The War Gate

by Chris Stevenson

  Drake had never seen such a disgusting transient in all his life. He didn’t know whether to call an ambulance or animal control. There had to be a mistake in soliciting this individual for anything or for any reason.

  The Wax Man drew an asthmatic breath. “A little warmer here than New York.” The words were a gargle. “Don’t come any closer. You’ll thank me later.” The man turned his hand over in the sunlight, giving the appearance he was bathing it in the heat—testing it. Something resembling yellow varnish hung thread-like from his fingertips. Several drops of the goop plopped to the asphalt to sizzle in the hot sun.

  Drake withdrew his hand but continued to stare in morbid fascination. He spoke through the mask, trying to enunciate the words. “Ah, are you feeling all right? Do you need to get cleaned up or something?” What else could he say to this monstrosity?

  The Wax Man cocked his head, his chin dribbling a line of spittle. “I always feel the same—no highs, no lows. Cleaned up for what? You mean ruin my image? I reside in this, my status quo. Don’t make any special demands of me and we’ll get along fine.”

  Whatever he wished, thought Drake. He did not want this introductory meeting to stray into some other area. He would confine it to the present requirements of the job. Drake tried, “I’ve come to understand that you are for hire. Would that be correct?”

  “I need to know the target, the stakes,” he rasped. “We can start from there. You can call me Harry. I don’t like the other moniker.” The Wax Man walked under the building overhang where the shade fell upon him. Something moved under his rain slicker in the chest area—a squirm. A moment later, it ceased.

  “Harry it is then,” said Drake. “The target is my eighteen-year-old daughter, Avy Labrador. She has a magician boyfriend who is called Sebastian. They’re traveling with a fat, older fellow, who we haven’t identified yet. They're endangering my life and harassing my employees. They have also been responsible for the destruction of private property, hacking into the company computer files, burglary, and theft. God knows what else they’re capable of.”

  The Wax Man cocked his head. “That’s a veritable typhoon of destruction coming from a teenager who has a small entourage. Why don’t you have the local authorities take care of it?”

  “Let’s just say the issues are sensitive with far reaching implications,” said Drake. “Even if they were prosecuted, the chances are good that they would make bail, and then we’d be right back in the same situation.”

  “You’re thinking more of a permanent solution to end this?”

  The Wax Man was not the incompetent sluggard he looked. He read into the innuendo. Drake had to consider that there were three witnesses present who would absorb everything said between the two. Those discussions could be used against him if things went south. How did one translate vagueness into clarity?

  “Deal with them in whatever means necessary to stop their activities,” said Drake. “That means discouraging them in a physical sense, if needed. The end justifies the means. Whatever you use to accomplish that goal will work for me. I have no idea how prepared you are for the task. The first question I would like to ask is how traceable are you? You don’t appear to be low key. Sorry.”

  “I have no port of call if that’s what you mean. I’ve lived where the wind has taken me—Detroit, Los Angles, Portland, Denver, El Paso, Reno, Seattle, Bangor, any other small or major city you can think of. You can’t hit a moving target. I’ve never been hit—not even on the outside ring. This is my first visit to this sweet little segment of the southeast. In answer to your question, I don’t stay in one place long enough to bring any baggage, which means I don’t intend to remain here any longer than the job requires. I don’t believe I have a profile that would attract any serious investigation or attention. Society is a fickle bedfellow that suffers me not.” His laugh rattled like broken pistons in an engine.

  Drake agreed that the man was not the type of person someone would approach for anything, other than to shoo him away or walk the long way around him. He wondered if the unkempt appearance had been deliberate, or was simply an unfortunate byproduct of the man’s lifestyle. The fruits of the Wax Man’s labor did not show on his exterior unless he was some kind of an eccentric millionaire incognito.

  “Is there any place that we can put you up?” Drake tried to sound accommodating but felt hesitant about letting this man stay on Cyberflow property.

  The Wax Man tilted his head. “There’s no need for accommodations. My abode is wherever I happen to be. The less our paths cross the better. I don’t sleep well anyway. To business, I’ll need a clear photo of the young woman. Get me a hairbrush or a used toothbrush of hers. Underwear will work—even a used sanitary napkin, provided you have one that is recent.”

  Drake looked at Auggie, who blinked. “That’s a bit overboard, isn’t it? I mean—”

  “Visual acuity isn’t one of my strong suits.” The Wax Man reached into the inside flap of his rain slicker and pulled out a mottled creature. He held it by the scruff of its neck, showing that it was a mange-stricken opossum with a broken tail. He explained, “Judas and I are interactive teammates. All I have to do is be in the general area—my little friend will catch her scent. Can you get those items or not?”

  Drake knew that Avy hadn’t removed all of her belongings from the house. He could find something on that menu.

  “I can get the items.”

  There was nothing in the back of the refrigerator truck that resembled a piece of luggage or tote bag. Not even a paper sack. Drake’s next question concerned practical matters. “I can’t tell if you’re packing or not. Are you carrying, or do I need to provide you with something?”

  “Carrying?” The Wax Man’s smile broke open like a blister. “I’m carrying just about everything I need, a little bubonic plague, typhoid, rheumatic fever, influenza, tuberculosis, cholera, rabbis, even some hoop without the cough.” He laughed but it tuned into a gag, prompting him to spit.

  Drake took a few steps back, staring at the vile discharge on the pavement that resembled a large maggot. Auggie stared wide-eyed over his mask.

  The Wax Man held out a trembling hand. “I’m a repository for just about everything that’s wiped out mankind from the dawn of time. Any respiratory or blood borne pathogen has found a comfortable little home right here in this vessel. The Center for Disease Control calls us healthy carriers, but the debate goes on about the ‘healthy’ part in my prognosis. Suffice it to say, I’m toxic to the touch, dangerous to inhalation.” He smoothed the fur of the opossum with a finger. “Judas is the only contact I’ve had with a living organism. He’s immune. Nothing else is. Would that answer your question?”

  “Jesus Christ, man,” said Drake, his breath puffy in the mask. “How long have you had this affliction? Are we safe standing here?”

  The Wax Man tucked the opossum back under his coat. “I’m from a long line of carriers. They say it started with Typhoid Mary’s lineage. Bullshit. That was just an excuse to gloss over the real facts. My bloodline has been infected for centuries. Since then every new generation has picked up a new pox to add to the soup. I’m guessing it started with leprosy around twelve hundred BC.” He looked at each of the Cyberflow men in turn. “You asked about the risk factor. Always remain at least three meters distant from me. Don’t ever touch me. Always wear protection. Keep your breaths shallow in my presence if you’re not wearing a mask. That’s enough to avoid transference.”

  “Are there more like you running around?” Auggie asked.

  “I have a wife in Tucson. Or was it Phoenix? Never mind. She isn’t much to look at—qualifies for a bag over the head, if you get me.” The Wax Man laughed at his own joke, but bent over like he had a gut cramp. When he straightened he said, “She robbed the cradle when she landed me. I’m twenty-one years old. She’s five years my senior, just about ready to cash in her chips.”

  Drake found it astonishing that the man who stood on his loading dock wrapped in rags w
ith patches of hair falling out could be any younger than sixty. The man reeked of sickness and disease. The abomination even admitted having a wife! But that had nothing to do with the purpose of their meeting. Drake could care less if the Wax Man had a grandmother who wore paisley shawls or tied ribbons in her hair.

  “I take it that contact with you has a certain finality to it,” said Drake.

  “Gestation is pretty quick. A total cellular collapse within a minute. I haven’t left many witnesses behind. For what it’s worth, it is not a good idea to push my buttons the wrong way. I have a twisted sense of justice. We’ll remain on the same page throughout this association.”

  “You won’t have problems from this end,” said Drake, his voice urgent. “I guess the last thing I need to know is what kind of compensation are you expecting? Would company stocks, securities, or cash be acceptable?”

  The Wax Man hacked up a wad of phlegm, then spat. “No, they wouldn’t. I cannot pass bills or paperwork. Cars, yachts, planes have no use for someone who cannot enjoy them. I’m a liability to women, so that’s out. Fine dining is reserved for people who can share it with company.”

  “Then what could you possibly need?”

  “I need a cure. That’s the price you’ll pay. I am not talking about some bimbo from Hopkins, Harvard, or Mayo. I need the top epidemiologist or virologist from the Center for Disease Control in Atlanta. I want Ignatius Struthers, the director. You’ll arrange a private meeting for the purpose of consultation. I’ll take it from there.”

  Drake gave Auggie a perturbed glance. “Don’t just stand there. Take this down so you can make the arrangements.”

  Auggie scribbled on a pad.

  “I’m in agreement with that,” said Drake. “I don’t know if you should get your hopes up. I have no knowledge about your disease or if a cure is possible, but if there is any way to help you, I’ll keep my end of the bargain. To be honest, I expected some other type of payment.”

  The Wax Man shuffled backward toward the refrigerator truck. “Do you know what it’s like to walk unimpeded over a park hillside with the sun on your face and the wind in a full head of hair? Do you know what it’s like to feel the embrace or kiss of another, the weight of a child on your lap, a puppy’s tongue on your cheek, the nudge of a kitten against your leg? I have done all of those things many more times than you have—in dreams—visions. I can describe each of those sensations better than you ever could. It’s because you take them for granted. Me, I’ll take them any way I can get them. I’m not alive. Not yet. Maybe one day I will be. The one prayer I have forever asked for is a release from this damnation. Funny, it was never answered.”

  “Uh,” Drake stammered. “Where can we get a hold of you?”

  The figure backed into the truck until he became a shadow and the whisper of a disembodied voice. “I’ll be right here. Keep the door down, but leave it unlocked. I need the freedom of movement at night. In the meantime, bring me those things I asked for.”

  Drake motioned for the two security men to drop the loading door, with the order to leave it unlatched. On the fringe of an emotional tantrum, he turned to Auggie. “What are you, nuts? Where in the flying fuck did you dig that thing up? Do you realize you’ve put Cyberflow in jeopardy by welcoming him onto the property?”

  “Boss, I admit he isn’t pretty. But he sure is lethal. I mean, the man has got the touch of you know what.”

  “Yeah, but what kind of a mess could he make of the plan?” Drake asked, not trusting this new ally, let alone understanding him. The Wax Man, Harry, appeared more than unconventional. He could turn into a liability,fast, attracting more heat than a blast furnace if he drew the wrong attention.

  Drake made a mental note that he would toss this person back into the hellhole he came from the minute—no, the second things started to unravel.

  In disgust, Drake tossed the surgical mask at Auggie. He never felt more like punching his sack-of-lard chief of security in his fat jowls. “Park that truck on the extreme edge of he property. Debrief those men. Get Mack’s steam cleaner back here to sterilize this goddamn place.”

  “I’m on it, boss.”

  “Get me a level one Hazmat suit from somewhere!”

  Chapter 18

  Avy had no concrete reason why she stood outside the gated entrance to her mother’s house. It could have been the loyalty she had shared with Elizabeth Labrador for eighteen years. It could have been the maternal attraction that held them together in the traditional mother-daughter bond. It might have been empathy for an older woman who had no control over her life, having spent most of it in a marriage that should never have been. There were memories, comforting times when her mother had held Avy tight during thunderstorms, or checked under the bed for the illusive bogeyman. There were days at the circus, Sunday matinees at the IMAX Theater, the times when they both became thrilled with the prospect of designing Avy’s costumes for her stage plays.

  Lizzy had been the consummate stand-in mom when she’d had no choice in the matter. She’d married a monster, a rich monster, and been subjected to his abuse for over twenty years. Her only fault was that she had been attracted to the good life, but having found it, she’d ended up losing all of the love, sentiment, and companionship that accompanied a happy marriage. Avy had watched her adoptive mother wear the happy face for her husband for so long it had become an expression she could turn on like a switch. It took another female to understand how a woman could live out a lie, then bury all of the heartache to mask the pain. Her mother had become an expert at hiding her denial.

  “You’re not going to stand there all day, are you?” Sebastian asked, sitting next to Chubby in the man’s car. “You look like you don’t want to go through with this. What makes you think she’s going to listen? I’ll bet he’s got her bamboozled, too.”

  Avy wished Sebastian would tone down the harshness, but she could understand his resentment. She wanted to tell him “everybody is entitled to a fair trial before they’re convicted,” but instead she said, “I’ll be right back.” Avy keyed herself through the security gate. She stepped up the walkway and rang the doorbell.

  After a long wait, her mother appeared at the door in a bathrobe, her hair tousled. She rubbed her eyes, clearing the sleep from them. “Oh, dear. Avy. What are you doing here?”

  “I thought I would stop by to pick up some of my old things,” Avy stammered, aware that the meeting was well on its awkward way. She forgot that Drake might have left strict instructions to disallow Avy entry into the house. She could see the hesitation in her the other woman’s eyes. Her expression told Avy that she was not prepared for this.

  “Well, I’m not supposed to, but who cares what Drake wants.” Her mother made feeble attempts to primp her hair, then stepped to the side. “Come in, Avy. The place is a mess. The maid is on vacation.”

  Avy suspected that the house cleaner was on permanent leave, having been fired to salvage some of Drake Labrador’s bank account.

  They settled in the kitchen. Her mother loaded the espresso machine, then opened a can of tuna fish. She spoke over her shoulder while she prepared the small lunch.

  “I wondered why you hadn’t come by earlier, Avy. I know it was a bit awkward when you left, but I thought you would at least call or visit. Things haven’t been the same here without you. I never got the chance to tell you that. I’m sorry for the way things turned out.”

  “It was pretty harsh,” admitted Avy. “I had to spend my time getting settled. I found a job and a boyfriend.”

  Her mother swung around, clapping breadcrumbs from her hands. “That’s a surprise! Is he a good boy? Forgive me. Is he a good man?”

  “He’s perfect for me. He’s my little magic man. How are you doing? I mean, are things okay around here?”

  “I’m just the ball and chain,” she said amused. “Things haven’t changed much. I know Drake is having trouble meeting company finances. It wears on him. Of course, I get a fair amount of dissension from al
l of it.” She served the sandwiches and espresso.

  Avy took a few small bites, wondering how she would broach the subject of her suspicions regarding Drake. It would have to be a fine balancing act, something that wouldn’t insult or demoralize. But she had to out the subject.

  “I was wondering if you ever suspected Drake of having a violent past,” Avy began. “I worry about you. Has he ever hit you or threatened you?”

  Her mother stopped the sandwich halfway to her mouth. “Why would you ask such a question, dear? I find it odd you would even think such a thing.”

  “I guess I’m asking how well you know your husband. Do you think he could commit an act of violence against another human being?”

  Her mother pulled back in her seat, looking surprised. “I think the only person Drake has ever assaulted is himself. I’ve never seen him raise a hand to anyone. That includes you, while you were growing up. I wouldn’t have such a thing in my home.”

  The grandparent’s ill-fated flight that never happened came to mind, but Avy had to keep herself in check. “Mom,” said Avy, “did you ever think that Drake was mixed up at all in Tom’s death? Did you ever consider that he had something to do with it?”

  “Avy, what a thing to say. I remember the night of the incident. Unfortunately, I couldn’t attend the dinner party due to the stomach flu. I can tell you that my husband came home tired. He was eager to go to bed. There was nothing suspicious or out of the ordinary in his appearance or emotional state. In the following days, he passed three polygraph exams, which I might add, showed zero points of deception. All I could do was stand by his side during that terrible juncture in his life. No, Drake might be many things, one of which is an unfaithful lout, but he doesn’t have the genes of a killer running through him.”