by Sean Hancock
Could the encounter with my master have been in any way real? Or was it just a paranoid fantasy? Furthermore, why did Rebus appear on that roof, and what did he mean when he said his soldier had failed? Did Rebus order my assassination? I can’t help but remember the rude, obnoxious, pale-skinned man I met on that bitter winter’s day in Amsterdam almost two centuries ago, how he and Ashkai spoke privately outside the Vis En Brood Café. And then there was that message, using telepathy to tell me he knew who I really was, the suggestion being I was dangerous in some way.
There’s another possibility, one that involves the death cult known as The Shadow. While I have never encountered any of its members—Ashkai made sure to keep us as far away from them as possible—I know that their sole purpose is to snuff out all expressions of love and light.
Was the man in the basement one of them?
Confused, frustrated, and getting nowhere, I clear my mind and gaze through the window again, this time looking at Kaya’s Mini in the driveway.
Where is she? How does she fit into all this? Could she be the same woman who was standing next to Rebus in Amsterdam?
In an ideal world, the two of us would sit and have a civilized conversation, but Kaya decided against such a peaceful and pragmatic approach, choosing fear and suspicion instead. It’s a decision that is going to come back to haunt her.
Searching the house is the obvious next step. I start in the lounge and dining area before heading into the bedroom and then the study, emptying drawers, cupboards, and shelves, pulling books, DVDs, and artwork to the floor. I get excited when I find a laptop, only to discover that it’s password protected. I try Kaya, Lotus Meditations, Rebus, and Ashkai without success.
I think to when Kaya pointed a gun at my head. Her reaction clearly stemmed from fear. She would have assumed I was going to return. In fact, I pretty much told her that would happen.
So what does she do? Reach out for help, of course, and in this case (if my wild speculations are correct), that meant contacting Rebus. He then ordered one of his “soldiers” to take me out. Permanently.
Even though we’ve spent less than three minutes in each other’s company, Kaya didn’t strike me as the type who’s into ripping people’s hearts out of their chest; hence that was why she didn’t want to be here. But that doesn’t explain Rebus’s absence. If he hates me as much as I think he does, why not do the job himself?
Maybe he lives in another country, I think. Or he doesn’t like getting his hands dirty. I start to wonder if it was his idea for Kaya to leave her car in the driveway, so I’d assume she was home.
I’m reminded of what the man in the basement said as he passed, that he had no choice. Are they all just following orders, Rebus included? Is Meta’s propaganda machine (who else could it be?) poisoning their hearts and minds? The possibility is a frightening one because if they were willing to give my soul to the Decimatio, then wouldn’t they have done the same to Ashkai?
No, I tell myself. He is still alive; I can feel it.
Whatever their motive, as far as Rebus is concerned (if he is indeed to blame), I’m no longer a problem. Then again, Rebus will be perturbed when his assassin doesn’t check in. The question is, does he have a contingency plan?
I’ve been ransacking Kaya’s place for about twenty minutes, rifling through paperwork, photographs, and notebooks, pocketing things of value as I go: rings, necklaces, and small amounts of cash. I venture into the kitchen, a room I have thus far avoided, and feel instantly nauseous. The trapdoor to the basement is in here. Looking at it forces me to remember how I clambered through, naked and covered in blood, like a goblin escaping the depths of hell.
There’s a stepladder in the pantry, so I grab it and head back to the master bedroom, standing in front of the fitted wardrobe now, wanting to see what’s on those upper two shelves. In among the sheets, travel bags, beach towels, and bedding, I find a shoebox, those preternatural instincts telling me I’ve landed on something important.
I climb down and sit on the edge of the bed so that I’m facing the stepladder and Kaya’s hanging clothes. The window, which looks out front, is to the left of me, and the door leading to the hallway is directly behind.
I open the shoebox. Inside is Kaya’s gun, the same one she pointed at me yesterday. It turns out it’s fully loaded. Scraps of paper, old concert tickets, and photographs are underneath it. I flick through the images and . . . bingo: one is of a man with alabaster skin, early to midforties, walking out of a building.
It has to be Rebus.
There is a long row of yellow cabs in the edge of frame, which suggests New York. There’s also a familiar corporate logo in the lower ground window behind him. I adjust my eyes and focus on it. There’s just one word—COSMOS—written in white against a dark, starry background. I know the organization well; everyone does. In fact, they were on the news just recently, talking about a large comet that’s on a crash course with Mars.
The photograph is in good condition—no smudges, no frayed edges—which suggests this is the human body Rebus’s consciousness currently occupies. He’s tall and strong and, with that shaved head, looks like the kind of guy you wouldn’t want to piss off. Although, for me, that ship has sailed.
I pocket the image and continue my search, but nothing else catches my eye unless I’m missing something . . .
I should be buoyed by the discovery of the photograph—it proves my suspicion that Rebus and Kaya are connected—but instead, I feel numb and deflated, wanting to lie down, fall asleep, and never awaken. I think, How did that happen? because I don’t remember placing the barrel of the gun against my right temple or the moment I started contemplating how easy it would be to start over. I feel a deep-down desire to hurt and punish myself.
Why not just do it?
There’s a noise to my left. I look toward the window and blink rapidly. Staring at me, his face full of pain, worry and disbelief, is somebody I know.
“The hell are you doing?” the person shouts, banging the glass a second time. “Put that down.”
I must be dreaming, I think, looking at Tammuz, whose face has softened as the hand holding the gun falls of its own accord.
“That’s it,” he says. “I’m finding you a psychiatrist.”
TWENTY-ONE
I place the gun on the bed and head into the hallway. I open Kaya’s front door. I’m expecting to see nothing. I must be hallucinating after all, but there he is. Tammuz, his face dusted with stubble. He’s wearing the same black jumper as in my dream. I’m relieved the similarities end there.
“You’ve been in America less then a day,” he says, stepping inside, carrying a brown leather bag, “and already you have a gun. What do they do, hand them out at the airport?”
After closing the door, I reach out and prod the center of his chest.
“I see you haven’t lost any of your charm,” he says, glancing at my hand. “What was that all about just now? Tell me it wasn’t loaded.”
I step forward and place my right cheek against his sweater. Tammuz puts his bag down and embraces me, and we just stand there for a while. I wish this moment of peace and calm could last forever. But of course, it doesn’t. Tammuz says, after kissing the top of my head, “Did you do this?” He drifts away from me toward the lounge, which is a mess. “Where’s Kaya? She know you’re here?”
That’s when the novelty wears off and suspicion sets in.
Talking to the back of his head, I say, “How did you find me this time?”
He ignores me and keeps walking toward the dining area, which, in turn, becomes the kitchen. I don’t have the energy to explain the scene in there, let alone the basement, so I raise my voice and say, “That’s far enough.”
Tammuz turns to face me, the red sofa on his left. “Why, what’s through there?”
I take a few paces. “How did you find me, Tammuz, and how do you know Kaya?”
“I don’t know her,” he says, dodging my first question.
&n
bsp; “How do you know her name?”
He starts mumbling something about a dream he had, but I cut him off, saying that unless he wants a gun pointed at his head, he better answer my damn question. And yes, it is loaded.
“That’s not funny.”
“It’s not meant to be. Now spit it out.”
He says, “Just relax, okay?” Then: “I read Kaya’s e-mail.”
“What e-mail?”
“The one she sent you about ayahuasca.”
“You hacked into my account?”
“Don’t be ridiculous. I went to check my e-mail, but you were still logged in.”
“So you thought you’d snoop around? How dare you invade my privacy like that?”
He laughs. “Says the girl who hasn’t stopped lying since the moment we met. By the way, how’s that life-threatening illness of yours?”
“So you’ve never met Kaya or spoken to her?”
He shakes his head. “Not once.”
“How did you get her address?”
“Does it matter?”
“Yes. Very much.”
“Why?” Tammuz asks, running a hand through his mess of dark hair. “After everything, don’t you trust me?”
I stare into his eyes, waiting.
He gets the message.
“I landed yesterday afternoon and went straight to Lotus Meditations . . .”
Something occurs to me, and I interrupt. “How did you get into the country with a criminal record?”
“I just took my chances. Nobody asked any questions. I guess I’m pretty small-time in the grand scheme of things.”
“If they catch you, you’ll be banned from America for life.”
“It’s a chance I’m willing to take.”
“You’re such an idiot,” I say.
“Thanks a lot.” Then he adds, “After landing, I went straight to Lotus Meditations. The address was on Kaya’s e-mail. I asked the guy working there if she was around, but he wasn’t very helpful. I couldn’t understand what his problem was until he started talking about the crazy English girl from earlier, asking if I was anything to do with her.
“I told him I was your brother and that I was worried because you hadn’t taken your medication. He calmed down after that but had no idea where you were. I figured you might come back, so I went to the Starbucks across the road and started doing some research on my phone. That’s when I came across this article Kaya had written for Cosmopolitan magazine. It was about sex and meditation.
“I left it a couple of hours and then phoned her studio. I was expecting that guy to pick up, but it was somebody else. I asked if Kaya was there, but she wasn’t, so I explained I was from Cosmo and that we needed her home address; otherwise we wouldn’t be able to process her invoice.”
“And they just gave it to you?”
“I’m here, aren’t I?” Tammuz says. “I got here at six thirty last night, but nobody was home. I hung around for a while, but as soon as the sun went down, it got pretty cold and I was knackered, so I called it a night. I was up early and couldn’t get back to sleep, so I came here, hoping to catch Kaya before she went to work.
“I was on the other side of the road killing time when I saw movement in the house. It was still really early, so I decided to take a look through the window before ringing the bell, and there you were. Holding a gun to your head. Another brilliant piece of decision-making to add to your collection.”
“I didn’t pull the trigger, did I?”
“What about next time?”
I think for a moment, weighing up his story, searching for signs he might be lying or keeping something from me, but his blue eyes, mesmerizing and sharp, look honest and trustworthy, as usual. I’m thinking again about how hard it is to shake this guy and whether or not that’s significant.
“You’re pretty resourceful, huh?” I say.
“I was worried about you.”
I have more questions, but they’ll have to wait.
“You need to leave.”
He scans the lounge, taking in the mess. “What are you looking for?”
“Just go, Tammuz; we’ll speak later.”
“When?”
“Wait for me at the Ocean Park Getaway. That’s where I’m staying.”
“Where is it?”
“Not far. Google it.”
“How long will you be?”
“Less than an hour.”
“You promise?”
Losing patience, I grab his hand and usher him outside, picking his bag up on the way, telling him to go to the hotel and wait for me. He tries to respond, but I close the door in his face. Looking through the spyhole, I see him stand there for a beat before turning and walking down the patio steps.
I have one place left to look, and I want to get it over with as quickly as possible. I take a few moments to brace myself before making my way into the kitchen. Once there, I get on my hands and knees and peer into the basement. The first thing I see is that circle of candles, all of which are still burning, apart from the two or three that were extinguished when the man toppled over.
Because of the candlelight, I can just about make out the corpse’s bare feet in the shadows next to a sizable pool of blood. His purple gown has ridden up slightly, and I can see he’s wearing jeans underneath. He’ll probably be carrying a phone and a wallet, and those are two things I’d very much like to get my hands on.
I climb down the metal ladder and locate the light switch. The obsidian blade is sticking out of the man’s chest. The plastic sheets I had been lying on are crumpled and smeared with blood. The headdress, made of alternating black and white feathers, is only partly burned. I don’t remember doing it, but I must have put the fire out soon after killing him.
The spirits who devoured his soul are no longer present. The portal has also disappeared, although there is a lingering negative energy that is giving me goose bumps. Other than that, everything is pretty normal: rolls of toilet paper, canned goods, and other provisions in the far left corner; a washing machine and dryer on my right, along with a sink. A box of Christmas decorations, three pieces of luggage, camping equipment, and a good-size wine rack to add to the clutter.
After extinguishing the candles, I approach the dead body and stand over it, steering clear of the blood. I wasn’t able to register what he looked like before, but now I can. He’s black, under forty, and has prominent cheekbones. He has curly (rather than afro) hair and lips that are narrow but rounded. If I had to guess, I’d say he was from East Africa: Somalia or Ethiopia, somewhere like that.
I get down on my haunches and pull up his purple gown. His front pockets are empty. I’m in the process of trying to roll him forward into the blood when a phone starts vibrating somewhere on my left. I stand and turn, homing in on the sound, quickly determining the source: a navy-blue Jansport backpack that’s tucked underneath the wooden counter running along the far wall. It didn’t catch my eye before—why would it among everything else?—but it certainly has now.
I grab the bag and rest it on the work surface. I can see by the light shining through that the phone is inside the small front compartment. I open the zip and pull it out.
The number is withheld.
I swipe the screen and put the phone to my ear.
Speaking in an urgent whisper, a woman says, “Bacchus?”
I remain silent.
“Bacchus, are you there?”
“He can’t get to the phone right now,” I say. “Want me to pass on a message?”
“Samsara?”
“Who is this?”
“You’re alive?” She says it as if she’s relieved.
“Who are you and how do you know my name?”
No longer whispering, the mysterious woman says, “Get out of there, Samsara, now!”
TWENTY-TWO
“Who is this?” I ask, but the phone goes dead.
Could it have been Kaya? Did she have second thoughts about her involvement in my demise? The woman�
�s voice was lowered and rushed, so it’s hard to be certain one way or the other. But who else could it have been?
Erring on the side of caution, I pocket Bacchus’s phone and throw his bag onto my back. I’m climbing out of the basement, poking my head into the kitchen when I hear a noise and stop.
There’s somebody opening the front door. As long as the person isn’t sporting a lotus flower tattoo, I’ll be able to take them out, no problem. But then I hear two men whispering, walking toward the back of the house, and I’m not so confident.
What if Rebus is one of them?
I’m still shaken from the phone call and make a very bad decision: I go back the way I came, closing the trapdoor behind me, but I realize at that moment that there’s no way they won’t check down here, especially as there are handprints and smears all over the kitchen floor. Preparing for battle, I extract the obsidian blade from Bacchus’s chest and wipe it on his jeans so as not to leave a trail of blood. After switching off the light and removing the bag from my back, I slip underneath the wooden counter along the far wall next to the washing machine, dragging two pieces of luggage in front of me.
Instead of looking around the house, the strangers gravitate directly above. I can only hear male voices; their words are muffled and undecipherable. I move the bags slightly, giving myself a narrow gap to peer through, although right now, the room is pitch black. When the trapdoor opens, a shaft of light hits the floor several feet from the dead body, which thankfully is still hidden in the shadows.
“Bacchus?” a man says, speaking with a thick German accent.
“There’s blood on the floor and on these stairs,” says a second man, whose accent identifies him as American, his voice gruff and authoritative.
“What do you think happened?” asks a third. He is significantly younger than the others, in this life at least.
Germany answers, “Something other than the plan.”
“Let’s go check it out,” America says, and they start coming down when there’s a noise from somewhere, maybe a loose book falling from one of the shelves I ransacked in the living room. America changes his mind.