A Dark Perfection

by James, Mark

  Prevot approached a table in the middle of the room with an enormous electron-scanning microscope bolted to the top. “It makes no sense to me,” he noted off-handedly, still thinking about the cheese. “Oh well. Ready?”

  Garneau smiled, “As the Americans say, fire right away.”

  The doctor motioned to the microscope viewer. “I’ve applied a stain so you can see the marks easier. They were exceedingly small, exceedingly precise.”

  Garneau peered down. “And what am I looking at?”

  “It’s a full cross section slice of the brain.”

  It was difficult to see, but it was there, a series of five dots, revealed in purple stain. The marks were equidistant apart, geometric in appearance.

  “Why so small? What are they?”

  “Frankly, I don’t know,” Prevot frowned. “But I do know their effects.”

  He walked over to a smaller table and retrieved a stack of photos.

  “If you look at these – each photo being a horizontal slice through the frontal lobe – you’ll see the same dots on each. Which tells us that the dots are not dots per se, but are marks each revealing a precise slice down into the brain. Yet not a slice like a knife, but a three-micron diameter round hole. Still more interesting, each of the bore holes terminates, or stops, at a different depth inside the brain.”

  Garneau stared at Prevot, thoroughly perplexed.

  “I don’t know either, Henri,” Prevot conceded, shaking his head. “All I know is that each penetration hole terminates in a single burn mark, each burn centered at a precise depth location, and each corresponding to a critical cerebral blood path. It was these five burn strikes that engendered the five simultaneous, massive brain hemorrhages.”

  “Ah, the red eyes,” Garneau reflected.

  “Yes, the red eyes. The blood flow invaded the orbital cavities.”

  “But how? Needles?” Garneau asked, searching through the photos for a front view of the ambassador’s head. “Do needles even exist that thin?”

  “You won’t find anything there, Henri. There are no penetration marks on the skull, or on the outer skin layers that correspond to the interior bore holes. Trust me, I spent most of the night looking for the entry points. There are none. The only exterior symptoms are the red eyes.”

  “A laser, then?”

  “That was my first thought. But the entry instrument left no burning as it bore downward and left no telltale burns on the outer skin. Therefore, it can’t be a laser. What’s more, the perpetrator would’ve had to enter and leave the crime scene with the instrument on his person, meaning that it must have been small enough to carry. And inconspicuous enough not to be noticed.”

  Garneau remembered that rainy day at the Hotel St. Regis. “As if someone would be carrying it concealed in their trench coat…”

  “Precisely. But the problem is that there are no hand-held lasers with these performance capabilities. Perhaps in an old sci-fi episode, or on Tatooine, but not on this planet. And still more troubling, there exists no mechanism that would allow anyone to hold such a weapon so stably, so as to allow such precise marks. The person holding the weapon would have had to remain utterly still. I mean, perfectly still. No human can remain that steady. And the enabling technology simply doesn’t exist.”

  “In any event, I’ll continue to investigate. The Americans won’t take custody of the body until next week, or later, so I still have some time. I’m supposed to apprise them of my findings, but I think that this report might take a while to finish, if you know what I mean.”

  Prevot took Garneau to the front door, each of them promising to get together soon, perhaps with their wives, perhaps for a long weekend in Nice or Corsica, a place that Elise and Colette would enjoy.

  Questions began arising, involuntarily, as Garneau walked absently down the stairs and entered the Citroen. The gargoyles continued to stare blankly from above. He started the car and began driving, twice catching himself as he missed a turn.

  What were the marks? Did they have a purpose, something he couldn’t yet perceive?

  He could only see the red eyes.

  Staring, reaching out.

  †

  “Don’t be shy there, honey. Yeah, yeah, all of it!”

  Army Major Billy Joe Grindel watched as the Aloha Airlines stewardess poured rum into a plastic cup, approximating a Mai Tai. He focused as she tapped the last drops from the miniature bottle.

  “Thanks, dear. No use a wastin’,” he grinned widely.

  The Mai Tai matched the four that he’d had in the terminal bar waiting for his connecting flight from Honolulu to Kauai. He turned, sloshing some of the red drink on his hand, which at first he ignored.

  He rolled his head over on the headrest towards his companion, Della Norine Beaufort. She too had imbibed at 10:00 a.m. on too many Mai Tai’s.

  “Darlin, hey, what do you say? Happy? Ready for the time of your life?”

  He licked the Mai Tai from his hand.

  “You betcha, Billy,” she said, giggling beneath bleach-blond hair like she had for men her whole life. “Thanks for asking me. Oh my God, look down there!”

  He’d flown her out from the mainland, from Oklahoma, and she’d never seen an island, or an ocean, or the turquoise of a reef. Before he’d started his military tour at Pearl Harbor, Della was the girl he knew from church, from his hometown in Enid, Oklahoma. His wife had never met her.

  Della had perky breasts and, sometimes, he could see her nipples pushing against her blouse.

  She placed her mouth on the plastic glass, girl-like, letting her bottom lip rest on the rim. She looked over as if gazing at a savior knight. “Billy, I’m so glad you asked me. Now that you’re free, really free, it means so much more to me. I’m sorry I turned you down so often. I’m a Christian woman and, ya’ know, you still being married and all, well, it just wasn’t right.”

  As she said it, she thought of his Army pension. She was tired of Oklahoma.

  As he listened to her, Billy Joe thought of his wife and his three kids, still asleep in military housing in Oahu, falling away and behind them. After the last time he’d strayed, he’d promised his wife, Jolene, that he would never do it again. He’d sworn on his sacred mother’s name, on the scriptures and their shared God. He and Jolene then prayed together on the weakness of sin and the glory of forgiveness.

  He always did what was needed to make Jolene stay.

  He leaned his stubbled chin on Della’s shoulder, so soft. “You sure are pretty, Della Norine. Soft, too.”

  “You say the sweetest things, Billy Joe. What’d you say we’re gonna do when we got there?”

  “Well, whatever you want. There’s the hotel up the way – a good buffet and a piano bar later on. Right away, we could walk down to the beach. Or, just stay in…” He rested his thick arm on hers, brushing her breasts. “You know baby, start it out right.”

  She giggled, “Oh, Billy, you’re such the bad one. My Lord, there’s plenty of time for that.” She sipped at her drink. “How about the golf club, maybe a little shopping at the pro shop? You know, I wanted to get something for mom.”

  She’d once seen a beautiful sari worn by a Hawaiian girl on a TV travel show and it had always stayed with her. She wanted to bring something back to Oklahoma, to show her best friend, Amber Lynne, that she hadn’t been making it all up. Amber Lynne strutted around so much. That would show her.

  They rolled their suitcases through the open air terminal at Lihue, Kauai, heading for the rental car kiosks. A warm, lush wind hit their faces as they walked across the lot towards their car, a cherry red convertible.

  “Oh Billy, it’s so cute! My lord, how are you affordin’ all of this?”

  Billy Joe smiled wide and heaved the suitcases into the trunk. “My old ship came in, baby! Ole Billy’s ship came in!”

  They wended their way down Highway 50/56, which was actually just a typical, two-lane road and the only major thoroughfare on the island, skirting the beach
es from Lihue to the rain forest jungles of the Na Pali Coast.

  Della readjusted the designer sunglasses that Billy Joe had bought her in the Oahu airport and caught her image in the side mirror. She thought that she looked like a blonde Jackie Kennedy. She looked down and realized she’d forgotten to bring her Mai Tai.

  They passed the Kilauea Lighthouse and the taro fields outside of the Princeville Resort and began the arc around Hanalei Bay, negotiating the s-curves and cutbacks as the road fell down to the bay and the jungle began to climb on all sides.

  “Look there, Billy Joe. Surfers!”

  Billy Joe slowed the car and looked over at the surfers catching the soft waves on Hanalei Bay. Closing his eyes and resting his head back for a moment, he could smell the jungle flowers misting down from the jagged mountains. He’d been waiting for this his whole life.

  “You know, honey, Kauai is where they filmed that movie. What’s it called? You know, where all of those dinosaurs come back to life and they put ‘em all in a theme park. Anyway, Kauai has the most waterfalls of any of the islands.”

  Billy Joe had been reading the travel guides. “They call it the Garden Isle.”

  “That’s great, Billy honey, but look at those surfers!

  “I see ‘em! I see ‘em!”

  Della leaned her head back and looked over, dreamy-like. “Billy, what did you mean, your ship has come in? You win the Lotto and not tell old Della?”

  “Well, sorta. You know that contract I told you about, the one the Army has with that big defense contractor. I sit there all day and watch all this money flowin’ this way and that, and I’m the one approving all those cost overruns. I told those corporate suits that it just wasn’t fair to old Billy, that they needed to show a little more appreciation. And, so they did! And it was about damn time!”

  They drove past Tunnels Beach and pulled into a driveway that passed through gates and fell down through lush vegetation – orchids, vines, bamboo – and ended at a circular driveway that fronted a beach house.

  “Oh-My-God!” Della squealed. “How’d you find this? It’s heaven!”

  “Just thank old Aero-Con Corp, darlin!”

  They hauled their luggage into the home, a classic Hawaiian bungalow, as mists off the mountains turned to a light rain. Billy Joe wheezed a bit, as he was thick-necked and had gained a lot of weight while sitting behind his Army desk.

  Della looked back up at the mountains and the gathering clouds. “Are you sure that we’re gonna get to that snorklin’?”

  “No worries, sweet thing. It rains one minute and gets dry the next. It builds up on the mountain and then blows away. If it keeps up, we can always drive around the island to Poipu. It’s sunny there all the time. Hell, I hear they even got cactuses growin’.”

  They marveled at the seaside ocean view – windows all along the back and a long porch – and went into the bedroom to drop off their luggage. The cottage was constructed from teak with a dark green metal roof and they could hear the rain increase.

  Billy Joe came up from behind, goosing her under her skirt.

  “You sure smell sweet. Sweet as those flowers,” he whispered near her ear, smelling at her hair.

  “Billy, come on, you promised. I wanna go into town, get some photo film, maybe a postcard for mom. And what about that gift shop up at the resort, the golf club, I think?”

  “I’ll get you whatever you want, deary. Just show Billy here a little affection.”

  He was still swirling from the Mai Tai’s and breathed closer to her ear, harder. “How about some nice pearl earrings, or those coral necklaces you always talk about?”

  They moved over to the bed and Billy Joe moved on top of her, kissing her neck like a schoolboy. The rain began pelting the roof. She looked up to the sound.

  She moved her hand and it brushed across his stiff crew cut. She moved it again and found his back, hairy and clammy from the beading sweat. She pulled away.

  She thought she heard a sound from the front of the house and pushed at him, slipping against his skin. “Billy Joe, I think I hear something. You hear me, stop!”

  He was dead weight on top of her.

  “Billy, I’m serious!”

  He continued his rutting, the rain increasing and pounding the roof.

  “Oh darlin, oh darlin!” he moaned loudly.

  Faster, his eyes clenched tight, he was suddenly blinded by a white-hot light.

  It was the last thing they both ever saw.

  †

  The infinity pool seemed to merge into the ocean far beyond. The all-glass house – perched over a ravine, the Kauai jungle rising from behind, cascading orchids all around – had been built to his specifications. He’d designed all of his houses – London, Monaco, Lake Como, Geneva, Nevis, and so on.

  She was supposed to arrive at noon and was seven minutes late. This irritated him. Many things about her were beginning to irritate him; her pauses on the phone, her cheap, musky perfume, her increased expenditures for her shopping and for her still sick mother.

  He heard the soft knock on the front door and accessed the voice-activated intercom system. “Yes,” he said, the sounds running off the glass and white marble in the near empty room.

  From hidden speakers, her voice came back, “Hello? Sorry I’m late. Hello?”

  He pulled the credit card-sized remote from his pocket and depressed a button, releasing the front locks.

  She quietly entered and walked through the cavernous front room. It was a space that always made her feel hesitant, her senses heightened to something she couldn’t explain. “Hello?”

  She didn’t hear him. Sometimes he was like this, like a snow leopard across snow.

  She paused. She wasn’t sure why.

  He leaned over her shoulder. He had no scent, no sound. His blood ran warm, over one hundred and two degrees. An anomaly, his childhood doctors had said. She felt his hot breath at her neck.

  “And where have you been?” he whispered.

  She turned, small in front of him.

  “No need to worry,” he said. “Follow me.”

  They walked into the rear room, the bank of windows looking out over the jungle and down to the ocean.

  “In the cellar. You know which one.”

  She moved down the glass spiral staircase to the basement and entered the wine cellar, the coolness hitting her. It was the only place in the house where wood had been allowed. He’d once told her that it was required to properly age the wine. “Glass or steel creates cold spots on the bottle and the wine will not age uniformly.” Wood was neutral.

  Each bottle was housed within its own receptacle, the hundreds of bottles set into an eighteen-foot high mahogany wall. The wall was beautiful, alone in its glass universe.

  She paused. What had he said the last time, 1959?

  She called into the cool space, “Chateau Latour, 19…”

  She hesitated.

  From a hidden source, a sultry female voice came back, “Please, re-specify.”

  “Chateau Latour, Pauillac…1961.”

  A robotic arm stealthily extended from a long slot in the ceiling, moved on rails to the bottle’s location and deftly removed it. It then extended down like a mantis, setting the bottle on the glass table. There was only the slightest clink as glass touched glass. She carefully took the bottle and carried it up the stairs.

  “Here it is,” she said, smiling.

  He looked down at the bottle.

  He abruptly lashed out, catching her hard across the cheek. She flew off her feet and crumpled against the white leather couch. The bottle rolled across the room, cracking against a far corner.

  She touched the rising swell, keeping her head down.

  He leaned over, “Our last time, I said – 1959.”

  As if his hands were talons, he gripped her hair and pulled her up like a doll. She hoped it wouldn’t be as bad as three times ago. Why did she do this? Was this really for her mother? And what would she do when her mother wa
s finally gone? Would she still come here, risk the hospital, her dignity? Did she have any left? Was she a whore?

  As he drug her across the room, she set herself inside, going into that secret place of numbness she’d learned as a child.

  The killer pinned her forcefully against the wall, lifting her off her feet. He was behind her, pushing her face against the frosted glass. She heard her dress rip, felt the violation, her face bruising again and again against the glass.

  Everyone, her whole life, had told her that she was beautiful. Why, oh Lord, do I do this?

  He released her and she slumped to the floor. After a few moments, she forced herself up, collected her dress and inched towards the front door.

  She froze at the sound of his voice, a ghost’s whisper, caroming softly from all of the speakers at once, “Nineteen...fifty…nine…”

  She moved gingerly and heard the locks unlatch in front of her. She paused at the side table and held her arm out, trembling. She relented and reached down, gripping the roll of bills. Once through the door, the locks clicked behind her.

  The killer walked out onto the lanai. He paused and looked through the glass floor at the three hundred foot plunge to the jungle below. He noted that the floor was streaked from a night rain and required cleaning. He would need to talk to Andre about that.

  He took his glass tumbler of Islay single malt scotch to the railing and scanned the list. Who would be next, friend or foe? Was there any difference? Or, should he simply enjoy himself, allow another indulgence, moving the pieces on the board one more time?

  He scanned the list, “1. Ambassador, 2. Major….”