A Tax in Blood

by Benjamin M. Schutz

  “Such as?”

  “Helping to prevent the meaningless deaths of Americans in Central America.”

  “What about the wall? I saw you with him at the wall.”

  “Really? So you had us under surveillance. What prompted you to do that? I thought that our session had gone very well. That I had convinced you of my simple desire to be of service.”

  “I had a dream.”

  “A dream, indeed. How did that lead you to suspect me?” Gutierrez cocked a quizzical eyebrow.

  “At the end of the dream, you were trying to imprison me in my nightmare.”

  “Bravo, Mr. Haggerty. Very few people are willing to listen to their unconscious mind. Unfortunately, you lack the wisdom to heed its message. I will soon imprison you in your own nightmare.”

  “So what were you doing with him at the wall?”

  “The purpose of that visit was to inflame him. To push him in the right direction.”

  “Which is?”

  “The assassination of General Hortencio Villarosa this evening at the official party his government is throwing to celebrate tomorrow’s signing of the treaty with the United States.”

  “You’re sending this kid in there to kill Villarosa? Maybe I’ve missed something. Security is going to be tighter than on a blind date in Sicily.”

  “True but irrelevant.”

  I chewed on that one for a minute. “Let me guess—the head of security is in this with you?”

  “Very good. He will receive a promotion after a decent interval. In recognition of his service to the coalition of generals and, shall we say, businessmen who feel that General Villarosa has been unwise in agreeing to allow the United States greater say in controlling the flow of a certain important crop in and out of his country in exchange for money and weapons to control the rebels.”

  “Christ, the cocaine dealers want him dead?”

  “Of course. His country is a conduit for almost a billion dollars worth of business. They are not about to let him close that pipeline down because he thinks that American guns and money will protect him and ensure his remaining in power.”

  “So the cocaine dealers approached the generals with ‘an offer they couldn’t refuse’?”

  “Exactly. They were agreeable. The cocaine dealers have enough money to assist in providing arms to the government. After all, a revolution would be bad for business. So the generals stay in power and the pipeline stays open. Everyone prospers. By having Villarosa killed by an American, suspicion is diverted away from the generals and there will be a breach in relations between the two countries. Temporary, of course, but enough to set treaty negotiations back to step one. It may be years before another crisis like this one hits the dealers. Your president will be out of office in less than two years. Who knows what your foreign policy will look like then?”

  “If Marty thinks that you’re for keeping the United States out of Central America and saving American lives, how do you think he’d react if he knew that it was you who blew up the wall?”

  “How did you figure that out?”

  “Jesus looks just like the pictures in the newspaper.”

  “Yes, well, he leaves the country tomorrow. The bombing was necessary to convince Martin of the seriousness of the situation. To fully recreate for him that emotional climate he felt when his brother was killed. To believe that American boys would die overseas, to believe that here was a chance to prevent what happened to his brother from happening again, to be a hero in his father’s eyes and his own. Martin had to feel that there was a mandate for his actions, that he spoke for countless people who felt as he did. The bombing was, if you will, a special effect, something to give Martin’s feelings the illusion of a reality outside of himself. We were running out of time and had to remove his remaining inhibitions. The people at the wall had to die, their blood had to be spilt so that Martin would feel desperate enough to act.”

  “So you’re the Standing Committee on World Justice?”

  “In a manner of speaking. It’s what you would call a ‘dummy corporation,’ under which a variety of groups can conduct their business here.”

  “Such as certain Middle Eastern groups?”

  “Yes. They very much like the idea of using Americans to kill Americans. Besides saving on their manpower, it confirms their belief that you are all corrupt and weak. There will be a couple of observers from The Hand of Allah there tonight. They will be watching the outcome of my work with Martin. They may wish to purchase my skills.”

  “And just what are those skills?”

  “Personality reconstruction. All the tools have been around for quite a while: coercive hypnosis, psychosurgery and drugs. All that was required was careful study of their application and a sufficient number of subjects to reach scientifically precise conclusions.”

  “The ‘disappeared ones’?”

  “Yes. Torture for information is relatively simple work, and torture for torture’s sake is a bore, but to be able to break down a personality and then reassemble it in any way you choose is an enormous achievement.”

  “Don’t flatter yourself. You may be able to break down a poet, but you’ll never be able to build one.”

  Gutierrez’s slap rocked my head, my suture line was on fire. “You don’t know anything of what I can do.”

  “I do know that Marty’s not a killer. He’s a dreamer, not a doer. And besides, I’ve always heard it said that hypnosis can’t make you do something you wouldn’t ordinarily do.”

  “That’s true as far as it goes. The trick is to make someone want to do something you want them to do. You say that Martin is not a killer, but if you spent any time at all with him you would know that he is obsessed with fantasies of violence and heroism. All I have done is built a bridge from his fantasies to my reality.

  “I have buttressed his fantasies, not analyzed them. Marty is now certain that he can recapture his father’s love by an act of violent heroism.”

  “Marty didn’t sound like he gave a rat’s ass for his old man’s love.”

  “That’s all on the surface. Deep down he desperately wants his father’s love. He feels he lost it when his brother died in Vietnam. I have simply let Marty know that I believe Villarosa’s death is necessary to avert another war, and that such an act would save countless boys just like his brother. Marty would be able to symbolically save his brother.”

  “Why should Marty care what you think?”

  “Because he trusts me. He thinks I care about him. He doesn’t want to disappoint me as he has his father. I am merely using Marty’s pathetic need for approval for my own ends. He is exquisitely sensitive to the expectations of others. It isn’t even necessary to suggest that he kill Villarosa. He is convinced that such an act will please both me and his father. It is Marty that is the loaded gun, not the revolver he will hold in his hand. The bombing at the wall cocked him, tonight at the party I need only point him in the right direction.”

  I shook my head. “You have an uncanny feel for the weaknesses of others. The kid never had a chance with you.”

  “Of course not. I hand-picked him. Once the cocaine consortium contacted me, they helped set me up here after I had to flee Argentina,” Gutierrez explained. “It took a while to find the appropriate subject. Angry, isolated young men who hunger for the approval of a male authority figure are easy to find, but a Hispanic who had lost someone in Vietnam, that was harder.”

  “And your phonied-up records will present the picture of a lonely, sad, deranged boy losing his grip on reality and exploding in senseless violence. How will you explain his being with you at the party?”

  “That won’t be necessary. The chief of security will kill Martin right after General Villarosa falls. There will be a lengthy investigation afterwards. Those records confirm my relationship with Martin, but portray it in a different light, shall we say.”

  With that, Gutierrez rose and walked to the door. “Just relax, Mr. Haggerty. There’s nothing you can do. Unle
ss you’d like to try to get past Hansi. If you’re lucky, he’ll rip out your throat and save us both some inconvenience. Remember, the room is soundproofed, so we won’t be able to hear your screams or be able to call him off.” Gutierrez grinned, told the dog to “Hold” and backed out of my life.

  Chapter 31

  Well, Hansi, I thought, it’s you and me. I looked around the room for a weapon. What was I going to do, choke him on a medical record? There wasn’t anything useful at all. I took a personal inventory: shoes, socks, shorts, pants, belt, shirt, empty holster, jacket. Nothing. I had no weapon and damn little time. I looked back at Hansi: faster than me, pound for pound stronger than me, bred and trained for one thing—to bring a man down in his tracks and keep him there. With my bare hands, I probably couldn’t hurt him in any fashion. If I fed him my arm, how far would I get with a crushed forearm and a seventy-pound charm bracelet hanging from it? Not even to the door. If only Gutierrez hadn’t taken his collar off. Maybe, just maybe, I could have strangled him with it. I looked down at my belt and then back at Hansi. He was just a rasping pant, flat eyes and all those damned teeth.

  I slowly fed the end of the belt into my left palm and heard the soft click as the tongue popped out. Hansi growled and stiffened. Slowly, inch by inch I fed the belt from my right hand to my left and folded it back on itself into a tight loop. My hands never left my lap. I slipped one end of the belt through the buckle and sat with it in my lap. I had my weapon and even less time.

  I’d have only one shot at this and I’d better make it a good one. If I missed, it was all over. I wouldn’t have the strength to strangle him if he had an arm or leg in his teeth. I had to get him before he got me. What was it Arnie said, Attack the enemy’s strength? There’s a weakness there if you can only see it, and surprise itself is a weapon. I tried to see Hansi that way. An instinct-driven threshing machine. God, what I wouldn’t give for his animal certainty. Everything is go or no go. Full tilt. I’m here stewing in my own juices. Scared shitless to do anything. All I could see was him clamping those jaws on me and tearing a huge chunk out of my throat, ripping it open like a wet grocery bag. Then a torrent of blood, spurting out until it just flowed and finally leaked out of me. What else could I do? Just wait for an icepick over the eye and a life not worth living? Why don’t I just give him what he wants and get it over with? Just give him what he wants. I said that to myself again and a way out appeared in my mind.

  This was my only chance. It had better work. I took a deep breath and let out some length on the looped belt I had in my lap. Now or never. I stood up. Hansi growled, bared his teeth and.… I fell to the floor with my throat bared.

  I lay terribly still, barely able to control the twitches in my legs. Hansi stood still for a second and then slowly came over. I didn’t move a muscle. I watched him out of the corner of my eye. He came closer. Then he was right next to me. I could feel the heat of his breath on my cheek. My hands were high on my chest, holding the noose I had for him. His ears were flattened, and his eyes were fixed on my throat. I knew he’d see my death in a black and white blur. I kept imagining it as an eternity of color. He pulled back his muzzle and I saw the row of interlocking teeth. Ivory blades set in black gums. A low growl came from his throat and the hot stink of his breath coated my face. I lay there with my throat bared while inches away Hansi stood stone still except for the incessant pulse of his heart and the quiver of his nostrils.

  I slowly found myself breathing in the same rhythm as the dog. Very shallow and through my mouth. In and out. In and out. Waiting. Waiting. I had a weapon and an opportunity. If I could just find the will. I couldn’t tear my eyes away from those awful teeth. The constant growl and the smell of death on his breath froze me. I was losing it. Hansi began to sit.

  I jammed the noose over his head. Hansi pulled away, twisting his head to shake it off, but I had him. With both hands I pulled the noose tight. He twisted, whipping his head from side to side, pulling me across the floor on my belly and elbows. I pulled down on the noose, dragging his head to the floor. He twisted his neck from side to side, snapping at me with his teeth. I struggled up to my knees and yanked on the noose, throwing him over on his side. I leaned forward to wrap a loop around my fist. A paw flicked out and I pulled my face out of range. I was pulling the noose as tight as I could, but the dog didn’t seem to be more than inconvenienced. The muscle sheath around his windpipe was enormous. He was still breathing easily, growling and ripping at the noose with his paws and teeth. He was in enough danger to be more concerned for himself than with coming after me. My hands were cramping. I didn’t dare adjust my grip. The slightest release of pressure and he’d be on me in a flash. I staggered to my feet and pulled the dog across the room. I looked everywhere for something to use. My best bet was the high-backed desk chair. I dragged the dog over to it. He hadn’t the brains to charge me and break the tension. He just kept pulling away and kept strangling himself. I hooked my leg around the chair and pushed it away from the desk. Dragging the belt over the top of the high-backed chair, I braced a foot against the seat and leaned back as if I was reeling in a fish. I pulled and the dog dug his claws into the carpet. Every muscle in my arms and back burned. I willed each one to tighten just one more notch. Slowly the dog came up off the floor. Thank god the chair was high enough. I wrapped another loop around my fist and leaned back. His hind legs were pedaling furiously in the air. The claws clicked frantically on the chair back. I held on. My arms were cramping and my hands were dead. I threw my head back and closed my eyes in furious prayer. Die, you son of a bitch. My whole body shook.

  Finally I opened my eyes. The legs were still. The claws silent. The dog swung slowly, stiffly. I unwrapped the belt from around my fists and lowered him to the floor. Trembling from exhaustion, I walked around and pulled the noose free from the dog’s neck. It had been embedded deep enough to leave a permanent mark. The back of the chair was shredded where he had clawed at it, dying all the while.

  I adjusted the loop to a man’s size and walked over to the door. Thank god for soundproofing. I pulled open the door and stuck my head out. No one was in sight. I had to go back through the house to get out. I inched along the wall towards the staircase. Suddenly there was a shattering of glass, then the whump, whump of a silenced handgun. Maybe Samantha hadn’t forgotten me. Glad it hadn’t been an emergency though. I poked my head around the staircase and drew it back when I heard a burst of rapid-fire Spanish followed by feet pounding up the stairs. Then silence. This wasn’t a coordinated ERT offensive. Whatever broke the glass wasn’t tear gas. There were no bullhorn ultimatums. I really wanted to get out of this stairwell, which was no cover at all. I snaked around the stairs. What the hell was going on? Upstairs, there were rushing footsteps. Then silence. I had made it to the top of the staircase. I could see the front door only a few tantalizing strides away. There had been only one set of footsteps. Jesus probably going up to check out the noise. Where the hell were Ernesto and the others? Time to go before Jesus came back down. I took one last look around and Jesus came down the stairs pointing a silenced automatic at me. He motioned to me to come out of the stairwell. I stood up and walked towards him. My hands were held high. He moved gracefully down the stairs, his eyes scanning the foyer and the dining room off to my right. He motioned to me to step out into the center of the foyer. Jesus raised the gun from my chest to the middle of my face. I stared at the round black snout. His eyes were flatter than the dog’s. There was no smile on his face, just a slight tilt of the head. That’s life, he seemed to be saying. I thought about him blowing away James Tucker Calhoun, his mother and all the others, just as casually. I pursed my lips, and scoured the inside of my mouth with my tongue. I was going to put this gob of spit right in his eye even if it was, as I was sure it would be, the last thing I ever did.

  Jesus thumbed back the hammer. I never opened my mouth. A whistling blur swept between us. I stared at Jesus. His eyes blinked rapidly then they began to flutter as he contempl
ated the blood spurting from the wrist where his gun hand had been. Jesus moaned weakly and clasped the stump to his chest. He looked at me, almost apologetically, as if he were saying, Look what I’ve done to myself. Could you help me? I was unmoved. He groaned and stroked his forearm, like it was a wounded animal and not a part of himself. The blood was only trickling out now and Jesus staggered back against the wall, slid to the floor and lay still.

  Arnie stepped out of the shadows. I smiled weakly, unable to speak.

  “Nice to see you too.” His sword was still in his hand. He slowly drew the bloody blade through his palm, wiping it clean. He stared intently at it until he was satisfied by what he saw. He sheathed it again.

  “I though I’d just bought the ranch. Whew.” I exhaled and tried to get a deep breath, a cleansing breath. I felt polluted with fear. When I finally began to breathe easily, I looked up at Arnie and said, “Thanks.” It was lame but words are of little use when we need them most. We shook hands slowly. That was enough.

  “I guess Samantha called you, huh? I though that she’d gone off into spaceland and forgotten about the time. I was going to come back and haunt her. Erase all her disks.”

  “No. I just happened to call her right after you did. I’d found that guy for the Rev and I was right in the area. She gave me the address and I told her I’d call the cops if necessary. By the way, what did I interrupt here?”

  “The persecution and death of Leo Haggerty as performed by the staff of the Snow Kings under the direction of Dr. Rolando Gutierrez, a.k.a. Colonel Bernardo Schmidt.”

  “Sounds very arty to me. How much were tickets?”

  “Too much. In a nutshell, the guy who left me here with this guy—”

  “And his buddy upstairs,” Arnie interrupted.

  “Has hypnotically programmed a boy to kill General Hortencio Villarosa tonight before he signs the treaty allowing us to send advisors to his country. The coke dealers who transport through his country with official approval have nixed the deal, so he has to go. I’m going to try to get down there and stop it. You want in?” I bent down and gingerly removed my Colt from Jesus’s waistband and slipped it back into my shoulder rig.