Blood of the Albatross

by Ridley Pearson

  But everything in its own time. First, you need a little more convincing.

  ***

  Kepella walked through the rain for several blocks and then turned right, continuing on to the corner of South Jackson and 3rd. King Street Station. He hoped it could work. Drenched by the time he entered the AMTRAK station, he could have easily been mistaken for a bum. His wet jacket drooped from his shoulders, giving him the posture of a tired ape. He ambled toward the ticket counter. John Chu had knocked all his cash out of his hand back at the apartment, so he had no money on him now. But he had a credit card, and if he kept the amount to less than twenty dollars, they wouldn’t call in and check his credit—which was long since overdrawn. He knew if he made the trips in short installments he could get quite some distance. Of course, he hoped it wouldn’t come to that. But he had to make it look like he was trying to run away. He had to be convincing.

  The MasterCard worked fine. Holding the ticket, he looked at the big board: departure in fifteen minutes. He made it about twenty steps, twenty-five at most, before John Chu blocked his path, grabbed his hand, and snatched the ticket, shaking his head in disappointment. “Big mistake, Mr. Roy.”

  Donnie and Chu escorted him outside. He looked like a wet sheep dog being dragged to the front door by a housewife who had found him curled up on her sofa. Inside, though, he was elated. It was going just as he had hoped. He had gambled and won, knocking what might have been a two-week process down to a little over an hour. The gamble had been a necessity. He knew he couldn’t hold up under too much physical abuse. Brandenburg’s version would have required several beatings, and Holst was right: some of these guys would beat Kepella to a pulp—or worse—without a second thought. That was unthinkable, an unacceptable solution. No, the solution was to pretend to run, be caught, suffer through one more beating, and then get on with the operation—on with the show. He actually felt good about being escorted out of King Street Station by these two mugs, and he wondered how many other people would feel good knowing someone was about to beat the shit out of them.

  ***

  They sat Kepella down in the only chair in the room. Holst stood above him, glaring. “You tried to leave the city, Roy. This was very foolish of you. Very foolish. You are lucky again. If I was a different kind of person, I would have these two men break your legs. Then it takes a person longer to get around.” Red-faced, he yelled, “I should have had them kill you!” He huffed, lit a cigarette, and paced the room. Donnie and John Chu stood silently by the door. The room smelled like a ripe woman.

  “I was going to Kelso to borrow money from a friend.”

  “Roy, Roy… do not lie to me, Roy. You dig your grave more quickly than I can fill it back in.”

  “I swear, I’ll get the money for you. One hundred and eighty by tonight at six. No problem. You let me go and—”

  “Shut up!” Holst continued to pace. John Chu smiled viciously, the hound expecting the steak.

  “Tell them to leave the room.”

  “Why should I, Roy?”

  “Just do it, Holst. Damn it, do it!” Kepella’s face was scarlet. Veins pulsed on either side of his neck. “Do it!”

  Holst nodded. Chu opened the door. Holst said, “Wait in the lobby. I’ll call. Donnie waits outside the door.” Chu nodded. The two left the room.

  “Well?” Holst asked.

  “Fu lied to you,” Kepella said, dropping his head and staring at the floor.

  “Go on.”

  “He told you I wasn’t the FBI agent. I am.”

  “What?” Holst tried to sound surprised. He wasn’t very convincing.

  “Ex-agent.”

  “What?”

  That time was better, thought Kepella. “The suspended agent.”

  “I loaned money to an FBI agent?”

  “Ex…”

  “Oh, Roy. You should not have told me this. You have put me in a very—”

  “Listen to me, Holst. You’re missing the picture here. Give me a chance.”

  Holst finished the cigarette and lit another. His acting improved with each minute.

  Kepella thought, How strange. Both of us acting and only I know it. He said, “I have some things that are worth a great deal of money to the right parties.”

  Holst studied Kepella carefully, still pacing. “Such as?”

  “Information. Information only an FBI man could have access to. Important information.”

  “To whom?”

  “To the right people.”

  “And who are these people?”

  “I thought you might know.”

  “Me, Roy? Why would I know such things?”

  Kepella felt the sweat break out on the palms of his hands.

  “You want a drink, Roy?” Holst pulled an unopened bottle of Popov out of the dresser drawer.

  “No, thanks anyway.”

  “What?” Holst inquired. “No drink?” He looked sternly at Kepella, doubting. “Have a drink, Roy.” He handed the bottle to Kepella and tossed him a seven-ounce glass.

  Kepella caught the glass. He looked at the bottle. All this time pretending. All this time skillfully acting half-drunk, and now this. What could he do? He had to play the role. No problem. To refuse the drink would not be in character.

  He unscrewed the cap. The familiar sound of the seal breaking made his heart pound. Excitement pulsed through him, and he wanted to cry out in delight and kill himself, all in the same moment. He poured a couple of fingers’ worth, closed his eyes, and gulped it down. Guilt overwhelmed him. His guilt was two-fold: guilt at having put himself in this situation; guilt that it felt so good going down his throat. Yes, it felt good. He wanted another.

  “Another,” Holst told him.

  Kepella poured and swallowed. Warmth filled his gut where only hollowness had been. God, it felt good. The warmth spread through him in seconds—down to his toes and up, up his spine, numbing the base of his brain.

  “Have one more,” Holst offered.

  Kepella poured and drank. When he looked up at Holst, tears filled his eyes. His twisted smile revealed the gleeful agony—the face of a young soldier who has just killed for his first time. So that’s why they call them shots, Kepella thought.

  “Talk to me, Roy.” Holst sat down on the edge of the bed.

  Kepella poured himself another small one and drank it. “I protected myself… when I left the Bureau.”

  “How?”

  “I took some important documents with me. Information. Valuable information,” he said again.

  “So what?”

  “So… it’s worth a shitload of money to the right people. You have contacts, you find someone to buy. I’ll sell ’em. I’ll pay you your fucking money… I’ll pay off the whole fucking loan, Holst.”

  “What kind of valuable information? I have to know who to look for, is that not true, Roy?” he asked, bringing Kepella’s attention back from the bottle of Popov.

  The top of Kepella’s spine felt good and dull. His hands pulsed with a familiar warmth. Very relaxed and controlled. This was the real Roy Kepella. “All kinds. I raided the files. I have everything from personality profiles to computer chip designs. We handle the entire Northwest, you know?” he said proudly. “A lot of the high-tech shit comes from Boise. Defense from Boeing, here in Seattle, the shipyards, Navy, you name it.”

  “Where is this stuff, Roy?”

  “Locked away. Yes, sir. Locked away. Nobody gets at it but me. Made sure of that. I’m not fucking dumb, you know?” he said, slurring his words and sounding dumb and pitiful. He stared at the bottle, wanting more.

  “Go ahead, Roy,” Holst prodded, seeing Kepella’s interest.

  “No, I better not.”

  “I don’t care if you do, Roy. It doesn’t bother me.”

  “You want one?”

  Holst thought a moment and decided to break a rule. “Sure.” He leaned over to the chest of drawers, picked up the paper-covered glass, and handed it carefully to Kepella. “Pour me
a light one, Roy.”

  Kepella poured them both drinks. They touched glasses. Kepella sucked down the booze and stared at the bottle. Holst sipped and then downed it all in one gulp. He set the glass down next to Kepella’s.

  “I can’t pay you, Iben. I don’t have a cent.”

  “That is what I thought. We will arrange another loan quickly, Roy. How does that sound? Say another five thousand. I will make sure you pay off Fu, and that will leave you some interest money and some spending change. Maybe even enough to play a couple of games.”

  “I like poker, Iben,” Kepella said childishly, trapped somewhere between his cover identity, the sober Roy Kepella, and this, the drunk Roy Kepella.

  “What do you say, Roy?”

  “Sounds like a winner to me, Iben. Sure, why not?”

  “Same terms?”

  “Why not?”

  “Five thousand?”

  “The shit I’ve got is worth ten times that, twenty maybe. You find me a buyer, Iben. We’ll pay these assholes back before the week is up. I’ll cut you in for fifteen percent.”

  “That sounds good, Roy. I will have a look around. How can I reach you?”

  Kepella wanted to laugh. “You know where I live.”

  “You will not run away again, will you, Roy? I would be forced to play rough the next time.”

  The next time? he wanted to say. Kepella hurt all over, even half-numb. “No way. I’m here to stay. You find a buyer.”

  “I will have a look around.”

  “Too bad these windows don’t open.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Because it smells kind of sour in here. Like some broad left her shorts under the bed.”

  Holst smiled.

  But Kepella was thinking, Because, you fucking Nazi, if your window opened I might just jump out and kiss all of you assholes good-bye. I hate this fucking world.

  22

  You came to me from out of nowhere…

  Jay heard the lyrics in his head. It wasn’t Marlene he was thinking about, it was the approaching storm. They were sailing five miles off the coast and a son-of-a-bitch storm had appeared out of nowhere. To make matters worse, the wheel was sticking. Marlene was dressed in blue jeans and a man-tailored white-cotton buttondown to keep off the chill. He yelled forward, “Drop the jib when I head into the wind.”

  She looked at him, puzzled, and hollered back, “Why?”

  He pointed ahead of them and started to explain, but before his message was over the rain hit. It pelted down hard enough to hurt. With another crew, or even alone, Jay might have continued sailing, but not with Marlene along. This kind of storm would bring strong winds and large swells—too much for the amateur. He pointed The Lady Fine into the wind. The sails luffed, flapping violently. He watched as Marlene dropped the jib. She did a better job of it than last time and quickly had it secured. She was a fast learner. He held the boat into the wind, already soaking wet by the time Marlene pantomimed whether or not the mainsail should come down. Jay nodded. Marlene worked furiously. Halfway down, Jay jumped up and furled it onto the mast to keep it from falling all over the cockpit. He looked up. Marlene, drenched to the bone, had tied off the main halyard and was busy rolling the sail in on itself. Jay crudely tied the sail off in several spots, then moved toward Marlene. The wet shirt clung to her breasts and her stringy hair pressed against her face. Her eyes were haunting in the eerie light beneath the dark gray clouds.

  There was no sense to it. Perhaps there is never any sense to such things, Jay thought. The two of them embraced and kissed passionately, rain streaking down their smiling faces. He held her in his arms and hugged her. She giggled. “Go below,” he instructed, already leading her toward the cockpit. The rain had become torrential. Jay located two large, cloth sea anchors and, after cleating their lines, threw them overboard. He opened the companionway, stepped inside, and turned to shut it. The boat rocked from the wind; rain blurred the portholes.

  Before he turned around she said, “I left a beach towel for you there.” He heard her shirt slosh as it hit the floorboards. He turned around. She had moved forward and pulled the door to the head open as a shield, behind which she was changing with her back to him. He saw a bare arm. “Your turn,” she said, walking past the door toward him. She was wrapped in a bright red towel, holding it around herself like a giant cape. She walked in tiny steps, like a geisha confined by her kimono. Behind her, Jay saw her clothes in a soggy pile. All her clothes.

  They were silent, facing each other as the boat tossed in the swells. She stood motionless. Jay inched closer to her. He took her face in his hands…

  ***

  She felt her body trembling as he moved closer, and though she wanted to blame it on the chill from being wet, she knew this wasn’t the only reason. It was him. It was the kiss up on deck. It was the rain. Her heart raced as she felt his hands on her face. She had known what would happen before he had come below. She wanted it to happen; and that in itself was something of a miracle. But so was Jay Becker. The rain drummed the deck. She opened her lips and let him kiss her. His kisses were tender and careful, as if he were afraid of breaking her delicate features. She didn’t know how to kiss. Not really. But her body took over and she quickly felt so lightheaded she thought she might faint. She felt his hands skimming over the surface of the towel, and suddenly the towel was keeping them too far away. She longed for the touch of his skin. Abandoning her attempt to hold the towel shut with crossed arms, she reached to hug him and the towel fell. His hand raced over the bumps of her rib cage, swept across her breast and shoulder, and then slipped below her arms and squeezed her tightly. Their tongues danced together. His wet shirt pressed against her bared chest and yet felt warm. He was trembling.

  She pulled his shirttail out and slid her hands up his back, pulling him closer. His hands flowed down her back and gripped her buttocks and pulled her against him. God, she thought, she might pass out. Her head was spinning, knees shaking. Then she felt herself choke. She fought the sensation. Not now! Please, God, not now. Does one never stop paying for one’s sins? Is this what you are telling a minister’s daughter? Must one pay forever? She began to cry, hoping Jay might mistake her tears for water running from her hair. Let him love me, she prayed silently. Leave me alone and let him love me. But the tears continued.

  Jay had unbuttoned his shirt and pulled it off. He was about to take her in his arms again when he noticed.

  “I am sorry,” she sobbed.

  Misunderstanding her tears, he said, “No, it’s me that should be sorry.” He tried a smile. “I guess I got carried away.”

  She took a step toward him, hooked her fingers in his belt, and pulled him down with her as she lay back on the flooring. Jay pressed against her naked body and they kissed. She pulled his reluctant hand from his side and placed it on her skin, below her breast. He caressed her softly, and then ran his tongue around her nipple. She shivered and sighed. He kissed her lips again and she responded hungrily. She felt so good all over, so wonderfully good, she could hardly stand it. She felt her juices flowing, a warm, swelling pulse between her legs. So good, she thought, wondering what could ever feel better. My God, she thought. My God! And then he touched her there and she jerked. It felt so strange, like they were melting together. She wanted to be part of him. He rubbed her softly and the warmth, the swelling, turned to a hotness that felt as if it might burst. “My God!” she whispered in his ear.

  Her sobbing returned immediately, so suddenly in fact, it was more like the storm that had hit them. He pulled his hand away. She rocked her head to one side. “I am sorry, Jay.”

  “Shhh,” he cooed. “Don’t worry.” He pulled the fallen towel over her naked body and lay by her side, stroking her collarbone with his finger.

  Between their two scents, the air smelled electric to her. She wanted to melt into him. “It is not you,” she insisted. “This is wonderful. I mean it. I have never, ever… Well, that is the point, is it not?” She rocked her
head back over and looked him in the eye. His eyes were deep blue. His face seemed boyish this close, and his dark, wet hair shone. She stretched her neck and kissed him once gently. “I must tell you something.” He nodded. “It is something I have never told another person, but I must tell you. Will you listen?”

  “With all my heart,” he whispered back.

  She wondered what was going through his mind. Could she tell Jay Becker what she had never told another soul? And she knew not only that she could, but that she had to. She nodded at him, sensing his sincerity, and gathered her strength. “I am twenty-seven years old.” She paused, as tears threatened again to stop her. “I have not even kissed a man in eight years. I can not remember what it is like… what to do—”

  “You kiss wonderfully.”

  “It is why I am so nervous, I guess.” She rubbed his ear with her finger. “When I was eighteen I became ill. I was at university. After a month I became nauseous and my roommate put me to bed. Several weeks of this and my roommate demanded I see a doctor. The doctors ran a dozen tests. It took them two weeks to think of something I had not considered possible.” She paused and then whispered, “I was pregnant.” She looked away and began crying. Jay waited. She finally looked back at him. “To this day I am not certain when it happened.” Then she sobbed again and tried to collect herself. “It was a party. I went with a close friend of mine to this party. I drank the punch. No one told me it was filled with vodka. I never tasted the vodka, I just suddenly felt lightheaded.” She paused again, thinking, Like I did just now. “I asked my friend to take me home. He agreed. My roommate asked me the next morning why I had stayed out so late. I felt so horrible, it never occurred to me that I had asked to go home early. Later… once I was pregnant, I realized what had become of those missing hours.” She cried, but her sobs were partially covered by the pounding of the rain.