Poseidon's Children

by West, Michael

  “We’ll take it,” he told her, then asked: “Did you say your name was DeParle?”

  “Ayuh.”

  Peggy smiled. “Any relation to the DeParle that runs the Sea Mist Inn? That’s where we’re staying.”

  “We were married.”

  “Oh.” Peggy changed the subject. “I’m curious, do you know what this statue is, outside of ugly?”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t say it was ugly,” the woman told her, taking the driftwood piece up to the register. “It’s one of Poseidon’s children.”

  “I told you it was mythological,” Larry said, opening his wallet.

  Peggy thought it strange that Mrs. DeParle looked up as if he’d just uttered something offensive.

  •••

  “You’re sure she got weirded out by what I said about this?” Larry gave the driftwood monster a pat on the head. It sat on the restaurant table, taking up the space between them as they waited for their lunch.

  “What else would it have been?”

  He shrugged. “Maybe you asking about her ex-husband?”

  “You brought the name thing up,” she snapped.

  For a moment they were silent. In New York, such a gap would have been filled by the cacophony of traffic noise, or by muffled voices from a neighboring loft, but this unfamiliar New Hampshire shore was eerily void of such distractions. They sat looking at one another. It was as if they were sitting on opposite sides of a valley rather than a table, and neither wanted to be first to cross the divide.

  “I miss you,” Larry finally ventured. “I’m sorry I’ve been —” An asshole. “— such a jerk. It’s just that, after last night I...I took my frustration out on you and I’m sorry.”

  She pushed the driftwood aside, reaching over to take his hand in hers.

  “I love you, Peggy,” he said apprehensively, the words coaxing a smile from her, “and I don’t wanna screw this up.”

  “Rembrandt...” She brought his fingers up, grazed them with her lips, the whisper of a kiss, then said, “I love you too, and we won’t screw this up.”

  SEVEN

  Carol Miyagi walked across the Ambrosia’s deck. She’d paid the price for her stay in the sunken Atlantean temple with a long decompression, and now her mind entertained thoughts of a hot shower.

  Alan, her assistant, called out, “Childs was on Dateline last night, part of the so-called panel of experts that evaluated our segment on the ruins.”

  Dr. Edmund Childs, archeologist extraordinaire, was the closest thing to a nemesis Carol had. She sighed. “Did he congratulate us?”

  “He said you’re full of shit.”

  Carol leaned against a bulkhead. “He told Stone Phillips I’m full of shit?”

  “Ann Curry,” Alan corrected. “He said all the evidence points to the Mediterranean Sea and Thera as the locale of Atlantis, not the Azores.”

  “Gejashiku!” she spat, calling Childs an asshole. Carol started cursing in Japanese while still in grade school. To her, it sounded more elegant, less crude than the English — and her teachers and other authority figures had no idea what she was saying. Her cursing had become so much of a habit that, when she visited Japan, it was now embarrassing. How had her grandmother put it? Why does such a beautiful and intelligent girl talk like a gutter whore? “Aitsu wa dotokushin no kakera mo ne!”

  Her partner held up his hand. “In English, please.”

  “Plato said Atlantis was outside the Pillars of Hercules. Outside. Meaning past the Straight of Gibraltar and in the Atlantic Ocean.”

  “Plato also said it was larger than Asia and Libya combined. What we’ve found isn’t anywhere near that size.” He saw that she was ready to protest and held up a precluding hand. “I’m not saying Childs is right, Carol. I’m just pointing that out.”

  “What we’ve found is only a fragment of the entire city. The rest is just beyond the reach of scuba.”

  Alan nodded.

  She looked out at the restless sea and the horizon beyond. “Did we get the new grant money?”

  “Nothing from the old gangster yet.”

  “He’s not a gangster, Alan,” she said. Not this conversation again. “He’s a Republican.”

  “His money’s dirty.”

  “Money isn’t dirty. People are dirty. And dirty or not, Roger Hays is our only source of funding.”

  “Fine. But one day, when you piss him off, he’ll stick your feet in cement and plant you in that city of yours.”

  She laughed. “Okay, Jiminy Cricket, your objections have been duly noted. Now, about the funds —”

  He sighed. “Acting under duress, I’ll call Tom Kravitz in New York to see if Hays has signed the check.”

  “Domo.”

  “Now that I understood.” He moved closer to her. “You’re welcome.”

  Carol jerked back a bit at his advance. They’d been friends for years, but the physical aspect of their relationship was still new to her. The idea that a man would show her any kind of affection and warmth was a far stranger thing for her to grasp than Atlantean theories, not a bad thing, mind you...merely odd. It had taken a while to get used to. In fact, although they’d slept together on several previous voyages, this is the first time they had actually shared a cabin.

  Alan pressed his mouth to hers, the motion of his tongue coaxing, but not forceful, against her lips.

  She responded in kind, permitting her own tongue to meet his, taking the kiss further. The sweet sensation of taste and touch mingled with the smell of his cologne, awakening a tingle of excitement deep within her. Before someone walked by, or the kiss could take them into a frenzy of mad groping, she pulled away.

  “See you later,” he said.

  Carol nodded, wiping her lips, feeling them curl into a grin beneath her fingers. It was probably a form of indecency to watch him as he walked away, seeing his butt under his shorts as it moved and flexed, but she did it anyway. When he was gone from sight, she closed her eyes and decided to change the temperature of her shower.

  EIGHT

  Tom Savini, the make-up effects man behind the gore of Friday the 13th, once said that he felt like a hitman, that he was being paid to kill people. What Savini had done was all movie trickery. What Dante “The Horror Show” Vianello did was the real McCoy, and strangely enough, Dante wagered it all paid about the same.

  Horror Show slapped his copy of the New York Times on the table in the center of the room and wrapped duct tape around Sam’s torso, around his arms and legs, confining him to the rickety old chair. Duct tape. Like the force in Star Wars: it had a dark side, a light side, and it bound the universe together. At the moment, it bound the unconscious man very nicely indeed.

  After taking a few backward steps to observe his handiwork, Dante took off his jacket, folded it, and placed it on the far side of the table. He pulled a cigarette from his breast pocket, sat down, and looked at his Rolex. It would be dark soon, and body disposal was a task best accomplished under cloak of night. Deciding that he needed to wait a bit, he took a moment to reach the proper mindset, like an actor finding his character.

  Over the years, the role of a killer had become a comfortable shoe Dante could slip in and out of easily. Outwardly, he looked the part. He stood just over six feet tall, and his hair, dyed jet black to remove a skunk streak of gray, was combed back and plastered to his head. A failed attempt on his life had left him with a huge scar around his neck. The fan of horror films that he was, Dante liked to call it his “Frankenstein line.” And behind this walking stereotype of Versace suits, slicked-back hair, and Brooklyn accent was a gifted, savagely alert mind, a mind that kept him at the top of this sordid profession, a mind that now grew restless.

  He looked at his watch again.

  Time to go to work.

  Horror Show rose from his chair, walked over and gave his captive a rough slap across the face.

  Sam opened his eyes and looked around, dazed and struggling against the tape that imprisoned him. “Where am I?”
he asked, then recognition took hold. “Horror Show? What the fuck?”

  Horror Show removed the unlit cigarette from his lips and sat down on the edge of the table. His voice was low and raspy, another gift from piano wire to his throat. “A little shitheel punk like you stealin’ from one of the richest sons o’ bitches on the fuckin’ planet. What the hell were you thinkin’, Sammy?”

  The thief looked as if he were about to speak. Horror Show placed an index finger across his lips, shaking his head back and forth. Sam closed his mouth and turned on the waterworks, letting a flood of tears run down his ruddy cheeks.

  Until tonight, Sam Cox had been a courier, a gopher, a small-time hood. He ran money back and forth between numbers rackets for Roger Hays’ organization. Over the past six months, the accountants noticed some discrepancies. At first, it was a dollar here and a dollar there, nothing big. Most had been chalked up to miscounting and nothing was said. Then Sam got stupid and greedy, two characteristics someone in the business cannot afford if they want to keep breathing. The thief knew this, which is why he blubbered wildly now.

  Horror Show grinned, displayed gleaming white teeth. There was a rumor on the street that he filed them down to points, like a shark, but they were wide and even. “Mr. Ludwig doesn’t want any excuses, Sammy. He knows you did it, I know you did it, you know you fuckin’ did it.” Horror Show removed something shiny from his pocket; a pearl-handled straight razor. “Bein’ around all that money day in and day out. I bet that was tough, am I right, Sammy?”

  With of flick of the wrist, the blade unfolded. The thief’s eyes caught the reflected light and ignited with fear. Just the response Horror Show was looking for.

  “For Christsakes, Horror Show, put that thing away! You and I both know that Ludwig just wants Hays to get his money back. If I could just talk with Mr. Hays I could —”

  “You think Hays cares about you? You think he would come down off his throne and get his hands dirty with this penny ante shit? He doesn’t even know you exist. Besides...” Horror Show grinned and produced a small object from the same pocket that housed his straight razor. He held it out for Cox to examine. The man’s face fell. It was the key to a storage locker, locker 927 to be exact. “He’s already got the money back, what you didn’t piss away on ten dollar whores anyway. A locker at the bus station, Sammy? Just a few blocks away from your own apartment? Pretty fuckin’ sloppy.”

  Cox didn’t speak.

  Horror Show put the key back in his pocket and produced a small chunk of granite, which he began to rub. “Know what this is Sammy? It’s a chip off of John Dillinger’s tombstone. Some guys have rabbits’ feet.” He tossed the shard into the air and caught it in his palm. “I got this.

  “See, Dillinger was the most wanted son of a bitch in America. I mean every beat cop and G-Man in the whole fuckin’ country was gunnin’ for his ass. So what does he do? He buys a ticket to a fuckin’ movie and gets that ass blown clean off.”

  Cox didn’t laugh.

  Horror Show laughed for him, then slid the stone back into his pocket. “So I keep this to remind me that actin’ stupid will getcha killed.”

  The hitman rose to his feet. He walked around to the back of the chair and placed his hands on Sam’s shoulders, his right hand still holding the gleaming blade.

  “And stealin’ from Hays was stupid, Sammy.”

  Cox shook his head.

  Horror Show couldn’t see the man’s face, but he could hear him sob. He grabbed Cox by the hair, pulled his head back to bare the skin of his neck, then leaned down so that his lips were at the man’s ear. “You should be glad Ludwig didn’t bring this to Mr. Hays’ attention, Sammy. See, Hays...he would’ve ordered some real medieval shit. Slow...painful. As it is —”

  He opened Cox’s throat with a single swipe; hot, arterial blood leapt freely from the gash.

  “— you just get to die.”

  Horror Show watched the light fade from Sam’s eyes, then strolled over to a sink in the corner. He washed the blood from his hands and razor with water and bleach, folded the now clean blade into its carrying position, and slid it back into his pocket. He then dried his hands, put on a clear plastic face shield and pair of Rubbermaid kitchen gloves, and switched on the large portable stereo he kept on the shelf to his right.

  Frank Sinatra crooned In the Wee Small Hours of the Morning.

  Horror Show grabbed his New York Times off the table, and took a Hefty Lawn and Garden trash bag from beneath the sink. He threw the supplies onto the floor, then lifted his electric chainsaw — a Craftsman model that had been plugged into the wall behind the chair the entire time. This was the most important portion of his trade. It was also the element he enjoyed least.

  Clean up.

  He undressed the scrawny man and threw the bloodied clothing in the Hefty bag. Next, Horror Show carved up the corpse, broke the body down into its component pieces, creating a puzzle he would never reassemble. He cleared the dew of blood from his face shield, wrapped each limb and pound of flesh in newspaper as carefully as a butcher might jacket hamburger, then tossed the remains onto the bed of clothes in the trash bag. He would put the Hefty bag into a suitcase weighted with bricks and wheel it out through the tunnels, surfacing in the alley behind Antonio’s Italian Deli. There, he would place the body in the trunk of Sam’s own car for deposit in the East River — the Gangster’s Graveyard, as he liked to call it.

  As the hit man wrapped Cox’s head, he noticed the newspaper’s headline and laughed.

  It said that someone had discovered Atlantis.

  NINE

  John Canon stood in the shadow of Colonial Bay’s lighthouse. He cleared away the last grains of sand, looked down upon what was left of the man; the throat had been torn out, and the lower jawbone was missing. The arm that still sported a watch was more or less intact, but a crushed stump of bone and mangled flesh hung from the opposite shoulder. A colony of ants had claimed the lifeless flesh as their prize; they scurried in and out of an empty eye socket, some getting stuck in globs of congealing plasma and sand, writhing and twitching their countless legs as if dancing.

  “Fuck.” Canon turned away, looked out at the waves, half expecting to see something emerge from them. “Who found him?”

  Deputy Ray stood beside the shallow grave, spade in hand. “A teenage girl. Her metal detector picked up his watch. She’s with Doc Northcutt now, still pretty freaked out.”

  Canon pinched his eyes closed, wishing it would all go away.

  “Chief?”

  “What?”

  “Should we stop dragging the bottom now?”

  Canon’s eyes snapped open, and he pointed to the ravaged body still partially entombed in the beach. “You see any tits on that corpse, son?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Then keep draggin’ ’til ya either find me a girl’s body or I tell ya to stop. That clear?”

  “Sure, Chief.”

  “You know who Roger Hays is, don’tcha, Ray?”

  Everyone knew who Roger Hays was. He was on Forbes’s top ten list five years in a row. He owned casinos, skyscrapers, even islands in the Caribbean, and was rumored to be involved in organized crime.

  Ray said nothing.

  “Roger Hays,” the chief continued, “called to report his son missing. Seems he was here with a girlfriend. Nobody’s seen or heard from ’em since yesterday. I think you know where I’m goin’ with this, Ray.”

  Canon unfolded the sheet of paper he held in his hands, the grainy black and white image of a young, smiling man in his early twenties. He stared at it a moment, glanced down at the remains, then shook his head. “Hays faxed me this picture of his son, David. No way to tell just by lookin’ at him, so get this body to the medical center at Black Harbor. Have ’em get the Hays boy’s dentals and see if it’s him.”

  Ray nodded. Canon thought he could see a light-green tint seeping into the boy’s complexion. “What now, Chief?”

  “Now I wantcha to go raise
the red flag at the pier.” The flags signaled swimming conditions for the day, mainly undertow. Blue meant the water was fine, enjoy! Yellow urged caution. Red meant keep your ass dry if you want to keep it. “Last thing we need is another accident.”

  The deputy obliged, trotting across the beach until he disappeared behind an outcropping of rock.

  Canon gave his attention back to the open grave. He hoped the corpse was not the Hays boy. At that moment, Canon would have wished it be his own son, if he had one, rather than the offspring of one of the most powerful men in the world.

  He wadded the fax in his hand and watched waves make kamikaze runs on the rocks. He wanted the blood he’d found spattered on the walls of that shack to be Karl Tellstrom’s. He really did.

  TEN

  Very much alive, Karl Tellstrom strode confidently down the sidewalk toward The Shirt Shack, arms swinging at his sides. He was a few inches on the short side of six feet and his skin had been tanned to a deep bronze. Tourists from the mainland, Landers, he called them, paid little or no attention to him as they passed him by. Why should they? Karl was just another twenty-something in Hawaiian shorts. He was one of them.

  He ground his teeth, sickened by the thought, wishing he could take all of them back to his shack and paint the walls with them.

  The townspeople, on the other hand, knew him all too well. Whenever he passed a pair of islanders, the sight of him killed their conversation. They never looked him in the face, perhaps afraid that his cold, distant eyes might somehow hold a kind of power over them (at least, that’s what Karl believed), but he could hear their exchanges in his head as clearly as if they had been telegraphed to him.

  “There goes the Tellstrom boy, Charlie. Shame ’bout his father last summer. He was a good man. Died almost ten years to the day of his wife’s —”

  “Worst boating accident I can remember, Sarah. Bunch o’ drunken tourists hit her with their outboard while she was swimmin’ past the reef. Karl was —”