The Best of Lucius Shepard

by The Best of Lucius Shepard (v5. 5) (epub)

  For an instant the captain’s neutral mask dissolved, as if the old man’s words had disconcerted him, and the old man could see the symptoms of insecurity: parted lips and twitching nerves and flicking tongue. But then the mask re-formed, and the captain said coldly, “I fear your long solitude has deluded you, Herr Steigler. You speak with the confidence of expertise, yet by your own admission you have little knowledge of the world beyond these hills. How can you be expert upon anything other than, say, regional wildlife?”

  The old man was weary of the conversation and merely said that being widely traveled was no prerequisite to wisdom.

  Later that afternoon a second touring car containing five women under guard arrived at the lodge. They were all young and lovely, with dusky complexions and doe eyes, and seeing them, the old man felt a dissolute warmth in his groin, a joyous rage in his heart.

  “Jews,” said the captain by way of explanation, and the old man nodded sagely as if he understood.

  That night the house echoed with the women’s screams, and the old man sat in his room ablaze with arousal, fevered with anger, his knees jittering, hands clenching and unclenching. He was barely able to restrain himself from taking a knife and hunting through the dark corridors of the lodge. Though wantonness had been imposed upon the women, it was in their nature to be wanton, alluring, and oh how he wanted to fall prey to their allure! Perhaps, he thought, he would ask the soldiers to give him one. No, no! He would demand one. As payment in lieu of rent. It was only fair.

  The following morning, after the soldiers had locked the women in the basement and gone about their business, the old man crept down the stairs and peered through the barred window of the basement door. When they saw him, the women pressed themselves against the bars, pleading for his help. They were bruised, their dresses ripped, and they stank of sex. The sight of their breasts and nipples and ripely curved bellies made him faint. He would have liked to batter down the door and flash among them, drawing secret designs of blood across their soiled flesh.

  “I cannot help you,” he said. “They have taken the key.”

  They intensified their pleading, reaching through the bars, and he jumped back from their touch, fearing that it would further inflame him. “Perhaps there is a way,” he said, his voice thick with urgency. “I will think on it.”

  He went back up the stairs and returned with wine, bread, and cheese. As they ate, he asked them about their lives; he felt a childlike curiosity about them, just as he had with the five women in Whitechapel. Three were farm wives, the fourth a butcher’s daughter. The fifth, whom he thought the most beautiful—tall, with high cheekbones and full breasts—was the local schoolteacher. Her eyes were penetrating, and it was those eyes, their look of stern accusation, as if she knew his guilty soul, that made him aware of the magical opportunity with which he had been presented.

  There were five!

  Just as in Whitechapel, there were five, and one would be handy with a knife.

  Here was the perfect resolution, the arc that would complete his mad journey and release him from his demon’s grasp.

  “I have a plan,” he said. “But should it succeed, you must do something for me.”

  There was a chorus of eager assent from four of the women, but the schoolteacher stared at him with distaste and said, “If you wish to sleep with us, why not take your turn with the Germans?”

  “It’s not that, not that at all,” he said, trying to inject a wealth of sincerity into his voice. “I promise you, you will not be harmed.”

  Again a chorus of assent, and again the schoolteacher favored him with a disdainful stare.

  “You must swear you will do as I ask,” he said to her. “No matter how repellent the task.”

  “Tell me what you want,” she said.

  “I will tell you afterward,” he said. “Now swear!”

  “Very well,” she said, following a lengthy pause. “I swear.”

  Excited beyond measure, he hurried up the stairs, went to his desk, and wrote page after page of explicit instructions. Then he busied himself in the kitchen, preparing a feast for the soldiers. There would be veal and chicken, artichokes and asparagus, home-baked bread, and a delicate soup. And wine! Oh, yes. The wine would be the soul of the meal. As he went about these preparations, he whistled and sang, gleeful to the point of hysteria. His limbs trembled with anticipation, his heart pounded. Glasses and cutlery and china seemed to shine with unnatural brilliance as if they were registering and, indeed, sharing in his joy. Once the pots had been set to simmer, he returned to his room, stripped off his clothes, and, with his best pen, traced the mystic designs upon his groin and abdomen. He set half a dozen candelabra about the bed, and—satisfied with these arrangements—he opened his medicine chest and emptied his vials of the drugs with which he would treat the wine.

  The soldiers had told him they would return by dusk, and six of them were true to their word—the captain, they said, had been held up in town. The old man could see that they were eager to be at the women again, but he begged and cajoled, and on beholding the sumptuous table he had laid, they could not reject his hospitality. Loosening their belts, they set to with hearty appetites, washing down every mouthful with liberal drafts of wine.

  Oh, the old man was happy, he was sad, he was beset by storms of emotion, knowing that peace was soon to be his. Just as had happened in the kitchen, it was as if everything were in sympathy with his poignant moods. The room was giddy with light. The glaze on the veal shimmered, the varnished wood rippled like a grainy dark river, the chandelier glittered, and the silver lightning bolts twinkled on the collars of the doomed men as if accumulating the runoff of their vital charge. Three of the men keeled over almost immediately; two others managed to stagger to their feet, groping for their sidearms as they fell. The sixth actually succeeded in drawing his weapon. He fired twice, but the bullets ricocheted off the floor and he toppled facedown at the feet of the old man, who finished him with a knife stroke across the throat, switched off the lights, and went to wait for the captain.

  Waiting grew long, and several times he nearly decided to go ahead with his plan; but at last he heard a motor, followed by footsteps in the foyer. “Uwe!” called the captain. “Horst!” The old man flattened against the wall, saw a shadow moving past, and swung his knife. Some sound must have given his presence away, for the shadow turned and the knife penetrated the captain’s shoulder, not—as he had intended—the back. There was a shriek, and then the scrabbling of the captain trying to drag himself away. The old man eased along the wall, unable to locate the captain, not daring to switch on the lights for fear of posing a target. But darkness had always been his friend, and he was unconcerned. He held still and heard the captain’s whistling breath and felt a joy so rich that it seemed to tinge the darkness with a shade of crimson.

  “Herr Steigler?” said the captain. “Is that you?”

  Ah! The old man spotted a lump of shadow huddled by a chair.

  The captain fired at random—three distinct spearpoints of flame. “Why are you doing this?” Voice atremble with desperation. “Who are you?”

  I am Red Jack, the old man said to himself. I am fear made flesh.

  “Who are you?” the captain repeated, and fired again.

  The old man inched closer; he could make out the shape of the gun in the captain’s hand.

  “For God’s sake!” said the captain.

  Moving a step closer, the old man kicked the gun. Heard it skitter across the floor. He kneeled beside the captain, who had slumped onto his back, and pricked his throat with the knife.

  “Please,” said the captain.

  With his free hand, the old man felt for the pulse in the captain’s neck. It was strong and rapid, and he kept his finger there, liking the heady sense of potency it transmitted. “Evil, Captain,” he said. “Do you remember?”

  “Herr Steigler! Please! What are you doing?”

  “Killing you.”

  “But why
? What have we done to you?” The captain tensed, and the old man pressed harder with the knife.

  “You have a stringy neck, Captain,” he said. “Necks should be soft and smooth. I may have to saw with the edge a little to do the job right.” He prolonged the moment, exulting in the quiver transmitted along the blade by the man’s straining muscles.

  “Please, Herr Steigler!”

  “I am not Herr Steigler,” said Red Jack. “I am mystery.” Then he nicked the carotid artery and jerked his hand away before the first jet could escape the wound. Male blood did not excite him.

  The women rushed forward when he opened the basement door, but on seeing the bloody knife, they shrank back, their faces going slack in a most familiar way. He had waited upstairs for an hour after killing the captain, letting the hungers of his demon subside; but despite that, they looked so vulnerable with their rags and bruises, it took all his self-control to keep from attacking them. “I have freed you,” he said at last. “Now you must free me.”

  He led them to his room, lit the candelabra, and explained what must be done. To the butcher’s daughter he handed his written instructions, detailing the depth of each incision and the precise order in which they should be made. Then he removed his clothing to display the bizarre template he had sketched on his body. The women were horror-struck, and the butcher’s daughter flung down the papers as if they were vile to the touch. “I cannot do this,” she said.

  “You swore,” he said to the schoolteacher.

  She said nothing, fixing him with her black stare.

  “Do you know who I am?” he asked them. “I am the Ripper! Red Jack!”

  The name was lost on them.

  “I have killed women!” He pointed to the papers. “Killed them exactly in the manner I have described. You must give me justice.” They edged away. “You swore!” he said, hearing the petulance in his voice.

  They turned to leave, and he clutched at the schoolteacher’s arm. “You must help me!” he cried. Then he realized he was still holding the knife. He gripped it more tightly. In his mind’s eye he saw her belly sliced open, its red fruit spilling into his hands. But before he could strike, she reached out and took the knife. Took it! Like a mother forbidding her child a dangerous toy. His fingers uncurled from the hilt as if she had worked magic to calm him.

  He fell to his knees, eyes brimming with tears. “Please don’t abandon me,” he said. “Help me, please!”

  The schoolteacher regarded him soberly, then looked to the butcher’s daughter. “Can you manage it?” she said.

  “No.” The butcher’s daughter lowered her eyes.

  “Look at him.” The schoolteacher forced the butcher’s daughter to face the old man. “This is what he most desires. What he needs. We owe him our lives, and if you can find the strength, you must do as he asks…no matter what toll it takes.”

  “I can’t!” cried the butcher’s daughter, turning away; but the schoolteacher grabbed her by the shoulders, shook her, and said, “Do you see his pain? He is an old, mad creature torn by some cancer, one you must excise. If we deny him release, we condemn him to far worse than the knife.”

  The butcher’s daughter stared at him for long seconds, and her face hardened as if she had seen therein some blameful thing that would make the chore endurable. “I will try,” she said.

  Babbling his thanks, he lay down upon the bed and told them to fasten the straps about his wrists and ankles. As they cinched them tight, he felt a trickle of fear, but when they had done, he knew a vast sense of relief. “Stand at the foot of the bed,” he said to the schoolteacher. “And you”—he nodded at one of the farm wives—“stand beside her”—he nodded at the butchers daughter—“and hold the instructions in a good light.” He positioned the two remaining women on the other side of the bed.

  “Do you wish to pray?” asked the schoolteacher.

  “No god would hear me,” he said; then, to the butcher’s daughter, “I will scream, but you must not heed the screams. They will be merely reflex and no signal of a desire for you to stop.” He gazed up at the women ringing the bed. In the flickering light, with their widened eyes and parted lips, their secret flesh gleaming through rents in their dresses, they looked like the souls of his victims beatified by death, yet still sensual and sullied after years of phantom life. Eerie wings of shadow played across their faces. He drew a deep breath and said, “I am ready.”

  He had steeled himself against the pain of the first incision, but even so he was astonished by its enormity. His body arched, his tendons corded, and hearing himself scream, he was further astonished by how shrill and feminine was the voice of his agony. Pain became a medium in which he floated, too large to understand, and he knew only that it contained him, that he had gone forever inside it. Biting her lower lip, the butcher’s daughter wielded the knife with marvelous deftness, and he could tell by the thin, hot trickles down his thighs that she was cutting neither too deeply nor too haphazardly, that he would survive the completion of the design. Once his eyes filmed over with redness and he nearly lost consciousness, but the schoolteacher’s unswerving gaze centered him and pulled him back from oblivion. Reflected in her eyes, he saw the crimson light of his dying, and—growing numb to pain, able again to conjure whole thoughts—he reckoned her stern beauty a gift, a beacon set to guide him through the act.

  Finally the butcher’s daughter straightened and let fall the knife; on beholding the full extent of her work, she covered her face with her stained hands. Two of the farm wives had averted their eyes, and the other stood agape, her hand outstretched as if in a gesture of gentle restraint. Only the schoolteacher was unmoved. She engaged his stare unflinchingly, her voluptuous mouth firmed into cruel lines: the image of judgment.

  “Lift my head!” he gasped as their lovely faces began to waver and recede, like angels passing ahead of him into the accumulating dark. It seemed he could feel an evacuation taking place, a lightening, a lessening of perverse cravings and violent urges, and he wanted to learn what manner of demon, what beast or wraith, was crawling from his guts. He needed sight of it to validate the fullness of his atonement, to assure himself that he would have a niche not in heaven, but in some less terrifying corner of hell, where he might from time to time secure a few moments’ grace from the process of damnation. But his demon—if it existed—must have been invisible or otherwise proof against the eye, for when he looked down into the great cavity of the wound, he felt only the sick despair with which his every attempt to seek salvation had been met, and saw there nothing more demonic than his red, wrong life pulsing quick to the last.

  Beast of the Heartland

  Mears has a dream the night after he fought the Alligator Man. The dream begins with words: “In the beginning was a dark little god with glowing red eyes…” And then, there it stands, hovering in the blackness of Mears’ hotel room, a twisted mandrake root of a god, evil and African, with ember eyes and limbs like twists of leaf tobacco. Even after it vanishes, waking Mears, he can feel those eyes burning inside his head, merged into a single red pain that seems as if it will go on throbbing forever. He wonders if he should tell Leon about the pain—maybe he could give Mears something to ease it—but he figures this might be a bad idea. Leon might cut and run, not wanting to be held responsible should Mears keel over, and there Mears would be: without a trainer, without anyone to coach him for the eye exams, without an accomplice in his blindness. It’s not a priority, he decides.

  To distract himself, he lies back and thinks about the fight. He’d been doing pretty well until the ninth. Staying right on the Cuban’s chest, mauling him in the corners, working the body. The Cuban didn’t like it to the body. He was a honey-colored kid a couple of shades lighter than Mears and he punched like a kid, punches that stung but that didn’t take your heart like the punches of a man. Fast, though. Jesus, he was fast! As the fight passed into the middle rounds, as Mears tired, the Cuban began to slip away, to circle out of the haze of ring light and vanish
into the darkness at the corners of Mears’ eyes, so that Mears saw the punches coming only at the last second, the wet-looking red blobs of the gloves looping in over his guard. Then, in the ninth, a left he never saw drove him into the turnbuckle, a flurry of shots under the ribs popped his mouthpiece halfway out and another left to the temple made him clinch, pinning the Cuban’s gloves against his sides.

  In the clinch, that’s when he caught sight of the Alligator Man. The Cuban pulled back his head, trying to wrench his right glove free, and the blurred oval of his face sharpened, resolved into features: blazing yellow eyes and pebbly skin, and slit nostrils at the end of a long snout. Although used to such visions, hallucinations, whatever this was, Mears reacted in terror. He jolted the Alligator Man with an uppercut, he spun him, landed a clubbing right high on the head, another right, and as if those punches were magic, as if their force and number were removing a curse, breaking a spell, the Alligator Man’s face melted away, becoming a blurred brown oval once again. Mears’ terror also grew blurred, his attack less furious, and the Cuban came back at him, throwing shots from every angle. Mears tried to slide off along the ropes but his legs were gone, so he ducked his head and put his gloves up to block the shots. But they got through, anyway.

  Somebody’s arms went around him, hemming him in against the ropes, and he smelled flowery cologne and heard a smooth baritone saying, “Take it easy, man! It’s over.” Mears wanted to tell the ref he could have stood up through ten, the Cuban couldn’t punch for shit. But he was too weak to say anything and he just rested his head on the ref’s shoulder, strings of drool hanging off his mouthpiece, cooling on his chin. And for the first time in a long while, he heard the crowd screaming for the Cuban, the women’s voices bright and crazy, piercing up from the male roar. Then Leon was there, Leon’s astringent smell of Avitene and Vaseline and Gelfoam, and somebody shoved Mears down onto a stool and Leon pressed the ice-cold bar of the Enswell against the lump over his eye, and the Cuban elbowed his way through the commission officials and nobodies in the corner and said, “Man, you one tough motherfucker. You almos’ kill me with them right hands.” And Mears had the urge to tell him, “You think I’m tough, wait’ll you see what’s coming,” but instead, moved by the sudden, heady love that possesses you after you have pounded on a man for nine rounds and he has not fallen, Mears told him that one day soon he would be champion of the world.