker, too?” Was Flicker planning to replace him with this charlatan?
Atlantica looked at him
in amazement. “What does Flicker have to do with any of this?”
“Are you kidding? What about Mongo? Since he works for Flicker, naturally —”
“Oh, of course. Now I see why you’re confused. Mongo doesn’t work for Flicker any more. I hired him away. I made him a better offer.”
Malcolm wondered what that offer could have been. “He seemed to be a very loyal MegaFlicker employee. I wonder what Jimmy Flicker had to say when Mongo told him he was leaving.”
Atlantica smirked. “Flicker tried to say a few things, but by that point no one could understand him. He rode the tiger for a while, but then he released the tail.”
“Oracular, Attie. Sounds like something Mellabenth would say.”
Atlantica thought about that for a moment. “Does, doesn’t it? Thanks, I’ll probably use it. In fact, Mellabenth is what I brought you here to talk about.”
“Wait a minute! This is going too fast. I’ve got to sit down.” Malcom chose one of the room’s normal armchairs and sat down. Briefly, he wondered what Mellabenth would have thought if that ancient Atlantean warrior could have seen Atlantica seating herself upon the dildo that projected from the chair opposite his. The image of her doing so was surprisingly arousing.
Malcolm yanked his mind back to his predicament. “Okay, so what does Mellabenth have to with your hiring away Jimmy Flicker’s Director of Cosmic Outplacement and having him kidnap me and bring me here?”
Atlantica was wearing the white robes that seemed to be her standard costume for public appearances. She chose a chair facing Malcolm’s — but not the one with the built-in dildo — and sat in it. She placed her hands on the chair’s arms and held herself in the air like a gymnast, folding her legs beneath her and then lowering herself onto the chair. The robes fell away to reveal very shapely thighs.
Malcolm felt the stirrings of an erection. Oh, for God’s sake, he told himself. Not now!
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