The Language of Cannibals

by George C. Chesbro

  A woman from the Community of Conciliation had joined the group since I’d come in. She was now standing by herself on the other side of the sidewalk bisected by the nose of the Jeep, her back straight, head high, and chin thrust out as she held aloft a neatly lettered cardboard sign stapled to a wooden stick. Whatever message the three men had been trying to convey with their fliers, there was nothing subtle about the message on the woman’s sign. It read: STOP THE DEATH SQUAD.

  There was something vaguely familiar about the woman, and I moved a few steps to my left in an effort to get a better angle of her face. She was tall and slender in her jeans and blue T-shirt that outlined small but firm breasts. I put her in her mid-forties. She wore steel-rimmed glasses that glinted in the light from the streetlamps, which had just come on. The most striking feature about her was her long hair, a light blond that was almost white, dramatically streaked with gray and hanging almost to the small of her back. The hands that clutched the wooden stick seemed too large for the rest of her frame, with the nails unpolished and cut very short.

  They were hands I’d seen before playing an acoustic guitar as well as or better than any of her equally famous contemporaries as she’d sung her protest songs in a dulcet, achingly beautiful soprano.

  Shades of the 1960s: antiwar protests, sit-ins, civil rights marches, Pete Seeger, Harry Peal, Judy Collins, Dylan, Buffy Sainte-Marie, Baez. The middle-aged woman standing on the sidewalk, defiantly holding up her sign, was none other than Mary Tree, one time “Queen of Folk,” and my brother Garth’s all-time secret heartthrob for more than twenty-five years. Although Garth had always disagreed with her pacifism, and a good deal of her politics, he’d bought every one of her records as soon as they were released, and had attended all of her concerts throughout the sixties and seventies whenever she appeared in the New York area. Then the war ended, the “Me Generation” blossomed into adolescence and adulthood wearing hundred-dollar sneakers and pushing five-hundred-dollar baby carriages, and Mary Tree’s popularity faded like Puff the Magic Dragon, along with most of the protest movements of which she had been such an integral part. Her concerts became rarer, in smaller and smaller arenas. The woman who had once been able to sell out Madison Square Garden ended in tiny coffeehouses similar to the ones in which she had begun her career. And then she disappeared from public view altogether, and no more records were released. Garth was heartbroken, and he finally got around to transferring all of her records to tape about one playing or two before the needle on his record player would have broken through the vinyl. We both wondered what had happened to her. Now I knew; she’d apparently been living in Cairn, working with the Community of Conciliation.

  It appeared that Mary Tree was about to have her commitment to pacifism sorely tested.

  The burly young man with the thick chest and potbelly had tired of bumping the two standing Community members around, had finally snatched their fliers out of their hands and shoved both of them to the ground, where they sat, hands to their faces as if to ward off blows. But their tormentor had lost interest in them and was stalking back across the lawn toward Mary Tree.

  I glanced to my right, up the street toward the town’s business district, expecting—hoping—to see an approaching police car. The street was empty.

  To my left, Jack Trex had pushed his way out onto the porch and was about to go down the steps when Elysius Culhane caught up with him, grabbed his arm, and went up on his toes in order to whisper something in the veteran’s ear. Trex angrily shook his head, and Culhane whispered some more. Trex appeared to hesitate, then abruptly pivoted on his undamaged right leg and pushed his way back into the house. Aside from the few people acting as an impromptu cheering section, it didn’t look like anybody in the house or on the porch was inclined to do anything but watch.

  The man in the camouflage fatigues and khaki tank top had reached Mary Tree and was crowding her. He stuck his flushed face close to hers and shouted obscenities. Mary Tree’s response was to stand her ground and hold her sign even higher.

  Suddenly the man stepped back three paces, did a little hop, then abruptly spun clockwise and leaped into the air. His right leg shot out, and he executed a near-perfect roundhouse high kick. The side of his foot caught the stick Mary Tree was holding at just the right point, with just the right velocity, snapping it cleanly an inch or two below the cardboard sign, which went flying through the air to land on the lawn about twenty feet in front of me.

  The high aerial kick and clean breaking of the stick was an expert move, very difficult to do, and definitely not the kind of martial arts maneuver you expect to see executed by a heavy man with a gut. The young man had surprising speed and advanced expertise in either karate or tai kwan do. That made him a dangerous man—not only a loose cannon but a loaded one.

  After her initial startled reaction, Mary Tree glared into the man’s face, then turned and marched up the lawn. She threw aside the stick, then bent over to retrieve the sign. But the man was there a step ahead of her, and he’d planted his foot on the sign. When Mary Tree gripped the edge of the cardboard with both hands and tried to free it, the man shoved her shoulder with his stomach, pushing her to the ground and knocking her glasses askew. As she straightened her glasses and tried to get up, the man moved forward and planted his legs on either side of her body, forcing her down onto her back. Then, still straddling her, the man grabbed his crotch and began to grind his hips in her face, all the while continuing to scream obscenities. Mary Tree crabbed backward, trying to get out from between the man’s legs, but he kept shuffling forward.

  There was still no sign of the police and no indication that anyone else intended to do anything.

  Ah, well; as it was, Garth was going to be very displeased with me for playing spectator for so long. I vaulted over the railing onto the lawn, strode forward, and picked up the picket stake Mary Tree had discarded.

  “I think you’ve made your point, pal,” I said to the man’s back, and then goosed him hard with the jagged end of the stick.

  He whooped and went about three feet straight up into the air, releasing his crotch and grabbing with both hands at his insulted anus. He landed and wheeled around to see whence had cometh his discomfort. I didn’t like what I saw at all. The young man’s eyes, one of which was slightly cast, were the color of milky green jade; I saw madness glittering there, along with murderous rage. His mouth was half open, revealing small, gapped teeth. He was alternately panting and growling like an animal.

  He obviously hadn’t enjoyed being goosed, and in a moment of absolute mental clarity, I understood that he intended, at the very least, to break things in me. This man with the milky green eyes and small teeth was definitely not a partner with whom I was going to spend a lot of time on the dance floor.

  His right hand darted out and grabbed the end of the stick in my hands, and he yanked. I immediately released my grip so as not to be pulled to him, then ducked beneath a hard, straight side kick that would have bashed in my face and snapped my neck if it had landed. The man was definitely serious. The momentum of his kick carried him forward, and by the time he regained his balance, with his feet slightly apart, I was already behind him and launching my own aerial act. I sprang up and back, whipping my right foot up between his legs and burying the toe of my sneaker in his groin. I landed on my back on the grass, immediately kipped to my feet, and walked around to the front of the man to see what kind of damage I had done.

  Not surprisingly, the young man’s jade-colored eyes had gone wide with shock and pain. His face was almost the color of blood. His mouth opened in a wide as he clutched his groin with intent, slowly sank to his knees, and doubled over until his forehead rested on the lawn. He was once again making loud whooping sounds as he struggled to suck air into his lungs.

  I turned at the sound of brakes, saw not one but two white Cairn patrol cars, each with a single policeman, pull up on either side of the Jeep. The policeman got out, and one walked toward me while the other headed
toward Mary Tree and the three other Community members, who had gathered together at the far end of the sidewalk.

  When I turned back I found the man in the tank top on his hands and knees, crawling toward me and grabbing for my legs. I jumped back not a millisecond too soon, and his ham-size right hand grabbed empty air. He was obviously not greatly impressed by the presence of the two policemen, if he even knew they were there. With the two uniformed cops on the scene, I could have easily afforded to keep backing away, playing matador and bull, until one or both of them stopped him. But I simply didn’t feel like it. With the memory of his foot flying through the air toward my head, I found I was feeling a tad resentful and out of sorts.

  As the man on the ground continued to growl and crawl forward, swiping at my legs with one hand as he cupped his groin with the other, I studied his head with its shaved sides. It looked hard, and there was simply too much paperwork waiting for me on my desk to risk breaking my knuckles or hand. As the policeman came abreast of me, I stepped around him to the fallen man’s side, squatted down, cocked my right arm and wrist, and then sprang upright, hitting him with the heel of my hand precisely at the juncture of neck and jaw. His head snapped back, and the rest of his body followed. He landed on his side, rolled over on his back, and lay there with his legs splayed and twitching. He was out.

  I glanced up toward the porch, found myself gazing into a crowd of faces wearing thoroughly astonished expressions. The four veterans Jack Trex had been speaking with were there, at the foot of the steps, but Trex was nowhere in sight. I hadn’t seen Jay Acton since he’d disappeared from the hallway where Trex’s painting was displayed. Elysius Culhane was standing on the porch near the spot where I had been; his mouth was actually open, and he was slowly shaking his head. There was no sign of a friendly face.

  I turned around to face the policeman, who had sad, almond-colored eyes and a droopy mustache to match. His name tag said McAlpin. He was looking back and forth between the unconscious man and me, disbelief clearly etched on his face.

  McAlpin finally fixed his gaze on me. “Who the hell are you?” he asked, his tone more than a bit incredulous.

  “My name’s Robert Frederickson, Officer. I—”

  “Wait over there,” he said curtly, pointing to the patrol car parked to the left of the Jeep.

  I dutifully strolled across the lawn to the patrol car, leaned against the hood, and cradled my right wrist, which I was afraid I’d sprained in my effort to avoid breaking my hand on the young man’s head.

  Elysius Culhane and the veteran with the yellow hair and ponytail had come down off the porch and were trying to help the conscious but obviously disoriented young man in fatigues and black sneakers to his feet. All the while, Culhane was talking rapidly to the patrolman named McAlpin, who was making notes on a pad. The man whose jaw had hurt my wrist finally made it to his feet and angrily shook off the hands that were supporting him. He swayed a bit, and his milky green eyes finally came into focus—on me. He lurched forward, but his way was immediately blocked by Culhane, the ponytailed veteran, and McAlpin, who reached for his nightstick. The heavyset man stood still, but he continued to glare at me, raw hatred in his eyes. I resisted the impulse to wave at him.

  Twenty yards down the sidewalk, to my right, the second policeman was talking to Mary Tree and the three others from the Community of Conciliation. The folksinger and her companions looked distinctly more delighted and amused than upset. They kept glancing, nodding, and smiling in my direction, but when Mary Tree and one of the men tried to walk over to me they were stopped by the policeman. The woman laughed and blew me a kiss; thinking of how Garth would eat his heart out when I told him this story, I grinned and blew her one back.

  The second policeman walked across the lawn to McAlpin, who was standing with the end of his nightstick pressed against the young man’s chest while he listened to the fast-talking Culhane. The two policemen stepped away a few paces and conferred in whispers. Both men nodded, then returned to their respective groups.

  The burly young man continued to glare at me, obviously oblivious to whatever negotiations were being conducted on his behalf. He only had eyes for me.

  Down the sidewalk, the second policeman was forcefully pointing the four members of me Community of Conciliation up the street, away from me. After some more waves and nods in my direction, they moved away. The policeman got in his car and drove off.

  McAlpin seemed to be lecturing the young man in fatigues, occasionally tapping him on the shoulder with the nightstick for emphasis. When he finished, Culhane, the ponytailed veteran, and a few other people ushered the young man back up the steps and into the house—but not before he cast one last baleful glance over his shoulder in my direction.

  McAlpin came back across the lawn to me, studied me for a few moments as he absently stroked his droopy mustache. He seemed vaguely surprised that I hadn’t grown any taller during his brief absence.

  “Nobody else wants to press charges, Frederickson.”

  “Really? What do you have to do in this town to be arrested?”

  He wasn’t offended. On the contrary, something that might have been amusement moved in his almond-colored eyes. “Those people picketing out here could have been charged with trespassing.”

  “They were standing on the sidewalk.”

  “I didn’t hear any of them asking for you as his lawyer,” McAlpin said, and shrugged. “Be that as it may, it was their decision not to press charges. They don’t want to spend money for a lawyer. Besides, a lot of people around here would think those commie shitheads got what they deserved. And as far as they’re concerned, the asshole got more than his comeuppance.” He paused for a few moments and studied me some more, as if he was still waiting for me to grow larger. “You really put the wood to him, Frederickson. I’m sorry I wasn’t here to see it from me beginning.”

  “Me too,” I replied, rubbing my sore wrist. “Who is the asshole?”

  “Nobody you ever want to mess with again. What about it?”

  “What about what?”

  “You satisfied with the arrangement? I need your consent, since you were a party to the disagreement. Since you ended up the winner by a knockout, I figure you’ve got no charges to make. Right?”

  “Right. It never even occurred to me.”

  “Okay,” McAlpin said as he snapped his notebook shut, then stepped around me to open the door to his car.

  “Officer?”

  He opened the door, looked up. “Yeah?”

  “Is your chief in?”

  McAlpin hesitated, frowned slightly. “As a matter of fact, he is. But you said—”

  “I know what I said. I was planning on stopping around to see him in the morning anyway, but I figure now’s as good a time as any. Can you tell me where to find the station house?”

  He thought about it, then held up his hand. “Wait a minute, Frederickson,” he said, then got in the car, closed the door, and rolled up the window.

  I watched him as he picked up the receiver of his car radio and signaled on it. There began a lengthy conversation, during which I could feel eyes watching me from inside the house. Almost five minutes later McAlpin finally replaced the receiver in its cradle, rolled down the window, and motioned to me. In addition to the continuing incredulity in his eyes and voice, there was now something new, and I thought it might be respect.

  “The chief’s heard of you, Frederickson,” McAlpin said. “Get in. I’ll drive you there.”

  I got in the front, and McAlpin pulled away from the curb. When I glanced back, I could see that Jay Acton had joined Elysius Culhane. The two expensively suited men were standing on the sidewalk, watching the departing patrol car. Jay Acton’s rather handsome face was impassive, but Elysius Culhane looked positively dyspeptic, and perhaps worried.

  Chapter Two

  The Cairn police station turned out to be a dispatching room, two-office and two-cell section of a town hall that was housed in a magnificent old ston
e building set down near the river a few blocks from the center of town. One of the offices was occupied by Cairn’s chief of police, whose desk plaque identified him as Dan Mosely. Mosely, a dapper man who looked to be in his mid- to late forties, was dressed in a crisp, starched uniform that I suspected had been specially tailored for his wiry, six-foot frame. He had a thick head of curly steel-gray hair, and gray eyes to match. Ugly, puckered acne scars ringed his neck near the collar line, but the rest of his face was clear, with the kind of deep, even tan that comes from spending a lot of time on the water. His office was decorated with framed prints of old sailing ships. There was a case filled with sailing trophies and above it a photograph of a sleek, nineteen-foot Hoby catamaran with a power jib.

  Mosely rose as I entered, extended a sinewy, bronzed hand, and flashed a grin that revealed even, white teeth. “Dr. Frederickson,” he said in a deep, resonant voice. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

  “Likewise, Chief,” I said, shaking his hand and wincing when pain shot through my wrist.

  “Sorry,” Mosely said, quickly withdrawing his hand and grimacing in sympathy. “It looks like you hurt yourself.”

  “Just a slight sprain,” I replied, sitting down in the chair next to his desk that he had motioned me into.