The Arms of Kali td-59

by Warren Murphy

  He owned Irma a good-bye.

  As he got out of the car, he saw two neighbors sitting in their front yard and he realized that he had been living in the same house with Irma for twenty years and he did not know the names of any of his neighbors.

  Irma, of course, knew everyone's name. She was like that. She was in, and of, the neighborhood. Her flower garden had won first prize in the neighborhood gardening contest for fourteen years in a row, until she had decided that delphiniums weren't worth the effort.

  But each June, until then, a bright blue ribbon had hung proudly from the Smiths' door. Most years, it was the only acknowledgment Irma made that she had won, and Smith realized that he had never told her that the garden looked nice.

  As he walked up the drive, he could see Irma, through the bay window, tearing off her apron and patting her hair in place in preparation for his arrival. It made him smile one of his infrequent smiles. His plump wife, her hair now a bluish ghastly silver, always treated him like a beau coming to call on their first date. If she was awake. Most nights, he would come home too late and she would already be asleep. But a plate of food, always awful, always covered with some kind of tomato-soup goo, would be waiting for him. But there were never any accusations, never any reciminations for keeping the hours he did. As far as Irma was concerned, anything was an improvement over the old days when Smith worked in the wartime OSS and then the CIA and was gone without a word for months at a time. During the whole of World War II, she had seen Smith twice. During the five tensest years of the Cold War, she had seen him only once, and had received two telegrams from him, each exactly ten words in length.

  "You're just in time for supper," she said, pretending as she always did, not to be excited about seeing him.

  "I'm not hungry. Please sit down."

  "Oh, dear." She sat, her forehead wrinkled. "Is it very bad?" She picked up her knitting.

  "No. Nothing of the sort." There was a long, awkward silence.

  "Will you take off your jacket, dear?" Irma asked.

  "No. I have to be going."

  "Busy at the office, I expect."

  "No. Everything's fine. I have to go out of town. Maybe for some time."

  Mrs. Smith nodded and managed a smile. She had always smiled. Even when Smith had left for Europe at the start of the war, after they had been married only three weeks, she hadn't cried. She had only smiled. Smith looked at her and wondered: How do you tell a woman like that that you may have to commit suicide very soon?

  She clasped his hands. "Go do what you have to do, dear," she said gently.

  He stared at her for a moment. It had never occurred to him that Irma might know that he did secret work, that he had more of a job than just head of Folcroft Sanitarium. But maybe she did. No. She couldn't know. He had never discussed his work with her. Really, he thought with some shame, he had never discussed much of anything with her. And yet she had always made things easy for him. Even now, she was making it easy for him to leave, as if she sensed that it was somehow very important.

  "Right." He cleared his throat, nodded, and left the table. Halfway out the door, he turned around. "Irma, I have to tell you something."

  "Yes, dear?"

  "I ... er, you ... that is, I . . ." He exhaled noisily. "The garden is lovely."

  She smiled. "Thank you, dear."

  A. H. Baynes's home was in a suburb of Denver where there were more trees, more schools, more parks, and more money than anywhere else in the area. All the houses were on large tracts of manicured lawn, with garages the size of most single-family dwellings in the city.

  There was no answer at the home of Baynes or at the home of the late Mr. and Mrs. Herbert Palmer. The neighbors on the other side of Baynes's house were named Cunningham, and when Smith rang the bell, a stylish middle-aged woman in expensive tweeds answered.

  "Mrs. Cunningham?"

  She shook her head. "I'm the housekeeper. May I help you?"

  "I'd rather speak with Mrs. Cunningham, if you don't mind." He took a Treasury Department ID card from his wallet. "It's rather urgent," he said.

  "Mrs. Cunningham's in her studio. I'll announce you."

  She led him through a house furnished with all the latest trends, from mauve furniture in the living room to a green-and-white kitchen adorned with butcherblock floor tiles, to a sparkling chrome gym in the rear of the house. Puffing on an exercise bicycle was a short woman, agonizingly underweight, wearing a trendy V-neck leotard and trendier, high-cut green sneakers.

  "Mr. Harold Smith from the Treasury Department, ma'am," the housekeeper announced.

  "Oh, all right. Bring in my breakfast, Hilary." She turned her attention to Smith, obviously appraising his unstylish suit. "You'll have to forgive me, but I won't be able to talk with you until I've eaten."

  Hilary brought in an old Worcester china plate that held a single slab of raw tuna fish. Mrs. Cunningham picked it up with her fingers and popped it in her mouth. Smith closed his eyes and thought of the flag.

  "There," she said with satisfaction. "Oh, I'm sorry. Would you care for some sushi?"

  "No, thank you," said Smith, swallowing hard.

  "Very low in calories."

  "I'm sure," he said.

  "Hilary won't work for anyone who eats meat."

  "The housekeeper?"

  "Isn't she a dream?" Mrs. Cunningham rhapsodized. "So Waspy. Nothing ethnic about her at all. Of course, she doesn't do much work. It would ruin her clothes."

  "Mrs. Cunningham, I'm looking for A. H. Baynes," Smith said.

  She rolled her eyes. "Please don't mention that name around here."

  "Why not?"

  "As acting chairperson of the Neighborhood Betterment Committee, I have forbidden it."

  "You mean, because Mrs. Baynes is deceased?" Smith asked.

  "Gawd, no. Dying was the first decent thing Evelyn's done in months. Too bad she had to take the Palmers with her. They were a good element."

  "What about Mrs. Baynes?" Smith persisted.

  "Dead in Paris."

  "Before Paris," Smith said.

  "Well, there was that awful business that ruined them in the neighborhood," she said.

  "What was that? It's for the good of the country."

  "In that case . . ." she said. She leaned forward. "They went to live in some religious commune." She stood back, eyes gleaming, hands on hips. "Can you believe it? I mean, it's not like throwing a party for revolutionaries. That's a statement. What sort of statement can religion make? They're not even doing that in Southern California."

  "Was this commune in the neighborhood?" Smith asked.

  "I should hope not. Episcopalians don't have communes. My church doesn't even have services. But that's what it was all about. The Bayneses were talking about communes in the neighborhood. Well, the last thing we wanted was some hairy old thing from China or someplace having religious sex orgies on our lawn. So we told the Bayneses we didn't approve."

  "Have you seen Mr. Baynes recently?"

  "Not a glimpse. Not even at the funeral. But then, he was always a strange one. He didn't even like racquetball."

  "Do you know where this commune is that they joined?"

  "No, I don't," she said. "And if you find out, don't bother to tell me. I want to think only beautiful thoughts."

  Smith was sitting in his chair, pondering his next move, when a buzzing sound came from inside the attache case on the front seat. He opened the case and lifted the miniature telephone built into it.

  "Yes," he said.

  "It's ... Remo."

  "Where are you?" said Smith. Remo sounded strange, hurt.

  "New Orleans . . . don't know the street . . . a motel. . . ."

  "Remo." The voice was a command. "Stay on the line."

  "It wants me. I can't stay," Remo said.

  "Pull yourself together."

  "Too late.... I have to go ... have to-"

  There was a sound as Remo dropped the telephone. Smith heard the receive
r banging against the wall as it hung on its cord.

  He called Remo's name several times, then punched a message into a secondary unit in the attache case, directing the Folcroft computers to trace the call on his telephone.

  Remo started for the door of the room. He tried to stop, and at the last minute darted into the bathroom and slammed the door shut.

  But he could still smell the scent. It wanted him. He tried to block out the smell. He took the yellow towel from the sink and tried to jam it under the door, but the smell persisted, filling his nostrils and his mind. He held the towel over his face, but it didn't stop the smell.

  When he could resist no more, he stood and jammed the yellow towel into his pocket, pulled open the door, and walked toward the door to the hall.

  A terrible sadness whistled through him like wind in a storm as he opened the grimy door to the room. From his pocket he pulled the piece of yellow chalk that he had used to mark his way from Denver. He would not need it anymore.

  It was near, and his next stop would be with It.

  He tossed the chalk to the floor. On the other side of the room, the telephone swung rhythmically from its cord.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Across the alleyway, Ban Sar Din could hear the ashram filling up. He rose from his brocade-covered water bed and stretched.

  This was the day.

  It was the first gathering of the Thuggees since A. H. Baynes had sent them all off to Paris aboard Air Europa, and he, Ban Sar Din, was now ready to speak to them.

  He would tell them that their ways were in error. He would tell them that it was wrong to permit outsiders in the ashram. He would tell them that the true nourishment of the soul depended upon a true spiritual leader and that their leader should be treated with courtesy and respect. He would tell them that belief in Kali was the key to eternal happiness.

  Ban Sar Din would tell them all that. He would speak and the faithful would listen, and then he would again take his rightful place as the head of the cult of Kali.

  He walked across the alley, past his Porsche, through the heavy steel-reinforced door, and strode deliberately into the ashram. The roar of the devotees resounded in his ears.

  He paused and saw at the foot of the statue four large woven baskets. Around the baskets were scores of yellow rumals, each of them twisted and soiled with use.

  "Kill," the devotees shouted when they saw him, "Kill for the love of Kali."

  Ban Sar Din stepped onto the dais in front of the statue and held his arms up high. "Listen, listen!" he shouted. But the crowd was still in a frenzy.

  "I want to tell you, as your Holy One, that it is wrong what you do." His voice cracked from the strain and he looked around the room, waiting for an incense pot to come flying toward his skull. When he was not assaulted, he went on: "Kali does not wish you to kill so much. Kali does not want numbers of deaths; Kali wants the right deaths. Especially since the deaths make the front pages of the newspapers full every day. Soon the wrath of the authorities will be upon us."

  The crowd was still chanting. Some of the members stepped forward, and Ban Sar Din flinched, but they merely went to the large baskets in front of the statue and removed the covers.

  "I am your Holy One," Ban Sar Din shouted, "and you must listen to me."

  The crowd quieted.

  Ban Sar Din's eye caught a glimmer of blue-white coming from the baskets. They were filled with jewels. The jewels were lying on beds of green American cash.

  "Yes, Holy One," Holly Rodan said. "We listen to your wisdom."

  "Well, uh ... " Ban Sar Din picked up a diamond pendant. Five carats total weight, he estimated.

  "Speak, O Holy One." The room reverberated with the chant.

  There were about a half-dozen good sapphires.

  "I ... um . . ." Rubies, he thought, digging into the baskets. The price of rubies was skyrocketing. A two-carat ruby was often worth more, than a two-carat diamond.

  "I...um.."

  "I think I can speak for the Holy One," said A. H. Baynes, stepping forward from behind the partition that separated the public part of the ashram from his office. His thumbs were hooked into his suspenders and he was grinning broadly, his teeth showing. It was his sincere grin.

  "What old Sardine means is, golly, you're a swell hunch of kids."

  The throng cheered.

  "And don't think the little lady with the arms doesn't appreciate it."

  "Hail, Chief Phansigar."

  "Kill for Kali."

  "Why, just the other day, I was telling Old Sardine here-" A. H. Baynes began, but he was interrupted. Holly Rodan screamed. Every face turned toward her.

  "He's here. He has come."

  Ban Sar Din pocketed a half-dozen of the biggest jewels in case someone bad had come. "Who?" he shouted. "Where?"

  "There," Holly shouted. "He has come. Kali's lover. He has come."

  "Oh, him," said Ban Sar Din, but he looked to the back of the ashram, even as he filled his other pocket with more jewels and cash.

  In the doorway stood a tall thin young man wearing a black T-shirt. His wrists were large. His face was haggard and his eyes held a look of helpless despair. If someone had asked him who he was, he would have answered that his name used to be Remo Williams.

  "Hail, Lover of Kali," the Thuggees chanted, falling to their knees before him.

  Woodenly Remo walked forward.

  "He is carrying the rumal," people shouted, for Remo was nervously twisting the thin yellow hand towel he had taken from the motel bathroom.

  In the crowd, leaning against a pillar, was A. H. Baynes. It was a face that Remo remembered, but it meant nothing to him now. He passed on.

  The pull on him was irresistible. It felt as if the statue had him by a rope and was pulling him toward her. He saw the statue on the raised platform. It was hideous, a different creature from a different world, but still he walked toward it. The stone face was impassive, but behind it, suddenly another face seemed to stir to life. It was a beautiful face, full of sorrow. Remo blinked, but the face lingered for a moment, then disappeared, again replaced by the pitted graven image of the statue.

  "Who is he?" someone whispered.

  Remo heard the answer. "He is Kali's lover. The one for whom She has waited."

  A lover? He was not even a man, Remo thought. He was a puppet and his time was short. With each step, he felt something inside him weaken. By the time he reached the dais and stood face to face with the statue of Kali, he could barely move. The yellow towel slipped from his fingers and dropped onto the floor.

  The scent pierced him, ancient and malevolent. It coursed through him like an evil, burning serpent, twisting its way through his bloodstream.

  It is too late, he thought. Too late.

  And even as the thought formed, he saw the lips of Kali curl into a smile.

  Chapter Nineteen

  "Bring me death."

  The words echoed inside his head, and Remo jolted awake. He was in a small room on a narrow cot. Two large cubes of incense burned in a porcelain plate at the foot of his bed.

  His skin was prickly white gooseflesh. He looked around, and his first reaction was one of relief that the ghoulish vision of the many-armed statue smiling slyly at him had been only a nightmare. But the faint smell of the goddess still hung in his nostrils, and he knew that the real nightmare was only beginning.

  "Baynes," he said shortly. A. H. Baynes had been the face he recognized in the crowd. And Baynes, for better or for worse, was real. He had to concentrate on Baynes.

  The smell was stronger now, and again he heard the words inside his mind: "Bring me death."

  Quickly, noiselessly, still feeling a jittery fear at the base of his spine, Remo slid out of bed and moved toward the door to the room. It opened silently and he looked out at the ashram, where the mindless, chanting cultists slept on the hard wooden floor. He moved like a cat among them, but Baynes was not there. He turned and saw the statue of Kali. Its eight arms seemed t
o be waving to him, and the sight sickened him and filled him with fear. He ran toward the door in the back of the room.

  He was in an alley. A large black Porsche was parked there, and beyond it, Remo heard humming coming from a garage. He went toward it.

  Ban Sar Din ceased his tuneless rendition of "When the Saints Go Marching In" when he saw the haggard stranger in the doorway. He rose from his water bed where he had been busying himself, jotting down the telephone numbers of dating services that promised, in magazine advertisements, that Beautiful Scandinavian Blondes Want to Meet You.

  "Shoo," he said to Remo. "Shoo, shoo, shoo. You are not allowed in the Holy One's quarters."

  "I'm looking for Baynes," Remo said thickly. The smell was less strong here. He felt as if his head were starting to clear.

  "Now I recognize you," Ban Sar Din said. "You are the lover."

  "Lover?" Remo repeated.

  "The one Kali has chosen to be Her husband."

  "Scratch that," Remo said. "I'm a confirmed bachelor. I want to know what Baynes has to do with this place."

  Ban Sar Din snorted. "Why don't you ask him?"

  "I couldn't find him," Remo said. "And I wasn't feeling too good in there."

  "Maybe you're not eating well enough," Ban Sar Din said. "You're too thin. I know this great French restaurant - "

  "It's not the food. It's the statue," Remo said.

  "It is only a harmless stone figure," Ban Sar Din said.

  Remo shook his head.

  Ban Sar Din pinched his nose. "All right. Maybe there is something unusual about it. I don't like it, but they do." He jerked his head toward the ashram.

  "What is it, anyway?" Remo said. "What does it do?"

  "It grows arms."

  "Come on," Remo said in disgust.

  "It's true. I don't know how. I just know some mornings I go in there and it's got more arms than it did when I went to sleep. It makes them crazy in the ashram."

  "Crazy enough to kill people?" Remo asked.

  Ban Sar Din swallowed as a long shadow hovered over Remo. "Whoa, there, pard," A. H. Baynes said, grinning his most sincere toothy smile. "Did I hear my name?" He reached out his hand to shake Remo's. "Let's press the flesh."

  Remo kept his hand stubbornly at his side. "Keep your flesh to yourself," he said. He looked Baynes over. The airline president was wearing a checkered cowboy shirt and white pants tucked into intricately worked white cowboy boots. Around his bare throat hung a knit black string tie.