Death Trance

by Graham Masterton

  Wanda sat down beside him on the edge of the bed and took his hand. ‘You could always back out now. If nothing else, you could save yourself a lot of money. You could probably save yourself some heartache too.’

  She hesitated and then went on. ‘They’re dead, Randolph. You have to let go some time.’

  Randolph did not answer. He recognized that she was probably right and that this expedition to Indonesia was nothing more than an irrational attempt to assuage his guilt. If only he had been there when the door of the cabin at Lac aux Ecorces had burst open and those men had invaded his family’s lives with axes and wire and nothing in their hearts but murder. He found that he was clenching his teeth and that his fists were so tight that his knuckles showed as white spots.

  Wanda lightly kissed his cheek. ‘All right. I know. You have to go through with it.’

  They took a taxi to Keborayan Baru, the spacious residential district to the south of Djakarta. Dr Ambara had slept ‘like a rhinoceros,’ as he put it, and was nervous and excitable. Randolph found himself somewhat lethargic and couldn’t stop yawning. [

  The restaurant on Jalan Sultan Hasanuddin was called i ‘Wayang’ after the Indonesian travelling theatres. It was j elegant and looked expensive, with painted screens, and ider-iders draped from the ceiling, strips of cotton traditionally hung from shrines during festivals. A small, dapper ; man showed them through to the back of the restaurant, where I.M. Wartawa was sitting with a glass of beer and a cigarette.

  Selamat pagi,’ he called as they walked across to join him. ‘Good morning. Saudara mau minum apa?’

  ‘Coffee would do fine, thanks,’ said Dr Ambara.

  I.M. Wartawa lifted his hand to the dapper little man and said, ‘Tolong, berikan saya tiga kopi.”

  ‘Silakan duduk,’ he invited them. ‘Please sit down.’

  They sat around the table. I.M. Wartawa crushed out his cigarette, swallowed a large mouthful of whisky and said, ‘I telephoned many of my friends yesterday afternoon.

  Some did not answer. Maybe they are gone away, or dead. I renewed some old acquaintances. But after some time, I managed to find the kind of person I believe you have been looking for.’

  ‘In Djakarta?’ asked Dr Ambara.

  ‘He was here briefly, and also in Jogjakarta for a while. But now he lives on Bali, in Denpasar, the capital. He is not an easy man to locate and it may be difficult to persuade him to help you, but he is supposed to be one of the most skilful of death-trance adepts, even greater than Ida Bagus Darwiko, who died two years ago in Kintamani.’

  ‘Do you have his name?’ Randolph asked.

  ‘Yes, sir, I have his name. When you pay me, I shall give it to you. You must understand that I am not being unhelpful. I simply wish to protect my interests.’

  ‘You shall have your money by tomorrow,’ Randolph said. ‘But first of all - even if you don’t want to give me his name now - tell me something about this man. I have to know whether he’s genuine or not.’

  I.M. Wartawa slowly shook his head. There is no question about his being genuine, sir. I have heard of him before, but he is very secretive and it is hard to say whether all the stories about him are true.’

  ‘What stories?’ Randolph wanted to know.

  ‘Well, sir, they say that he became adept at entering the death trance because he was seeking revenge against the Goddess Rangda. Apparently the very first time he was taught to enter the death trance, his religious tutor was killed by the Witch Widow and ever since that day, he has sought to destroy her. Few adepts enter the death trance unless they really have to, or unless they are seeking somebody special. But this man is said to have entered the death trance again and again, night after night, for the sole purpose of hunting down leyaks and killing them, and with the ultimate goal of meeting Rangda face-to-face and slaying her.’

  ‘That sounds like a dangerous obsession,’ Randolph commented.

  ‘Passing beyond the veil is always dangerous,’ I.M. Wartawa remarked. He sat back in his seat while a pretty Javanese girl set out their cups of coffee. ‘Tolong, berikan saya satu Johnny Walker?’ he asked her.

  ‘Tentu,’ she said and took his glass.

  ‘What other stories do they tell about this celebrated adept?’ Randolph asked. He was about to part with twenty-five thousand dollars in cash; he felt entitled at the very least to a little background on what he was going to get for his money.

  I.M. Wartawa sniffed. They say he is the first and only adept who has ever managed to hunt leyaks and kill them. Of course there is no proof of this because you cannot kill a leyak in the land of the dead and then drag his body back to the real world to show what you have done. Leyaks are invisible in the real world. It is only when you go beyond the veil that you can see them.’

  ‘How does one actually go about hunting and killing a leyak?’ asked Wanda.

  ‘You will have to ask him that yourself,’ replied I.M. Wartawa. ‘I can only suppose that it is done by magic of a kind.’

  ‘Is there anything else you can tell us about this man?’ Randolph asked. ‘Where he comes from? How old he is?’

  ‘He is very young,’ said I.M. Wartawa. ‘In fact, he is barely a man at all. He may be nineteen or twenty, no more than that. The other interesting thing about him is that he is part American.’

  ‘That’s interesting,’ said Wanda.

  ‘Well, of course there are thousands just the same all over Southeast Asia. The legacy that the United States left after the Vietnamese war was not just cultural. This man, however, has sought to train himself in the ways of his mother while at the same time using the superior physical strength and the Western sense of logic he inherited from his father. From everything I have been told about him, he sounds formidable.’

  Randolph sipped his coffee. It was Java coffee, hot and thick. ‘How would you like me to pay you?’ he asked I. M. Wartawa quietly.

  I. M. Wartawa produced a well-worn business card. ‘Have the money delivered here in a plain parcel, addressed to me. As soon as I receive it, I will telephone you at the Hilton and give you the name of the adept and where you might start looking for him.’

  Randolph said, ‘You realize what will happen if the money is delivered and you don’t phone?’

  I.M. Wartawa gave a small, tight, U-shaped smile. ‘You will have to trust me, I regret to say. It is against the law to procure death-trance adepts in Indonesia, but it is also against the law to seek to hire one. If I were to disappear with my twenty-five thousand dollars, you would have no recourse. But then, I am known as an honourable man, and I can promise you that I will keep my word. It would be foolish of me, after all, to escape with only half the money.’

  Randolph looked at Dr Ambara for a sign of reassurance. Dr Ambara said, ‘I. Made Wartawa was given the very best of references, Randolph. That is all I can say.’

  ‘Very well,’ said Randolph. He stood up and offered I.M. Wartawa his hand. I.M.

  Wartawa transferred his cigarette from his right hand to his left and solemnly shook on the deal. ‘It is a delight to do business with you, sir,’ he said.

  The small, dapper man came up then and asked, ‘Will you eat some breakfast before you go? You should try our steamed tomatoes with butter and garlic, or the Gado-Gado salad.’

  ‘My brother-in-law,’ I.M. Wartawa explained with a laconic wave of his hand.

  ‘Thanks all the same, but I think we’d better be getting back to the Hilton,’ said Randolph. ‘I have to arrange for your money to be wired over.’

  ‘A breakfast will delay you only half an hour,’ said Wartawa’s brother-in-law.

  ‘Don’t delay them, Verra,’ I.M. Wartawa admonished him. ‘Not even for one minute.

  They can think about breakfast after they’ve dealt with their business affairs.’

  He smiled with exaggerated slyness and raised his glass. ‘Once one has decided to be trusting, one should go ahead full speed,’ he remarked. ‘Be quick! Trust, like drunkenness, always wears o
ut in the end.’

  ‘Very philosophical,’ Randolph complimented him.

  They stepped out into the sunlight. Most of the overcast had torn itself away now, and apart from a few cloud shadows moving across the ground, the morning was clear. Their taxi driver was still waiting for them, reading a Mickey Mouse comic book in Basaha Indonesian. He started up the engine as they appeared and tucked his comic into the elastic band around the sun visor.

  ‘Tolong hantarkan say a ke Hilton-Hotel,’ Dr Ambara told him.

  They were turning around in the middle of the street when a bright flash caught Randolph’s attention. It was nothing more than sunlight glancing off the windshield of another car, but it was the fact that the car had started moving at exactly the same time as their taxi that attracted Randolph’s interest. He twisted around in his seat and frowned at it through his sunglasses.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ Wanda asked.

  ‘I don’t know. That car started moving off as soon as we did, that’s all, and now it has turned around to follow us.’

  Dr Ambara turned around too. ‘Volkswagen,’ he remarked. ‘Looks like a rental.’

  ‘Four men in it,’ Randolph observed.

  ‘Do you think it’s them?’ Wanda asked.

  ‘It could be.’

  ‘But how did they find us? They weren’t at the airport, were they, when we arrived?’

  Randolph said, ‘If they knew which flight we were taking, they probably knew what hotel we were staying at. And if you’re an American, you can’t get much less imaginative than the Djakarta Hilton, can you? That would be the first place I would have started looking if I were them.’

  ‘What do we do?’ Wanda asked. ‘Call the police?’

  Randolph said, ‘No. Not yet anyway. Remember that what we’re trying to arrange here is strictly illegal. And apart from that, they haven’t actually done anything except to follow us, and that’s supposing it’s really them.’

  ‘It’s difficult to see,’ said Dr Ambara, shielding his eyes against the glare of the sun.

  They turned to the centre of Djakarta and to the Hilton Hotel. While Wanda ordered drinks, Randolph telephoned George Twyford, his accountant, who was not particularly pleased about being called at six-thirty in the evening, Memphis time, when he was just about to leave the office after a hard day. But he agreed to wire twenty-five thousand dollars to the Bank of Indonesia by the time Randolph woke up in the morning.

  Twenty-five thousand is going to buy you an awful lot of noodle suppers.’

  ‘I’m buying some Javanese sculpture.’

  ‘Are you sure Javanese sculpture is a good investment?’

  ‘I’m doing the right thing, George, believe me.’

  The accountant sniffed. He sounded tinny and far away. ‘It’s your money,’ he conceded.

  Randolph put down the phone and settled back in his armchair. Dr Ambara said, ‘It’s all settled?’ as if he could hardly believe it.

  'The money will be wired here during the night.’

  Wanda was standing by the window, looking down nine stories to the street below.

  'That Volkswagen is still there,’ she reported. 'They’ve parked it across the road.’

  Randolph joined her. ‘It certainly looks like the same one.’

  They waited and watched the Volkswagen for two or three minutes. Suddenly the passenger door opened and a tall man eased himself out. Randolph recognized him immediately, even at this distance.

  That’s the one called Ecker. No doubt about it. And I’d bet you money that his real name is Reece.’

  ‘If he really is Reece, he’s the man who killed Marmie and the children.’

  Randolph whispered, ‘Yes.’

  Wanda stared at him. ‘He might just as easily kill us too.’

  ‘No. The difference is that now we’re ready for him.’

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Ball

  The Fokker Fellowship of Garuda Airlines whistled smartly to a halt at the end of the runway and then taxied without hesitation towards the terminal. ‘Lady and gentleman, welcome to Bali International Airport Ngurah Rai. For your safeness, stay in your seat until we have completely arrested ourselves.’

  Randolph peered out of the plane’s window at the white-painted buildings, at the dark clumps of palms alongside the perimeter fence, and at the ground-traffic controller in the sunglasses and the splashy orange and green shirt who was directing the jet up to the gate. The engines died away and they unbuckled their seat belts.

  ‘I always wanted to visit Bali,’ Wanda said as she collected her bag from the overhead rack. ‘Not under these circumstances though.’

  They had arranged for a rented car to meet them outside the terminal. There was no further sign of Ecker and his companions but as a precaution, they had requested that their driver hold up a sign for ‘Mr Berry’ instead of for ‘Mr Clare.’ When Wanda had asked Randolph why he had chosen the name Berry, he had shrugged and said,

  ‘You remember the song. “Long-distance Information, Get Me Memphis, Tennessee.” That was Chuck Berry.’

  ‘Before my time,’ Wanda had reminded him.

  A dusty black Volvo was waiting for them by the kerb, driven by a young Balinese in a chauffeur’s cap, an im- , maculately pressed black jacket that he wore without a shirt underneath, tennis shorts and black knee-length socks.

  ‘Your flight was good?’ he asked as they drove away. ‘Sometimes that flight from Djakarta can be bumpy.’ He switched on a small electric fan attached to the top of the dashboard and searched up and down the radio dial for two or three minutes, past blurts of singing, Balinese music, Morse code and news in Basaha Indonesian, before he finally located the station he wanted: country-and-western.

  ‘I am a personal fan of Tammy Wynette’s,’ he announced as if that should make them feel at home.

  It took them a half-hour to drive the twelve kilometres north to the Balinese capital of Denpasar. As they drove into the city centre on Jalan Hasanudin, their car was brought to a crawl through the narrow streets by bicycles, Bemo buses, shoals of buzzing and crackling mopeds and the traditional dokar, horse-drawn buggies. The sidewalks teemed wih brightly dressed shoppers and every storefront was crowded with brilliant batik, gaudy souvenirs, masks, brassware and heaps of lurid plastic sandals. The noise and chattering were tremendous, like the noise of a never-ending fairground; in the early afternoon humidity, the smoke from warong cooking stands hung heavy with the smell of charcoal-grilled pork and chop-chai.

  They had decided not to stay at the Hotel Bali, an elegant old building dating from Dutch times and the best hotel in Denpasar. Instead, they had found a cheaper losmen on Jalan Diponegoro, a shabby twelve-bedroomed building next door to the Very Delicious Restaurant and the offices of I.B. Padura Spice Export. The hotel lobby was decorated in a style that Randolph described as Oriental Bombastic, with gold-foil wallpaper, Balinese headdresses, soiled crimson carpets and a little palm-leaf thatch over the reception desk.

  A shrivelled old man with one gleaming gold tooth and a pretty, plump young girl showed them to their rooms. The driver brought up their suitcases and assured them that he would be available twenty-four hours a day. ‘Stand by your man,’ he smiled and left, touching his cap. He did not expect a tip; in Bali, tipping was still a rarity.

  ‘Not exactly the Waldorf Astoria,’ Randolph remarked, parting the bamboo blind over a window and looking down at a cluttered courtyard where chickens pecked among rusted mopeds and empty oil drums. His room was dominated by a king-sized bed with a white vinyl headboard, and a carved armoire that smelled of tropical mustiness and mothballs. There was no air conditioning but each of their rooms had a small and noisy refrigerator that had been well stocked with Coca-Cola, Anker Bier and a fruit drink called Air Jeruk.

  ‘If Ecker and his friends are still following us, they will have great difficulty in locating us here,’ said Dr Ambara.

  Randolph sat down on the end of the bed and opened the folded n
ote I. M. Wartawa had given him as soon as the $50,000 fee had been paid. He only hoped that the information it contained was worth the huge expense. It said simply, ‘Michael Hunter, sometimes known as Michael Arjuna. Last verified address, Jalan Pudak 12a, Denpasar.’

  ‘Do you want to start looking for him right away?’ asked Dr Ambara.

  ‘I want a shower first.’

  Randolph soaped and washed himself under a rattling shower fixture and then dressed in clean white slacks and a blue short-sleeved shirt. While he was combing his wet hair in front of the mirror on the back of the closet door, Wanda came in wearing a low-waisted cotton minidress in yellow and a bright bead necklace.

  ‘How’s your room?’ he asked.

  ‘Oh, it’s fine,’ she said, not altogether enthusiastically. ‘I can see the roof of some kind of temple.’

  This is quite a place, isn’t it?’

  Wanda went to the window. ‘Do you really think you will find this man?’

  ‘I’m going to want my money back if I don’t,’ Randolph smiled.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Wanda mused. ‘Now that we’re here, it seems so farfetched, this death-trance business.’

  Randolph finished combing his hair and closed the closet door. ‘How about pouring us both a beer? Then maybe we can go find this character and see how real or unreal the death trance actually is.’

  They took a taxi through the centre of Denpasar, past the statue of Guru, the demon giant, which stands at the intersection of the city’s two main streets, Jalan Gajahmada and Jalan Udayana; then past Puputan Square, where the state temple of Pura Jagatnatha lifts its decorative roof to the afternoon sun. And everywhere around them there was music, and talking, and the ripping noise of mopeds.

  The house where Michael Hunter was supposed to have lived was a smelly, derelict bungalow with a cramped garden overgrown with wild orchids. Half of its roof was sagging and the windows were covered with galvanized iron.