The Tin Man

by Nina Mason

  Zeus, earbuds snugly in place, was standing beside the ersatz Bondmobile now, feeling an affinity that bordered on entitlement. In keeping with the mood of the museum, he was listening to The Best of Bond, a compilation of themes and selections from the movie soundtracks. As he studied the car, Shirley Bassey belted out the theme from Goldfinger, the 1964 classic starring Sean Connery—the best Bond ever, in his immodest opinion.

  He’d always felt a special connection with Ian Fleming’s suave MI6 agent. Like Bond, Zeus preferred his martini’s “shaken, not stirred,” was aloof and debonair, and had a way with the ladies (and the gentlemen, too, for that matter, but that was neither here nor there). And, in a sense, he had a license to kill. Metaphorically speaking, of course.

  He even looked a bit like Bond, if he did say so himself—the character in the novels, not the actors who played the secret agent in films. In the novels, Bond was six feet tall with a slim build, black hair that swooped down over the right brow, cold blue-grey eyes, and a cruel mouth. Agent 007 resembled, in Fleming’s own words, not Sean Connery or Roger Moore, but the 1940’s film star Hoagy Carmichael.

  With one last sweeping look at the Aston Martin, Zeus stuffed his hands in the pockets of his classic black trench and moved on. As he stepped up to the sign in front of the next exhibit, his cruel mouth twitched at the corners as he scanned the text:

  At the museum, you can adopt a cover identity and learn why an operative needs one. You’ll hear spies, in their own words, describe the challenges and the “game” of spying. What motivates them? Patriotism? Money? A compromising situation? Their own egos? Do you have what it takes to live a life of lies as a spy?

  His father (or so his mother used to tell him), was a spy for the British Secret Service. Just like James Bond. And, being a stupid, naïve little boy, he’d bought every word of her bullshit. Worse yet, he’d devoured every book, television program, and film having anything to do with espionage, always imagining he was peeking behind the curtain of his father’s secret world. Not just Bond, but also The Saint, Danger Man, The Avengers, The Man from U.N.C.L.E., Smiley’s People—the whole bloody lot.

  It wasn’t until after his mother’s death that he learned the ugly truth. And now, he was determined to make that deceitful SOB pay for his lies. In spades.

  * * * *

  As Buchanan waited beside the idling Mustang for Thea to emerge from the cottage, he started to feel bad about the cows. From the barn, he could hear the miserable lowing brought on by the missed morning milking. He wasn’t about to do the job, but he might manage to give them some breakfast. How hard could it be, after all, to throw down a bit of hay?

  With some effort, he rolled back the big barn door. The pungent stench of dung slapped him hard as his gaze fell upon a row of cows in a metal stall. They were mooing and pawing anxiously at the straw-covered floor. Their udders looked heavy and swollen.

  “Sorry, lasses, I wish I could be of more help,” he said as he pushed past their hindquarters, doing his best to avoid being kicked and/or stepping in a steaming pile of green muck. At the back of the barn, he found a rickety set of wooden stairs, which led, he presumed, to the hayloft. He climbed them, grabbed a pitchfork off the wall, and started forking hay into the long trough below. The work was more strenuous than he’d realized and he started to work up a sweat. Clearly, he needed to spend more time at the gym.

  He was nearly finished when he heard Thea calling his name.

  “I’ll be right there,” he answered, raising his voice to be heard.

  “Where the hell are you? And what are you doing?”

  He could tell by the echo that she had come into the barn.

  “I’m feeding the cows,” he told her, pitching another forkful of fragrant, dusty hay over the ledge.

  “It stinks in here,” she said in a nasal tone suggesting she’d started holding her nose. “What possessed you to feed the cows?”

  “They were hungry,” he replied.

  She didn’t say anything more. When he was finished, he brushed off his hands, returned the pitchfork to its pegs, and trotted down the stairs, holding his breath as he picked his way past swishing tails and twitching haunches.

  He found her waiting on the other side of the car, gaze glued to the ground. He felt a pang of sympathy. She was obviously embarrassed by what had passed between them. He wanted to say something, some magic words that would ease the tension and make her feel better, but nothing immediately came to mind. When he saw her bag waiting near the boot, he hurried around and loaded it. By the time he got in behind the wheel, her seatbelt was fastened and she was gazing out the window, seemingly at nothing.

  “What are we going to do about the bodies?” she asked without looking at him.

  “I thought I’d phone in an anonymous tip when we got into Intercourse,” he replied, wincing a bit inside as he spoke the last word. It now felt like a hot button, and things between them were strained enough. “I’m hoping we can find a payphone somewhere. I’d rather not use my cell.”

  “There’s a payphone at the general store,” she said, sounding far away. “It was used in that movie Witness with Harrison Ford.”

  He loved that movie, though he wished the cop and the Amish woman could have found a way to be together.

  They set off, not saying another word to each other until they reached the center of town. After locating the store and the phone box, he pulled up out front and turned to her.

  “Do you have any change?”

  She dug around in her purse before handing him a fistful of coins, still avoiding eye contact. He flinched inside. Was she going to give him the cold shoulder all the way to Philadelphia? Inside the phone booth, he hesitated, not sure who he was supposed to call. When he saw a man in a black suit and hat approaching, he leaned out of the booth.

  “Pardon me, sir,” he said, smiling politely, “but what’s the law enforcement agency with jurisdiction in these parts?”

  “The Lancaster County Sheriff,” the man replied, tipping his hat. “You’ll find the number in the front of the book.”

  Buchanan thanked him, found the number, and placed the call. The phone rang three times before a woman’s voice answered.

  “I’d like to report a homicide,” he said. “Multiple homicides, actually—at the Schuler farm.”

  “Please hold the line,” she said, “while I connect you with a deputy.”

  Screw that, he thought, hanging up. Hobbling back to the car, he slipped in behind the wheel and stepped on the gas.

  * * * *

  Frank Aslan—handcuffed and lying on his side in complete darkness—began to come around. The first thing he tuned into was the music—a pounding disco beat somewhere far away. The pain registered next. Something near his tailbone was throbbing like an abscessed tooth. Where was he? How had he come to be here?

  Little by little, he began to remember snippets: Two men. Twins. Bulgarians, he believed, dressed in matching tan suits, had grabbed him, cuffed him, and thrown him in the trunk of a car. For hours, it seemed, he was locked in that trunk, slipping in and out of consciousness.

  “Where is it, professor?”

  He cringed at the memory of the icy voice. His twisted captor. A man in a classic tuxedo, black-leather tool belt, and eye mask. He called himself “Zeus,” but seemed to think he was James Bond. Aslan did not know the man. Of that, he was certain. There was something about Zeus—an irritating sort of glib superiority—he was sure he would have recognized, had they ever met before. Being a humble man who placed a high value on humility, Aslan had always despised haughtiness in others. Pride, his father used to tell him when he was a boy back in Pakistan, was the worst of all sins, for it was the first step on the slippery slope leading to the rejection of God.

  “I am a fan of your work,” Zeus had told him in a proper English accent. “Media Cartel was very insightful. A seminal work, you could say. I hear tell you’re currently at work on a new edition—and that you’ve learned things. T
hings it would be better for you not to know.”

  Who was this man? What did he want? And what was with this strange place he called Tartarus and the Spy-Who-Loved-Zorro get-up?

  “I presume you recorded the conversation,” Zeus had said, his voice cooler than a shaken martini as he drew a power drill from its place on his tool belt. As he squeezed the trigger, the motor revved threateningly. “Where is it, professor? Don’t make me ask you again.”

  Aslan gulped, staring at the spinning bit in terror. Images from his youth in Pakistan flashed behind his eyes. The black box, reeking of his own waste. The room with the watering can. The blinding light. Gasping for air. Liquid flooding his nose and mouth. They had not broken him back then. Would he find that strength again? He had been a young man, young and strong, still a student. Now, he was old and frail. His chest felt tight, he could barely breathe. His brain was squirming with the memory—the man’s face, his terrible breath, his chilling voice repeating over and over: “Who organized the demonstration?”

  His testicles drew up when “Zeus” stepped toward him, pointing the drill at his chest like a pistol.

  “Where is it?”

  He came still closer. Aslan began to shake all over.

  “I have nothing, know nothing.”

  The way the professor figured it, he was a dead man either way, so why admit anything? He only hoped he’d find the strength to hold his tongue. The only way to stop them was to expose their scheme. And his granddaughter could do that, if only she received and understood the clue he’d left behind.

  “Hold him.”

  As the twins gripped Aslan’s arms, Zeus circled around behind him.

  “W-what are y-you g-going to d-do?”

  His voice was quaking so badly, he could barely spit out the words. Sweat was pouring down his face and back. He felt queasy, woozy, weak in the knees.

  “The way I figure it,” Zeus replied, “if two heads are better than one, shouldn’t the same logic apply to assholes?”

  The twins snickered in stereo. Behind him, he could hear the drill screeching like a bird of prey.

  “Please,” Aslan beseeched, legs shaking. “Don’t do this. I’m begging you.”

  He could hear the whirring coming ever closer. Bile rose in his throat, but he quickly choked it down. And then, he felt a searing stab in the tender flesh just below his tailbone.

  * * * *

  Buchanan and Thea were halfway to Philadelphia before he decided to risk saying something to try to break the tension suspended between their two seats like a double-sided shield. She’d been sitting there for more than an hour, wrapped in a cocoon of silence. One of them had to summon the courage to talk first, and it looked like the dirty job would fall to him.

  “Listen, Thea,” he began, clearing his throat. “It isn’t that I don’t find you attractive….”

  How could any man not? She was so fucking beautiful, it took his breath away to look at her.

  “You don’t have to say anything,” she said astringently. “I get it. You’re not interested. Let’s not belabor the point.”

  He swallowed. “That’s not entirely true.”

  She looked at him then for the first time since that moment in the bedroom. Her eyes were red and puffy. Jesus wept, she’d been crying. Now he really felt like a jerk.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean that I am interested,” he said, meaning it. “I just don’t know how much. And I think it would be a mistake to sleep with you until I’m sure.”

  “Is that the truth?”

  “Aye, but—”

  He hesitated, licking his lips, not knowing quite how to tell her about Helene or even if he should.

  “But what?”

  What the hell? Better to be honest, right?

  “There’s another woman in the picture.”

  Her brow furrowed. “You have a girlfriend? Why didn’t you just say so in the first place?”

  “She’s not my girlfriend,” he said. “She’s my landlady.”

  She let out a surprised laugh. “You’re sleeping with your landlady? No offense, but it sounds like something out of a bad TV sitcom.”

  “She’s not Mrs. Roper,” he pointed out as he raised his shields. “She’s a documentary filmmaker. I sublet the apartment from her. It’s an affair of convenience. Nothing more.”

  He could feel the heat of her gaze on his face. “Then what’s the problem?”

  He reached to the dashboard for his cigarettes and lit one. Lowering the window, he blew out a cloud of smoke before saying, “I’ve never been in love. And I’m afraid I might not have it in me.”

  When she fell silent, he turned to look at her, but met the back of her head.

  “I don’t get it,” she said after a while. “You’ve never been in love, but you’ve obviously slept with other women, including your landlady. So why not me?”

  “I don’t know,” he told her, and he meant it. He honestly couldn’t say what it was about her that felt different.

  She turned to him with a dewy gaze. “What if I said no strings attached?”

  He wanted to make an acerbic remark, but bit his tongue. For a long time, he rooted around inside for the key that might unlock the door to his feelings. Finally, thinking he’d found at least part of the answer, he said, “I’d say that maybe, for the first time in my life, I might want a few strings. More than a few, maybe.”

  When her eyes lit up, it scared him a little.

  “Are you serious?”

  She reached for his hand, which rested on the console, and stroked the back of it with her fingers. Her touch was tender, but also disconcerting. The feeling of it sent a shiver down his spine—a good kind of shiver.

  “I need a little time to figure things out,” he said, throat tense. “Do you think you can give me that?”

  She pushed her fingers in between his and squeezed his hand.

  “Sure, Buchanan,” she said, “if that’s what it takes.”

  He cleared his throat, wanting to be clear. “I can’t make any promises.”

  “I understand,” she said, lifting his hand to her lips and kissing it, “and I’m not asking you to.”

  He glanced at her legs, feeling a jolt of desire as he noticed the boots and short skirt. He more than liked the look, which brought to mind Emma Peele. Thea, he realized then, was like his feminine ideal in lots of ways. A wee bit more insecure perhaps, but he saw nothing wrong with that. In fact, he rather liked that the Ball Buster had a vulnerable side.

  “I don’t suppose you’ve trained in any of the martial arts,” he asked with a meaningful grin, “or fencing?”

  “As a matter of fact, I used to take Kung Fu,” she told him. “I would have rather taken ballet, but my mother wanted me to be able to defend myself.” She laughed before adding, “But I never took fencing—given that muggers so rarely wield rapiers these days.”

  * * * *

  Zeus was now at the National Museum of Crime and Punishment, meandering through the halls in search of three exhibits touted in the visitor’s brochure: Ted Bundy’s Volkswagen, a medieval torture display, and a capital punishment room replete with an authentic electric chair used to fry more than a hundred death-row inmates in Tennessee.

  Old Sparky.

  His heart beat a little faster when at last he spotted the infamous beige Beetle. Drawing nearer, he slowly circled the vehicle, examining every detail: the rust-eaten front end, the splotches of Rust-Oleum on the doors, the cracked windshield, even the faded Utah state inspection sticker on the rear license plate.

  He’d been fascinated by serial killers like Bundy for as long as he could remember—partly because of the gruesomeness of their crimes, which titillated him in deliciously wicked ways, but mainly because of their psychiatric profiles. The majority of serial killers, from what he’d read, were classified as sociopaths, meaning they had no conscience, no feelings of guilt or remorse, no compassion nor empathy toward others. Most psychiatrists believed
they weren’t born that way—that some screwed-up thing in their childhoods—be it alienation, abandonment, abuse, or all three—triggered the disorder. Early warning signs included chronic bedwetting, fire starting, and cruelty to animals—a trio of symptoms known as the Macdonald Triad—after the psychologist who proposed the theory. Some people pooh-poohed the premise, but it seemed pretty right-on to Zeus.

  He smiled at the boyhood memory of shooting small animals with his slingshot—squirrels, chipmunks, rats, stray cats, birds—nothing anyone cared much about or was likely to miss. He would watch, fascinated, as their dying little bodies quivered and twitched. When the light in their eyes started to dim, he would grab a big rock and put them out of their misery. What an exhilarating feeling of power it gave to take life!

  He’d always known he was different from other children, but it wasn’t until junior high that he realized he was superior. All through elementary school, he’d stupidly clung to the narcissistic delusion that he was the only one being honest. The others were just like him on the inside, he reasoned—selfish, manipulative, and cold-hearted. None of them cared any more about others then he did; they simply pretended they did for reasons that made no sense to him.

  Back then, he saw the planet as a stage and all the people on it as players. Like him. Then, at thirteen, a new truth began to dawn: The world wasn’t a stage; he stood alone in the footlights. And other people weren’t fellow actors, they were his audience.

  Ever since, he’d been putting on the best show he knew how.

  Focusing again at the Volkswagen, he shook his head. People said Bundy was clever, but Zeus knew better. A smart sociopath would never end his days in Old Sparky. Oh, no. Not when there were so many people in the world just begging to be abused by legal means.

  Chapter 12

  Once the glacier between Buchanan and Thea began to melt, they started talking. Really talking. When she got around to asking about his school days, he could almost smell the cafeteria’s foul bouquet of sour milk, boiling meat, children’s farts, and rotting fruit.