Shadow of a Broken Man

by George C. Chesbro

  "I don't care if you shoot," he said, and he kept coming.

  The gun exploded and kicked when I pulled the trigger. The bullet made a thwacking sound against his chest and pushed him back a few inches, but that was all. Kaznakov was a man who hedged all his bets; he was wearing a bulletproof vest.

  I aimed for his head, but I'd run out of time. He swatted the gun away with one huge bear paw of a hand and wrapped the fingers of the other hand around my throat. He lifted me off the ground and started to squeeze. I stabbed with my fingers at his eyes, but it was as if someone had pulled the plug on my will and all my strength was draining out. I couldn't even reach his body.

  A red cloak of blood was dropping down over my eyes. I kept trying to suck air, heaving my stomach, but nothing was coming in. Kaznakov was still holding me off the ground, and I expected at any moment to hear the sound of my neck breaking. Finally I got tired of waiting. I expected to see flashes of my life, but I didn't even get that. I finally let go of whatever it was I'd been hanging on to and let myself drop into the deep, warm pool of red in front of my eyes.

  There was too much pain for it to be heaven, and I doubted I'd done anything in my life to warrant a place in the same circle of hell as Kaznakov, and that's who was walking around me at the moment.

  My wrists were tied together behind my back and anchored by a rope that went around my waist. I'd been hauled off the ground by a suspended iron bar lying between my elbows to a point where just my toes were touching the damp concrete of the farmhouse cellar. It was an ingenious truss: if I allowed myself to hang freely, the joints of my elbows caught fire and, with all the pressure placed on my lungs and rib cage, it quickly became almost impossible to breathe. The alternative was to try supporting my weight on my toes, which was only good for about two minutes before pain started shooting up through my ankles and calves to my hips. I would have to release—and then I couldn't breathe. It was a kind of crucifixion; a slow, very painful way to die. It looked as if I were going to be there, as Kaznakov had promised, a long, long time, and the cavalry was nowhere in sight.

  Kaznakov was busy with something behind me that I couldn't see, but that I knew I wasn't going to like. I could hear the sound of metal on metal, and it grated on my nerves. Obviously, Kaznakov hadn't yet exhausted his repertoire. He emerged—limping—from the darkness behind me. He was carrying a telephone from which the casing had been removed. Wires from the telephone snaked back into the darkness.

  "You wanted a telephone," Kaznakov said. "I found one for you and have gone to trouble of hooking it up down here. It's on what I think you call 'party line.' It will ring when anyone else gets call." He came close to me until his smashed nose was only inches from my face; it stared at me like a red third eye. "It will hurt you very much," he whispered.

  I'd been hanging for a minute or so and it was getting hard to breathe again. Hot lightning was flashing through my elbow joints, across my back, through my lungs. I stood on my toes and gulped for air. Within seconds my toes began to cramp.

  "If you want answers from me, you'd better get me down from here," I gasped in a voice that creaked like an old man's. "In a few minutes I'm not going to be able to say anything."

  "I don't want you to say anything," Kaznakov said evenly. "I only want you to hurt. Bad."

  "Do you have proof Rafferty is alive?" The pain in the lower half of my body had become unbearable. I released the pressure from my toes; my lungs and elbows immediately began to burn.

  The Russian's answer was to tear my clothes open. He then attached two thin wires to terminals in the phone apparatus, and he securely taped the other ends to my body. He'd made me part of the circuit, but I was past caring. I didn't believe that any pain could be worse than what I was already experiencing, and every fiber of my being was assigned to the monumental task of drawing air through my mouth and nostrils.

  "Something else for you to think about while you wait to die, dwarf," Kaznakov whispered.

  And then the Russian was gone; the door to the cellar slammed shut and I was left alone with the silence and the pain. I would die there, I thought; not from the pain, but from suffocation or thirst. I went up on my toes and tried to catch a quick breath. I could no longer feel anything below my knees, and my stomach had begun to cramp.

  The telephone rang. Instantly my body was engulfed in pain bouncing back and forth between my belly and brain like a ball of molten fire. The ball became a column that flashed between rings, expanded between each flash and the next, filling me up, hurtling me toward madness.

  The ringing stopped just as the sour taste of bile crept up into my throat. Someone in the neighborhood had answered the phone. I imagined two people talking: about the weather; making plans; exchanging gossip.

  I was crying, precious breath robbed from me as I heaved on the bar, gasping with great sobs, spewing mucus. Now my life started to pass before me—and I was astonished to find that it had been so brief. Now the last of it was melting away under a searing blowtorch of agony. I passed out. But there was no escape from the prison of pain, as I woke up again almost immediately. My face was wet with tears and mucus; I cursed my endurance and will, whatever it was inside me that wouldn't let me die.

  I heard—or imagined I heard—the cellar door creaking open. The phone rang, and once again I was hurled into a dark hole filled with pain and cracking joints. When it was over, my body was consumed by a flame that wouldn't go out.

  But there was someone else in the basement with me; I was sure of it; I felt it. Someone, or something, Death? Suddenly, as if a switch had been thrown, the pain was gone.

  I assumed it was madness, that the sensory paths to my brain had finally, mercifully, burned out. At the same time there was a soft, steady buzzing in my ears; the sound was soothing, like white noise blocking out the terrible pain. The sound suggested that I sleep. It was a good suggestion, and I took it. I let my head slip down onto my chest; I sighed and closed my eyes, allowing myself to drift away into the warm, welcome embrace of death.

  Fooled again. I wasn't dead, but I was still hurting, my body wrapped in a blanket of torment. But the pain was not the same as what I'd experienced before; the difference was that I was lying on the cool concrete of the cellar floor, and I could breathe. I drank in great drafts of the cold night air.

  I rolled over on my back and looked up toward the ceiling. One of the ropes that had held the iron bar had parted, and I'd been unceremoniously dumped onto the floor. The only explanation I could come up with was that my thrashing under the deadly tickle of the electricity had done the trick. The wires were still attached to my body, but they'd been torn away from the phone terminals when I'd hit and rolled. I couldn't tell if there were any bones broken—there was too much pain all over my body. But I was alive. I waited for some kind of elation that wouldn't come; I felt as though I'd already died.

  There was a dial tone when I knocked the phone receiver off its hook with my jaw. The area code on the plastic disk in the center was for Rockland County. I dialed "0" with my nose. My throat felt swollen shut and I wasn't articulating too well. Still, I managed to make the operator understand that I wanted to get through to the New York City police department. I got Garth's precinct, but Garth wasn't in. I talked to another detective, garbled a truncated version of what had happened to me, told him I was somewhere in Rockland County, and asked him to trace the call and send someone out to get me. Then I passed out.

  Later, I became dimly aware of sunlight falling across my face. A big man was standing over me, calling my name. It was Garth. I wept. Garth cut away the ropes from my wrists and ankles, then picked me up in his arms and carried me out.

  15

  It was night again, and somewhere a phone was ringing. I tensed, waiting for the terrible pain that didn't come. Finally I hurled myself through the darkness toward the sound of the ringing, hit the phone, and knocked it off the stand. I landed on the floor of the room as the lights came on. Blubbering, I blindly scrambled on m
y hands and knees to the telephone wall socket and ripped the cord out of the wall.

  Strong arms lifted me off the floor and forced me back into bed, then held me down until I was calm enough to look at my surroundings. I was in a hospital, and Garth was standing over me. His hair was rumpled and greasy, and there were dark, purplish rings under his eyes.

  Garth grinned crookedly and poked me gently on the arm. "I've heard of people getting pissed off at the phone company, but this is ridiculous."

  Nothing came out when I opened my mouth to speak. I felt trapped inside myself, surrounded by mushy walls of soft, fleshlike rubber that would absorb any sound I tried to make. A lump welled in my throat. I could barely move my elbows now, and I had a terrible thirst. I suddenly broke into tears, sobbing like a child. Garth stood quietly next to me, his arm around my shoulder, waiting for the spell to pass. It ended with a short fit of hiccuping. I took the tissue Garth handed me and blew my nose.

  "Sorry," I mumbled.

  Garth shook his head. "My fault. I told them to put the phone in here. I just wasn't thinking."

  "What day is it?"

  Garth looked at his watch. "We're a couple of hours into Friday. You've been out awhile."

  "I'll bet it's raining in Acapulco."

  Garth swallowed. "They hurt you bad, didn't they, Mongo?"

  I wanted to cry again; the lump in my throat, the tears in my eyes, and a terrible self-pity all kept creeping up on me. I choked them back; I wondered if there would ever again be a time when I could be sure of speaking a sentence without a sob. "I've never been hurt like that, Garth. Never. I didn't think there could be pain like that."

  "Who did it to you, Mongo?" Garth said in a savage whisper.

  "I don't know," I said without knowing why.

  Garth's eyes narrowed to slits. "Don't bullshit me, Mongo. The doctor says you've been shot, hung up by your elbows, cut, and subjected to electric shock. Somebody did that to you, and you're telling me you don't know who it was?"

  "He was wearing a hood."

  "I don't believe you. Who's Kaznakov? You kept screaming his name."

  Tears came again without warning. I covered my face with my hands and sobbed uncontrollably.

  "Kaznakov," Garth persisted. "That's the man's name, right? He killed the other two, then went to work on you. You must have had a special place in his heart."

  The fit of sobbing passed as quickly as it had come. The speed with which my emotions were darting out from behind corners frightened me. "I don't know where I got the name," I said. "I must have been babbling nonsense."

  "Your brains are scrambled, Mongo, and I can understand why. But I want to find out who did this to you."

  Haltingly, I told Garth what had happened, leaving out Kaznakov's name. I didn't want my brother involved with the Russian. There wasn't anything that could be done legally; Garth just wanted to look Kaznakov up personally, and if he did that he'd be dead. Kaznakov was absolutely invulnerable as long as he was attached to the Soviet U.N. Mission. Also, I wanted to keep my own options open concerning Kaznakov.

  Garth shook his head. "Christ, brother, you really put your ass in a sling this time."

  He had a point. Something was happening to me that I didn't understand. I was getting flashes again: memories of hanging on the pole, of having my muscles and bones pulled out of shape, not being able to breathe, the telephone ringing, electricity coursing through my body. I began to shake. Garth reached for me, but I pushed him away. In a few minutes the tremors passed. Maybe I was dead after all, the person I had been destroyed.

  "I'm afraid, Garth," I said simply.

  "You may be able to walk around in a few days, Mongo, but it's going to take a lot longer than that for your mind to heal. You have to expect that and accept it. You're only going to hurt yourself if you try to push things."

  "What I need is work. You fall off a horse, you have to get right back on again."

  "You didn't fall off any goddamn horse! You got taken apart. You don't need work, you need rest. Take it. You feel you owe somebody for this; forget it. No vendettas."

  "It's more than that. They've got the Fosters in the Russian consulate."

  "How's that?"

  My memory seemed to be on the bum too; I couldn't remember whether or not I'd told Garth about the Fosters. I solved the problem by going through the whole case, from its inception.

  If Garth had heard the story before, he didn't let on. "What do the Russians want with the Fosters?" he asked.

  I told him, and asked if the police could do anything about getting them out.

  Garth slowly shook his head. "There's no way, Mongo. I'll see that the State Department is notified, but from what you tell me, they probably already know. The problem is that the consulate is sovereign territory. We have no jurisdiction there, so there's no way we can get in. I'll call some people, though. Maybe we can shake things up."

  "Don't," I said.

  "Why not?"

  "I'm not sure. It just seems that the more people who are in on this, the more people die."

  Garth cocked his head to one side and stared at me. "What's the story on Rafferty? Have you found out why he's so valuable?"

  "Not yet. But I have a feeling that history is repeating itself."

  "Meaning what?"

  "I'm convinced almost the same thing happened five years ago. The word on Rafferty—whatever that word is—got out, and people started dying. Lippitt warned me that could happen."

  "You say the Englishmen didn't know why Rafferty was important. Do you think Lippitt knows?"

  "He knows a lot more than he's telling me. But it still doesn't hold together. If Lippitt knew everything, then it's only logical to assume that he'd be a target. I think everybody was happy with the thought that Rafferty was dead; it's the possibility of his being alive that they can't tolerate. It's crazy. I've been a kind of Judas goat. Everybody thought that Rafferty was dead, and then I went around raising suspicions. Ever since I started making inquiries about Rafferty, I've been followed to see what I know and what I'm up to. I must have convinced a few people that Rafferty's alive; now they've gone independent. I have to get some answers fast."

  "Meaning you have to find out what Rafferty knows?"

  "It may not be anything he knows." Like Garth, I found myself slipping easily into the present tense when speaking of Rafferty. "It may be something that he does"

  "Like what?"

  "Maybe he does tricks with his head; maybe he reads other people's minds."

  Garth looked at me a long time, probably to see if I was joking. When he was sure I wasn't, he said, "What the hell are you talking about?"

  "Arthur Morton became very interested in parapsychology around the same time he was working on Rafferty. I think there may be a connection."

  "Hell, I can round up at least a hundred 'psychics' within ten blocks of here," Garth said sarcastically. "This is the Age of Aquarius, remember? Last week I could have paid twenty-five bucks to watch some guy bend forks without touching them; the trouble is that I've got a magician friend who can do the same thing—faster. If the Russians or anybody else wanted a 'mind reader,' all they'd have to do is wait outside some television studio. It's a lot of crap, Mongo."

  "Well, maybe Rafferty is the real McCoy. The Defense Department takes telepathy seriously."

  "I never thought I'd see the day when you'd cite the Pentagon as a paragon of enlightenment."

  There was no point in arguing. "Will you do me a favor?"

  "Doubtful," Garth said. "Not unless it involves making arrangements for you to take that vacation in Mexico."

  I shook my head. It hurt. What I hadn't told Garth was the most important thing: I had to find out if I could finish it, if I could still function as a human being who also happened to be a dwarf. "I want you to call the U.N. and leave a message for Ronald Tal. Tell him where I am and that I'd like to talk to him." I gave Garth the number Tal had given me. I hesitated, then added, "Please, Garth; do i
t for me."

  Garth stared at me, his eyes moist. "Look at you, Mongo," he whispered in a voice that cracked. "Why do you need any more of this shit?"

  "I have to keep going, brother. Just take my word for it."

  Finally he nodded. Reluctantly. He squeezed my arm tightly, then turned and walked from the room.

  The sedatives the doctors gave me didn't help. I thrashed all night, soaking my sheets with sweat, suspended in a dirty twilight between waking and sleeping. Kaznakov chased me through my nightmares, always catching me, breaking my body and my mind. I asked for a shot, and whatever they gave me seemed to work. The quality of my dreams abruptly shifted; in the moments just before waking, I had the sensation that I was a child again and my mother was close, holding back the evil. My dreams turned warm and languid, and I rested.

  When I woke up I found Tal standing beside my bed.

  "Good morning, Mongo," he said quietly. "I came as soon as your brother called me. I won't ask how you're feeling. I can only say that I'm sorry."

  "Thanks, Tal."

  "I received permission to visit you early, but your brother made it clear to me that I shouldn't stay long. May I ask what happened?"

  "It's not important. I ran into a very nasty person by the name of Kaznakov. You know him?"

  The muscles in Tal's jaw tightened. "I know of him. Sergei Kaznakov is a Soviet agent attached to their mission here. The rumor is that he's a specialist—what some in the community call a 'freak.' Frankly, I'm surprised you survived the encounter."

  "He has a taste for torture. I suppose that was a lucky- break for me."

  Tal smiled. "If you can look at it that way, you must be feeling better already."

  Although I hadn't realized it until Tal said so, I was feeling better; I was no longer shaking or sweating.

  An attractive nurse entered with a breakfast tray. Tal unbuttoned the jacket of his double-breasted gray suit and helped maneuver the swing-armed table next to my bed. The nurse set the tray down in front of me, waited while I took the appetizer of two pink pills in a cup, then left with a backward, inviting glance at Tal.