"Hey, who's that?" Glinda demanded, toweling her hair.
"What?"
"There. In the ocean. Someone in a boat."
Shane Billiken sat up and looked across the water.
Out in the surf, bobbing in buoy, was a tiny boat. A ragged sail fluttered from a twisted crosspiece.
"What kind of a boat is that?" Glinda wondered aloud. "Looks homemade. Probably some idiot teenager's." Shane Billiken rolled to his feet and leaned on the rail.
"Hey, you!" he called. "This is a private beach. Better not try to land or I'll have to call the cops."
The boat drifted toward shore.
"I think that's a girl in it," Glinda said.
"Didn't you hear me? Private beach. It's posted." Shane Billiken pointed at the signs.
The boat kept coming.
"You'd better stay here," he told Glinda.
"Be careful," she called after him.
Shane Billiken pounded down to the slapping waves. The heat cooked the bare soles of his feet, but he shrugged it off. He had learned to walk over hot coals back in the late seventies when the psychic thing looked to crash and he was considering a lateral career slide into a straight carnival act.
"I said turn back, whoever you are."
The boat was very close now. It was not made of fiberglass, which it would have been had it been some pampered Southern California teenager's boat. Nor was it wood. The hull was dark and ratty like dry vines. They appeared to have been braided. The sail was a faded gold rag. There were holes in it. The boat had taken a terrible pounding, as if it had made an ocean crossing, which Shane Billiken realized was impossible. It was too small. Obviously unseaworthy.
As it drifted in closer, Shane Billiken saw water sloshing at the bottom of the boat. It was not much from being awash. The sole occupant was huddled on a shelf in front of the tiller.
It was then that Shane Billiken got a clear look at her. It was a girl, perhaps twenty-one or twenty-two. She wore a faded kirtlelike garment that had been discolored by salt and sun. Her hair was all over her face. It was long and black and lustrous, in spite of the flecks of dried salt that clung here and there.
"Speak English?" Shane suddenly asked. It was her face that made him ask the question. At first he thought she was Asian. There was something about her skin-a golden brown like poured honey. But her eyes were not slanted. They weren't round like Caucasian eyes either. They were exotic, and as black as hot little balls of tar.
"I said, do you speak English? Speakee English?"
The girl didn't answer. She was too busy at the tiller. It was obvious that she was trying to beach the boat before it swamped. Shane Billiken plunged out into the surf.
"Whoa," he said as he grabbed the shattered bow. It felt like a basket in his hands. Reeds, he thought. This is a reed boat.
"Lemme help," he said. The girl shrank from his voice. She looked at him in a curious mixture of fear and wonderment.
"Help," he repeated, "Me help you." He pointed to himself and then at the girl. He worked his way along the hull. The girl retreated to the other side. The water was up to Billiken's waist.
"What's wrong with you? I want to help. Comprende? No, that's Spanish. Damn. I don't know any Hawaiian or Polynesian or whatever it is you speak."
Shane took hold of the braided rail and started pushing the craft toward shore. A wave came up and sloshed his neck. The next one tossed brackish seawater into his mouth.
"Hell's bells!" he snarled. "I'm not getting anyplace." He shook his head and swore again. The sunglasses fell from his face and disappeared into the water.
"Now see what you made me do? Those were my trademark. "
Despite the violence of his voice, the girl's expression changed. The fear evaporated. The wonderment remained, but she seemed no longer afraid.
For the first time, she spoke.
"Alla dinna Dolla-Dree," she said musically.
"Same to you," said Shane Billiken, spitting salt from his mouth. He was trying to feel for his shades with his toes. He found them when a wave knocked the boat against his chest, and it was all he could do to hold on to the boat. His feet dug into the silty sea bottom. He felt plastic break under one foot.
Swearing, he started to push the boat for shore. Gradually he got it moving. The girl took hold of the tiller, steadying it so that the craft didn't drag.
The water was down around Shane Billiken's knees when the keel grated the sand. He shoved the boat from behind and got the prow onto dry beach.
"Okay, come on. Out of there," Shane ordered, offering his hand.
The girl stood up and shook her skirt. Salt water had stiffened it. Shane noticed that the cloth was of a very coarse weave, and when he reached out to help her onto the beach, his forearms brushed it. It felt like sandpaper. But along the edges of the hem and collar and shortened sleeves was decorative stitching. He touched them instinctively. It was like touching metal wire.
"Silver," he breathed.
"Berra yi Moo. Hakka Banda. Sinanchu. Sinanchu, danna?"
"Babe, I haven't a clue what you're saying, but my name's Shane. Me, Shane. Get it?"
"Sinanchu, danna?"
"Is that your name, Sinanchu?" Shane asked.
The girl grabbed his arm eagerly and spewed out a torrent of words: "Se, Sinanchu. Ho cinda ca Sinanchu. Kapu Moo an Dolla-Dree."
"Whoa, slow down. I don't savvy. What's this?"
The girl was digging under her skirt. Shane Billiken noticed that she had great legs. Better than Glinda's. Come to think of it, her face was prettier than Glinda's. He stared up at the sundeck. Glinda waved back at him. Yes, definitely better than Glinda. And all her parts were probably organic, too. No plastic augmentation.
The girl dug something from under her skirt. It was a leather pouch. It was hung from a string. The pouch rattled when she shook it. She opened it and dug out a handful of fat silvery coins. They resembled old-fashioned silver dollars.
She offered some to Shane.
"Bama hree Sinanchu?" she asked.
"Yeah, right," muttered Shane Billiken. He examined the coins. They were crude. He could see the marks of hammering. Probably handmade. On one side there was the profile of a man who wore a crown. On the other was a fish. Maybe a shark. The fish side was ringed with incised lettering. Shane didn't recognize the script.
"Sinanchu, danna?"
"No comprenda," said Shane Billiken. He shook his head. "No savvy. No. No."
The excited expression fled from the girl's face. She snatched back the coins and replaced them inside the pouch. The pouch then disappeared under her skirt. Shane Billiken watched every move, marveling at her slim honeygold legs.
"Wait," he said when she started back for the boat. "Wait here."
"Papa dui kuru da Sinanchu," she said.
"Right, Sinanchu, Wait here, Sinanchu. Okay? Wait." He pantomimed for her to stay, then ran up to the redwood sundeck and joined Glinda.
"Glinda," he said. "Baby." He was puffing with exertion.
"Who is she, Shane?"
"This is going to be hard on me, baby."
"What? What is?" Her face screwed up like a baby whose lollipop had been snatched away.
"We're adults. Both of us."
"Yeah?" Glinda bit her knuckles.
"But better than that, we're both Realized Beings. We've been through Yoga together. We've Rolfed together. We've chanted mantras until the sun came up."
"We've been on Donahue together," Glinda retorted. "Don't forget that. You wouldn't have gotten on Donahue without me."
"Baby, don't make this any worse than it is. Remember before, when we were talking about reincarnation?"
"Yeah. But what does that have to do with her?"
"Everything. Just listen to me. Okay? Remember when I told you all about Soul Mates?"
"You said we were Soul Mates."
"We are, we are, baby. That's what has made our time together so special. That's why we'll always have these precious memories
, no matter what."
"I knew it. You're dumping me. Dumping me for that ... that ragamuffin who just happened to wash up on your beach. Our beach. The beach you bought with the money we made."
"Baby. Glinda. Please. I'm trying to explain Soul Mates."
Glinda folded her arms. "Go ahead."
"That girl down there, do you know who she is?"
"No. And I don't want to."
"She's Princess Sinanchu. My eternal Soul Mate. She's really from the lost continent of Atlantis, too. But she never died, because she's immortal. She's been at sea for thousands of years, searching, seeking. And do you know what she's been seeking all this time?"
"A free lunch?"
"No, she's been seeking me. Because in a previous existence, we were married."
"You told me that we were married in a former life. How many wives in former lives have you had, anyway?"
"That was a different past life. That was during the French Revolution. But Princess Sinanchu and I ruled Atlantis together. Don't you see how much higher that is, karma-wise?"
"No, I don't, and how do you know this stuff, anyway?"
"It's kismet. You got to trust me."
"I did trust you, you temporal two-timer!"
"Baby, just get a grip on yourself. Go inside and do some Yoga breathing exercises like I taught you."
"Then what?"
"You can pack."
"Pack!"
"You can take your time. Just be gone by noon. Okay? Don't make this hard on yourself."
"What about our past life together? Doesn't that mean anything?"
"I forgot to tell you that we got divorced in that life. I didn't want to mention it before because, sentimental me, I thought we could work it out in this one. But now that Princess Sinanchu has found me, I know that it was never meant to be. But take comfort in the true knowledge that we've improved each other's journey through life in these few months together."
"You mean I've improved yours, you ... you bastard!" Glinda turned on her heel and stalked through the open door. She slammed it after her, cracking the glass.
"And, Glinda, baby, on your way out, could you cancel today's appointments?"
Chapter 2
His name was Remo, and he was collecting heads.
It was not as difficult as it sounded. True, the heads that he was collecting were firmly attached to the necks of their owners, and the necks held to muscular torsos by strong tendon and nerves. And the nerves were in turn connected to nervous hands and itchy trigger fingers that rested on the firing levers of a collection of vicious weapons ranging from stubby Uzi machine guns to rocket-propelled grenade launchers. But for Remo Williams, slipping around the perimeter of the self-sufficient solar-powered log cabin deep in the Wisconsin woods, harvesting heads was as easy as picking blackberries, but not nearly as much fun.
For one thing, you could eat blackberries. Remo had no such intentions today.
Remo carried two of the heads by their hair. His fingers felt greasy from an assortment of hair oils. The oils were clogging his pores and their petroleum poisons were leaching into his system. He switched hands and wiped the free one on his black chinos. He had to hold the heads off to one side so the dripping blood didn't spatter on his shoes.
Blackberries didn't drip blood either. That was another downside.
One of the upsides was that people didn't have thorns. But they did have weapons.
Remo saw another guard, a shotgun sagging in the crook of one arm, pause by a thicket to light a cigar. He had virile black hair that gleamed like an oil slick and Remo's cruel face got a disgusted look on it. At this rate, he'd soon have both hands full. It was an unpleasant thought.
Crouching, Remo set his trophies on the ground. He noticed that one eye of one of them had popped open. He shut it.
Then he waited while the cigar smoker drifted in his direction.
It was a clear cloudless day. Yet the guard did not see Remo, even though Remo crouched three inches in front of him. He did not see Remo because Remo was trained not to be seen. And the guard was only trained to watch the skies for helicopters.
When he was hired to protect the life of the man in the log cabin, the guard was told that he would be assigned to the middle ring. The outer ring, he was informed, was posted to take care of ground threats. No vehicle or ground force could get past the outer ring, he was assured. But the outer ring might not neutralize a helicopter on the first try. That was his job. He asked about the inner ring, and was told never to step beyond his defense perimeter without checking with The Man by radio.
So he smoked and watched the skies, less concerned about helicopters than getting skin cancer from standing out in the open like this six days a week.
Like many people, he worried about the wrong things. While his eyes were on the broiling sun, he did not hear Remo Williams rise up from the thicket like a ghost from its grave. Nor did he sense the open hand that swept out for his skull.
He felt the other hand on his opposite side only because Remo wanted him to. Remo needed to steady the man's torso-otherwise there would be a mess. He wanted the head intact, not exploded.
"Wha-?" the man started to say. Actually, he barely got the W out. He reacted to the unexpected touch on his right, and with his attention properly diverted, the other hand slapped his head clean off his neck.
Pop!
Remo backpedaled with the head in his hands, knowing that exposed necks usually spurted like fountains. This one was no exception. The body collapsed and fed the flowers with its most precious fluid.
It was that easy. And now Remo had three heads. Number four was a short guy. He carried two Uzis, one in each fist, like he expected to use them at any second. The short ones were like that, Remo thought. In all his years in the game of violence, as a Marine, as a cop, and now as an assassin, there was one constant. Short guys were always trigger-happy. There should be a height requirement for gun ownership. Anyone under five-foot-seven could not own a pistol or rifle. They were psychologically unfit.
For that reason, Remo took an extra precaution with the short one. He sneaked up behind him and yanked his arms back. They broke at the shoulder. As the Uzis fell onto the grass, Remo slapped this way and that and the head bounced into his arms.
Four heads now. Upstairs said there would be six guards in all. Six would be a good, convincing number. At least he hoped that Pedro Ramirez, AKA The Man, and the owner of the log cabin, would be convinced after he eliminated all six guards. It would be nice, although not mandatory, if Remo didn't also have to eliminate Pedro Ramirez.
Pedro Ramirez was convinced something was wrong. He sat in the den of his cabin, the sun roof showering him in golden sunshine, thinking that this was better than Miami. But anything was better than Miami, where rivals would whack you while you sunned yourself on your own frigging porch. Whatever the problem, it was fixable.
He grabbed the mike of the portable radio set. The guards were under orders to check in at three-minute intervals in rotation. That way Pedro knew within three minutes, tops, if he had a security problem. Usually sooner, because the perimeter was staked with concealed video cameras. They fed the banks of screens that were duplicated on every inner wall of the cabin. That way, no matter which wall Pedro Ramirez faced, he had his eye on things.
"Santander, come in," he barked into the microphone. He was as brown as an old shoe. Not unusual. Most people who grew up in Peru were richly colored. Most people who grew up in Peru grew up dirt poor and were buried in Peru. Pedro Ramirez might have been buried in Peru, except for the magic coca leaf. It had made him rich. And its derivative, crack, had made him powerful.
He was so powerful that although the authorities of virtually every American and European nation had issued warrants for his arrest, and business rivals had contracts on his brawn skin, he was still able to set up housekeeping in the heart of the nation that most wanted him.
"Santander! Bandrillo! Paeo! Sangre de Cristo, someone answer. "
>
Pedro shot a glance at the video screen. There was no sign of trouble, no unusual movement. Was that good or not? He decided not. At least one of his guards should have strolled on camera by now.
"Pablo! Zenjora!" he yelled. "Madre de Dios!" Over the radio he heard a peculiar sound.
His brown forehead wrinkled. He could not place the sound. It was not a gunshot. It did not possess that popping firecracker quality that denies its deadliness. This was not an explosive sound. It was more ... meaty.
Remo Williams picked up the sixth and final head. He had to kneel to do it, and catch a loop of hair with his pinky. The other fingers of both hands were occupied with other loops of hair.
It was awkward, carrying three heads in each hand so that they did not bleed all over him, but for what Remo wanted to do, it would be worth it. Especially with the cigarette lighter he had taken off the body of the late cigar-smoking guard.
Remo ghosted past a video camera concealed in a hollow of a dead oak. Even if Upstairs had not briefed him about the camera's location, Remo would have spotted it. It was so obvious. The entire thirty-acre area surrounding the solar-powered log cabin was immaculately groomed. A dead oak tree in the middle meant that it had a purpose other than being a former tree.
Remo stopped at the edge of what Upstairs had, in the briefing, called the inner ring. Remo dropped to one knee and pulled a water-soluble folded map from a back pocket. It showed the location of every buried antipersonnel mine in the inner ring.
The trouble was, Upstairs had forgotten to draw compass points on the map.
"Damn Smith!" Remo muttered, turning the map every which way. He tried to align the map with the dead oak tree. When he thought he had it, he tucked the map into his back pocket and gathered up the six heads. The hairtonic smell was getting to him.
Remo strode for the place where the nearest mine should be, knowing that he would be exposed to the video camera once he stepped into the expanse of greensward where the mines lay buried.
What the hell? he thought. If they don't see me coming, they sure are going to hear me coming.
Several minutes after the last pop emanated from the radio set, Pedro Ramirez was sweating. Something was truly wrong. The one good thing, he thought, was that he handled his own security problems himself. An underling, faced with the absence of hard intelligence, might hesitate over disturbing his superior. Whatever the problem was, Pedro Ramirez had a head start on it.
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