The text was not in Latin as he expected, but in the language of Shakespeare, and he read the lines below the elegantly handwritten heading several times, although the instruction was so simple, he understood it on the first. From Brussels Airport, he phoned his doctor in Saint-Tropez.
Roused from bed the MD answered the phone.
“Am I correct, doctor, that there are twelve pints of blood in a grown man’s body?”
“Mr. Nols? . . .”
“Yes.”
“Pints I don’t know this moment, but five to six liters is the full complement in a healthy male body.”
“I need six liters.”
“I don’t have—”
“Doctor, I don’t expect you do. Find them for me, please.”
“It will take time.”
“I’ll be at your office tonight. You’ll name your price. Thank you and ‘till later, doctor.”
“Mr. Nols, wait. For what is this blood?”
“A transfusion.”
>
After Nathan flew in from Brussels International that night after speaking with his surgeon, the doctor waited ready in his private clinic with a trusted aide. Nathan asked him to dismiss the aide, then explained the procedure he wanted conducted, but his MD balked.
What he wanted was impossible, he said, unethical, and certainly preposterous. Nathan reminded him that as to possibility it was not impossible, that the ethics were irrelevant, and that he could easily settle the preposterous nature of the procedure. The doctor could quote any number in the thousands of euros, even hundreds of thousands to get over impossibility, ethics, and senselessness. As to any danger, Nathan stated that no one knew he was there, and if he expired while there, doctor need only inform Antoine’s assistant to come and dispose of the body.
The doctor explained that what he was asking, if discovered, would ruin him. That’s why, Nathan explained, he expected his fee to include enough zeros to temper the risk to his career. Nathan told him he appreciated his concern for his well-being, but also reminded him he’d performed impossible, unethical, and risky things for him in the past, and everything had worked out for both. Besides, he should do it for the science and sense of prestige he would feel in the accomplishment, even if it would need to remain between them. The patient further emboldened the surgeon by commenting that if the result of the procedure were to play out as he imagined, the doctor would have participated in and enabled a possibly history-changing phenomenon. Surely, that alone to a man of science should make it worth proceeding.
The doctor told him to take the chair by the sink and remove his shirt. He would return shortly. When he returned he unwrapped surgical tubing with shutoff valves from sterile bags. He set up a normal blood transfusion procedure, inserting a needle into the patient’s brachial artery, the clear plastic tube connected to a hanging liter of blood. In the patient’s other arm, the doctor duplicated the process, except that the plastic tube did not connect to a liter of blood, but sloped from Nathan’s artery into the sink. The doctor turned on the faucet and left it running.
“Are you ready, Mr. Nols?”
“Yes.”
“May God help us.”
>
The operation of draining the yulen’s blood until his body nearly emptied of it and he was close to fatality took under two hours. Just before the patient collapsed, the doctor opened the valve to the first replacement liter of blood, and it flowed into his patient’s other arm.
Substituting the displaced blood took nearly two hours. Several times it looked like the patient would expire, and the doctor had stimulants at the ready to inject, but Nathan kept brushing him off. He knew how long and how far his body could go with nearly all its blood sucked from it. So many times it had nearly consumed itself feeding on itself to survive through the late season’s end days. “It’s alright, doctor,” he kept wearingly saying. “I can manage it, doctor. I’ll survive it. Just tend . . . to the next liter.”
The procedure completed, the doctor insisted his patient remain under his observation for an hour. Nathan complied. He did feel a little weak. The doctor laughed after he offered Nathan some orange juice. Nathan laughed too.
When the hour was up the doctor offered Nathan his coat—as he’d arrived without one—but Nathan declined, best to avoid any connection between them that night. Each departed in his own car, Nathan in his rental from the airport.
He was on his way home, he realized as he drove. He? He wondered. He. Was he still who he was, or was he someone or something else. The thought chilled his spine. He touched his achy inside elbows where the needles had dug. Whose arms were they then? Whose body did his spirit possess, control? Except for feeling tired, he felt the same. The road to his home looked the same. The Saint-Tropez air that autumn night smelled the same as he remembered the Saint-Tropez autumn air smelling. Had he changed, however? He or something must have, otherwise, what purpose the instruction in The Book?
He turned to the gated entrance of his estate. The double Cs remained on the gates. It pleased him. Thinking of Constance waiting pleased him. Coming home, returning, it was natural he should be pleased, but then his thoughts turned away from the moment. So many others were not coming back. He took a deep breath and sat for a while staring ahead. When he composed himself, he rolled down the window and punched in the code to open the gate.
From a house across the street, Chief Landowski watched the car through fixed binoculars as he did every night every car that entered and left his target’s property.
The gate did not open. Antoine must have changed the code. But he did not want to call the house. He wanted to surprise Constance. Maybe she’d be asleep, or distracted with one of her romance novels, and he could use the time to clean himself up, apply makeup, and look less a wreck to her than he likely looked. He stepped out of the car, and under the light Landowski saw his target. Straightaway he downed his Scotch, grabbed his jacket, and made for the front door, his wallet, travel papers, and gun all on his person ready to head to the airport with his catch.
Nathan tried pushing the gate. It gave slightly, and he leaned into it. He would gently push it open with the car, he thought. As he went back, a figure approach from the street. The burly man rushed him and in a second stood at his side twisting his arm around his back and walking him to the passenger seat. “Chief Landowski, NYPD, retired. We meet again, Mr. Odem, that is, Mr. Nols. You do remember me don’t you? I’ll be hurt if you don’t. Open the door.” Nathan obeyed. “Get in.” Nathan slid into the passenger seat. Chief Landowski shut the door, walked around the front of the car, handgun pointed at the passenger, and got in. “Nice to see you, Mr. Nols,” he smiled, holding the gun, shifting to reverse, then aiming the Renault down the street.
“You don’t look glad to see me,” Landowski said, in a cheerful mood to Nathan’s worried look. “Cheer up. We’re going on a trip ha-ha. And first class. All the way to New York.”
“I don’t have my passport.”
“I have one for you. You’re not the only one who knows how to get a phony,” Landowski grinned.
“There aren’t any flights this late, and this road leads to the hills.”
“Private jet, chump. An ambulance is gonna take us to the airport. You’re going ambulatory.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Don’t wet yourself, I’m not going to hurt you—unless I have to. I have a place arranged to wait at. Soon as we’re there, I’ll call for our plane. When it arrives, a shot of something’ll put you asleep, you’ll be strapped in for the flight, and when you open your eyes, New York, capital of the world.”
“But you said you were retired New York Police.”
“I am. Private employer.”
“Who?”
“I suppose I can tell you. Cecil Bloom ring a bell? The notorious Mrs. Bloom’s hubby?”
“I had nothing to do with her death.”
“Ahhh, you know.”
“It was front page news. I
had absolutely nothing to do with Eve’s death. Nothing.”
“What about several others? Friends of mine, in fact.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“No matter, Nols. After tomorrow, you won’t be my problem. And just in case you’re wondering, I get paid bringing you back dead or alive. Alive is better though. Bonus.”
“I’ll pay what your employer is paying with bonus, double.”
“I thought you’d make the offer, but no, Mr. Bloom’s been real kind to me, and the chunk of change I’ll get is enough.”
“Triple.”
“Besides, Bloom finds out I let you go, I could be the one answering questions. I wanna sleep at night. And I am, starting tomorrow. Until then, I’ll be on you like white on rice. Besides, what’s to worry about, Bloom’s only gonna ask you some questions. You said you’re innocent ha-ha.”
“I am. Completely.”
“No you’re not. You’re guilty as sin. If not for Eve, and I think you did it, for all the others, good people, fine public servants. I think what you are is a monster, Nols. No joke, chump.”
“I’m not a monster. I’ve never killed as a monster. I’m guiltless of any crime. I’m the servant of nature. Of nature. I am no monster. I am no beast.” His hands gripped and tugged his shirt collar, “I am no beast!”
“I hope Bloom boils you in oil. I’ll even watch—if you don’t make me blow your brains out first.” He pointed the gun at Nathan’s face. “I’m getting sick of your sniveling.”
“And I, of your overbearing arrogance,” Nathan said, plugging his thumb into the space between the gun’s trigger guard and trigger, his palm squeezing around the chamber.
“I shoulda been a little less considerate, chump, and kept my finger on the trigger. So now you’re holding my gun. What the hell do you think you’re gonna do? If you let go now, I may only smack your face with it. Make me angry, and I’ll put a bullet in your belly—just enough to give you nasty indigestion all the way back to New York but still get you there ready to sit up and answer questions. I recommend the former.”
Nols looked at him sternly, his earlier nerves, vanished. His hand squeezed the gun pulling it down, Landowski resisting. “Let go, damn it. I can still push on your thumb and get that trigger to pull back.”
“And what, blow a hole in the roof?” Nathan said, the barrel pointing up. “Pull over.”
“Not on your life.”
There was something transpiring in his gut, along his joints, Nathan thought, everything loosening, and he felt completely at ease, in control.
“Let go of the gun!” Landowski yelled, letting go of the wheel and smacking the passenger’s head. “Let go you son of a bitch!”
Nathan’s hand held the gun tightly, pulling it closer, stretching Landowski’s arm. “Pull over and I won’t turn the gun on you.”
“You’re being foolhardy, Mr. Nols. I’m not letting go of this gun, and it’s me who’s gonna turn it on you if you don’t let go by the time I hit that turn ahead.”
“You miss that turn, you’ll go over the barrier, and we’ll both go off the cliff and into the sea.”
“Let go you son of a bitch!” Landowski screamed, speeding up the car.
Knowing what it meant if Landowski lost control of the car, and what would happen if he let go the gun, Nathan lifted Landowski’s gun hand with both his, and without consciously deciding to, slammed Landowski’s hand against the dash.
“Son of a bitch!” Landowski cried, the car swerving. “You son of a bitch!” he screamed, his hand being slammed against the instruments, again, and again, harder, more forcefully, until his grip opened, and Nols ripped the gun away.
The car took the curve and then speeded up on straight road. “Up ahead is an overpass, Nols. If you still hold that gun when we reach it, I’m slamming your side of this car against the concrete. Whatever happens let it happen.”
“Pull the car over or I’ll shoot your right hand off.”
“F-you you son of a bitch. I’ll kill us both you shoot. Right over the railing down the side into the ocean. But you won’t shoot. Not you. You’re a creep. A creeper. You have to sneak up on your victims. Never like this here. You’re a creep. A creeper. A filthy worm. Not a manly bone in your body. Not a man’s drop of blood. You’re a creep. A crawling creep.”
The sound of the gun blast and the sound of Landowski’s shrilling scream flared simultaneously. Shredded stumps remained where two or three fingers had been on his right hand. He waved the hand shocked, yapping painfully.
Nathan watched Landowski wail and shake his hand in shock. He hardly heard the screams. The hysterical man before him did not seem real, nor the place; sound vanishing, time standing still. It was not the gruesome sight or the blood splattering them and the windshield that amazed him. How many grislier sights, many against his own body, had he witnessed his long-tortured life. His astonishment, the numbness in his head, the time stopping wonder, all came from realizing that he had assailed a man. He had injured a man. He. And if so, then who was he then?
Landowski’s palm downshifted on the stick, the car slowed, and it pulled over onto a dirt strip abutting the sea side’s guardrail. His mouth wailed but his passenger did not hear his yapping. He saw Landowski rush from the car, remove his jacket, and wrap it over the hand. And when Landowski stuck his face back into the car, sound returned to the dulled observing head.
“Get me to a hospital, you murdering son of a bitch, and then I’m going to see you tied, whipped, and hung!”
Nathan Nols aimed the gun at the fierce chest, pulled the trigger, and sent the body flying back, flipping over the guardrail.
The shrilling stopped. The engine hummed. Nathan got out of the car and walked to where the man disappeared. He looked down. The cliff fell off almost vertically. Dark covered the bottom, the black sea extending. Dweller lights: roads, villas, promenades, travelers, commerce, all glittered charmingly in the distance; stars too in the sky, and one, no, two airplanes flying. Breezy but balmy the night air he noticed, up there, where he’d been forced. He lifted the gun in his hand, admired it, felt it with his fingers. Such a feared and beloved instrument he held. Wonder it inspired and dread too. He removed the ammo, bounced it in his hand, and tossed the bullets over the cliff. He admired the gun, friend, felt as if he should thank it, and he tossed it into the sea. He eased into the Renault’s driver’s seat, turned the wheel, started back down the road to Saint-Tropez, back home, then stopped.
Was this all there was to it, he wondered. He felt no different than before the transfusion, yet he’d been transformed. It wasn’t a feeling of glory like the transition from near death to new life as in the moments and days after a taking. There was not that celebration, but he was not the same. He had done what no yulen by their nature could do.
He had killed a man, slain him, when he had never even struck one, harmed one, even abetted one’s harm; not a finger had he ever raised to one, and here he’d killed one willfully. He’d killed one and not taken. Taking was not slaying. Taking was nature’s, belonged to nature. Here he had killed willfully, committed the ultimate harm, and yet it did not seem wrong. Was this now equality? What he had sought? And feeling no regret or concern—a good thing? Would he feel regret later? He knew they did. They suffered from committing such an act. But though he had passed into their side, they and he were differed in at least one thing. He possessed no heart, no living heart. Was that then what would make him superior to them? And could this uncaring become the cost, the affliction, and what would lead to his eventual destruction that Gus warned about? Nature, Gus had one said, could not be outwitted.
For now, it did not seem to matter. The change had been good, was good. He had escaped, been allowed to survive. Bloom would have found him guilty of something. They with all their power and resources would have in some slow and painful way done to him as he’d just done. He had simply defended himself, saved himself. The first law of nature—not perish.
No one could blame him, She certainly not. And aside from that, his action was far from the terrors many of them committed. He had not done it for pleasure. He had not done if for gain, or vengeance or passion, or even love—for which many of them killed.
His satisfaction with his benign act settled his scattered thoughts. Sitting behind the wheel, the engine noise smooth, the car rumbling slightly, a final realization formed. He had gained power over his destiny just as they claimed and enjoyed. He’d gained what he’d sought. He was yulen unchained, equal to man, with ruthlessness rewarded. Calm settled over his long-suffering spirit. The eternal knots in his belly, back, in every muscle, eyes, ears, thoughts, all loosened, and their ends slid open, invisible fingers undoing them, and rewarding him.
Ability to defend and protect and to affect his destiny, these now his, his breast calmed. Quieted like the mountain air and far sea, his breaths settled to a tranquil, composed rhythm.
And wantonness and aggression, were these his as well, he wondered. Part of manliness they were, were they not? It would not be for him to choose. And what debt? What debt did he bear? What price if any would nature charge—as Gus believed? He laughed. He laughed as he had never laughed. Did he laugh as man, yulen, or both? To his mind, in feeling and thought, his answer was—yulen. As men or women felt man or woman, black or white, Asian or Irish or any other race, one sex or another or both, he felt yulen. He was yulen. Equal of man, even more than equal perhaps, he now held manhood and yulenhood. However, sensing no blood pulsing through his veins, and knowing his heart dead, he knew he remained, gladly and proudly—yulen.
Yulen: Return of the Beast – Mystery Suspense Thriller (Yulen - Book 2) Page 27