by Brian Deer
Nights when the wind says peace.
Nope… He coughed… C–G, C–G.
Nights when the wind says peace.
More like it.
And days when the water’s still.
Then I’ll come find you out, put a knife to my doubt.
It was only my heart you killed.
He sang it one night at Loyola’s Water Tower campus. He remembered a foxy lady, up front. She was dark, North African-looking, with magnetic, hidden eyes. He’d thought of her plenty since then. In the space of that song—not four-and-a-half minutes—they’d met, fallen in love, and split.
He could tell she got the message. Her hand brushed her cheek.
A-minor, F, E-minor, G.
AT TWENTY past one, he grabbed his keys, wallet, and gum, and stepped out onto the concrete walkway. He shut the door, locked the deadbolt, checked his BMW by the pool, and left the Ericson complex on foot.
He crossed Monroe Drive and skirted Ansley Mall: a 1960s one-story graveltop. The night was steaming: one hundred percent humidity. Forecasts said a cold front was coming.
The fact was, she used him. She just wanted fucking: her adios to a free woman’s sex life. So, he’d leave it at that. And who gave a shit? He was fitter and more fun than Murayama.
But, for all her sneaky moves, he wouldn’t forget Sumiko. When he lifted her and fucked her against the wall in her corridor, she was a Coney Island fairground ride.
Now he stepped into the blackness of Piedmont Park, where he ran its asphalt paths most evenings. As his eyes became accustomed, he made out aucuba bushes, native azaleas, and clumps of Burford holly.
At a blackjack oak, he worked on his hamstrings, leaning forward to feel the stretch in his calves. He tugged his left foot till his heel touched his butt, did the same with his right, and took off.
Back home in Chicago, he used to run with Luke. From North Cleveland Avenue, they’d cut through the Old Town, past the Cozy Cleaners, and slip across the drive to Lincoln Park. Then they’d race beside the lake till they ran out of breath. Luke, always competing, took the lead.
Tonight, Ben made for a dog-legged pond, leaned on a rail and listened to hidden crickets as mallards quacked and splashed in the darkness. The low hum of traffic tumbled down from Piedmont Avenue. The sky looked ready to dump.
Above a fringe of red maples, white oaks, and sycamores, the signature structures of Midtown loomed as white, yellow, and gold as the Mummy’s Tomb. The church-roofed One Atlantic Center… The hint-of-deco GLG Grand… The ice-palace Promenade… And more.
They stood doubled, inverted in the pond’s black reflection: a floodlit family of trolls.
Fifty-three
DALBERT SKEET looked both ways and saw no traffic approaching. At the corner of Monroe Drive and Ponce de Leon Avenue, he noted a couple of hustler brothers wiggling their asses like they were ready to drop a shit on the sidewalk. Small chance of them scoping him. Much less of them remembering him. None at all of them snitching to the cops.
He crossed Monroe and padded down a driveway that cut through to the back of Vedado Way. His instructions directed him to a “tastefully old” property, all but hidden by a screen of water oaks.
A light snapped on from a little white-painted church. Infra-red. No trouble. Who’d care? At nearly two in the morning, folks would figure he was pissing or—more likely in Midtown—sucking cock. He approached a back porch—another light—switched direction, and followed a path to a glazed door on a side-deck.
He twisted the handle. It was locked.
Round to the front: loose decking nearly tripped him as he descended to a patch of rough stones. He climbed to the main porch, which creaked under his weight, and tried the front door. It was locked.
The Athens night gateman retreated to the stones, pulled a six-inch Maglite from a pocket in his pants, and flashed it along the side of the house. Halfway back, he saw shadows of saw marks in the clapboard, top-to-bottom through the three lowest boards.
Skeet tightened Velcro straps on a pair of black gloves, crouched, and tugged the wood.
Cruu-unch.
Shit, this was nasty. The earth jumped with critters. The crap he put up with for that company. But better suffer bugs than break any glass: the first thing crime scene guys look for.
He laid the boards aside, bellied down in the dirt, clamped shut his jaws, and rolled inside.
THE CRAWLSPACE dropped six feet to a cellar. Skeet nearly dropped all six. Inches before tumbling, he stuck the flashlight between his teeth, and grabbed hold of a beam. Fucking lucky. Below him, he saw a bed frame, a mattress against a wall, and a table that might take his weight. He lowered himself silently and sank to a squat, balancing on outstretched fingers.
He brushed dirt from his shirt and a spider from his collar. The air stank of mildew and dust. Pipes and cables hung from a row of heavy joists, and an aircon duct ran left–right. The Maglite picked out rusty car wheels, a pile of rolled carpets, yard chairs, a griddle, jars of nails and screws, and a pushbike with no handlebars.
Skeet sprang to the floor—scattering clouds of gray powder—and moved to a twelve-step staircase. At the top, a paneled door pushed open on a hallway with a polished board floor. No creak. With flicks of the Maglite, he saw a bathroom one way, a kitchen the other, and, ahead, two rooms. All dark.
He crept to the kitchen—with a tiled floor and center island—then through an open door to a dining room. From there, sliding doors led left to a living room. Everywhere the furniture was old.
Left again to the hallway and a study full of books.
The Shaggy Man of Oz
The Lost Princess of Oz
The Magical Mimics of Oz
The flashlight beam settled on an old wooden table, with a stack of framed certificates leaned against it. University of Pennsylvania… Tufts University… The School of Oriental and African Studies…
He returned to the hallway, gripped a wooden banister, tested a stair tread, and began to climb. He counted eleven steps to a second-floor landing, where he slipped away the flashlight, and counted six more steps in darkness. Then—right—another landing and a four-paneled door with a metal handle: oval, maybe brass.
That meant an old lever and noise, he thought. He wrapped the handle in his palm and tugged. His wrist twisted right, then he eased the door forward. A crack opened with the faintest squeak.
Enough light from the street poked in through the oaks to figure the layout of the room. It was carved into the roof space, squared-off below the gable, with French doors and two sash windows. The walls were pale. Gray or blue? Nightstands flanked a queen-size bed.
With his face squeezed tight between the door and frame, he saw a dressing table, closet, and chifferobe. Two heavy lanterns hung from chains. Between them spun the blades of a fan.
Windows: shut. Aircon: running. This room was the coolest in the house.
He pushed the door wider and made out a body, sleeping. This looked safe enough. But not certain. He’d made that mistake pulling night jobs in the past. Nothing worse than a freak-out when you’re working. He paused and listened… and listened… and listened… to the rasp of an old woman’s breath.
He stretched his right foot and tested the floor. Smooth. No carpet. No creak. He shifted his weight. Another step. No creak. The floor was okay.
All good.
Gently, he turned and retreated to the landing. More gently, he pulled the door shut. He twisted the handle, eased the door into the frame, and released it.
The faintest click.
Fifty-four
AT THE corner of Sixth and Juniper in Midtown, the scene outside Bluestreak—Atlanta’s newest nightclub—was like the hour before a game at State Stadium. Chattering posses in shorts and T-shirts climbed from cars. Dinner-suited bouncers barked crowd-control orders. Three admission lines snaked into the lobby.
At two in the ayem, Ben’s legs felt the damage of a seven
-block walk from the pond. He hadn’t leaned long on the rail by the water: too soon it seemed the towers got to fighting. But it wouldn’t take much in the club to change the subject. With luck, he might even get laid.
“All alone?” asked a blond lady when he joined the shortest line.
“Looking for love.”
“Good luck.”
“Probably need it.”
Inside, he grabbed a Heineken and a shot of Early Times, downed both, and searched for his dealer. He found him loitering outside the first-floor restroom, pretending to be waiting for a buddy. They greeted with a handshake. Ben passed three bills. Another shake and two tabs came back. He stood at a urinal, dick hanging free, swallowed one, and slipped the other in his wallet.
The club’s quiet zone was around four blue pool tables where guys with sucky haircuts and not-so-washed jeans waved cues and rattled balls into pockets. Women were mostly seated: not many, and few alone. But chicks look hotter against a backdrop of guys. And when he cued it meant they got to check his ass.
Two women to his right had the look of possibility. But, as he watched, they held hands and kissed. Excellent. A spectacular foxy lady with a necklace like tennis balls appeared to be on the loose in the back. He scored eye contact—fleeting but meaningful—before some slob lurched over to join her.
And then it happened. How could it not? He saw a lady like Sumiko at a table. She was reading a book—a real paper book—and sipping from a glass of red wine. She might be Japanese, Korean, or something Eastern. Was this the magic of fate?
But he didn’t go over. “What’s won is done,” as some writer once put it. All Sumiko had wanted was a good, hard fucking before shacking up with a guy who looked like her father.
Ben headed upstairs and spotted a tall blonde lady struggling to a second-floor bar. She might be a long shot, but they were often the best shots. He skidded through the crowd, quick as a spitball.
Up close, she was taller, in flat-soled shoes, with a red rose tattoo on her throat.
“Happen to your face?”
“Should see the other guy.”
“I’m Christiane.”
“Call me Ben.”
SOMETHING WOKE Trudy. Something always did. She paid for her daytime naps. If it wasn’t indigestion or blue jays under the roof, she’d be feeling too hot, or too cold. She gazed at the fan, rotating in the darkness. Daft thing hardly made any difference.
It seemed she’d slept minutes. The change of time zone didn’t help: she’d just gotten used to Pacific. But it wasn’t her body that returned her to wakefulness. It was her mind: it wouldn’t switch off. She couldn’t stop thinking about that meeting at the office and to what she’d lent her support.
She fumbled for a switch, squinted against the light, and groped around her duvet for a robe. She hauled herself upright, catching sight of her arms, so skinny and disfigured by age. Her breasts sagged, wizened, like a dead cow’s udders. Who’d ever want to touch those again?
On the stairs, she gripped the banister and descended with caution. If she stumbled and fell, who would hear? In the kitchen, she opened the fridge, poured a glass of enriched milk, and stared into the dark of the yard.
Near the shadow of a bird feeder, her reflection stared back. And now she understood what woke her. In sleep, she’d been brought face-to-face with her conscience, with nobody to fool but herself. This thing they were doing: could she really see it through? Or did it offend against values too deep?
In her ambitious middle years, when only goals set the standards, the answer to that question came easy. What she’d done to Murayama, when he was young and ambitious, was abuse he hadn’t deserved. She stole his patent. Yes. It seemed right at the time. Special ends sometimes called for special means. But now, with the prize so close she could smell it, could she truly end her career on a lie?
There was one case now. Could it be ten in a year? Or twenty? Or a hundred? Who could say? It was Helen Glinski now, but what lurked down the road, when millions were injected with the vaccine? Could the inventor be judge and jury of her own invention? Or must other—sharper—minds have their say?
Refreshed by the milk, she turned off the lights, gripped the banister, and climbed the stairs.
The bedroom was cool, quiet, and soothing: only the rustle of oaks stirred the night. She slipped from her robe, switched off the lamp, and settled under the slow-spinning fan.
What did the company people know of a scientist’s duty? Marcia Gelding and Theodore Hoffman? They knew nothing. Viraj Grahacharya? That man was pure evil. Prison was too good for what he’d done. And that naive young man? What would become of Ben Louviere? She couldn’t understand him at all.
She’d deal with this tomorrow. She’d do what was right. Only independent minds should decide. If they said she’d failed, then that would be that. She wouldn’t find it easy to get over. But she’d admit it to everyone, admit it to herself, that the roulette wheel had spun, and she’d lost.
But now, sleep. Inshallah. If God willed it so. She pulled the duvet tight to her neck. The air-conditioner cut. The room fell silent. Que sera sera. Goodnight.
The fan twirled slowly. A draft stroked her face. A northeast wind on sand.
ON THE EDGE of the dancefloor, Ben searched for a space. No matter, a gap would open. He saw breasts, beards, raised palms, pointing fingers, tattoos, and buckets of sweat. Here were stripped down bodies under fierce, shifting lights: a floor of fit people in their own mindspaces, moving to the heartbeats of sound.
“Come on,” he yelled, and Christiane followed him into a fresh soup of glistening perspiration. They moved slowly at first and then picked up the rhythm. He passed the second tab, which she swallowed.
All sides pressed skin… Wet, tanned, flashing colors… Christiane danced tight, unexpansive. He shut his eyes. Lights. Now moving in motion. In seconds, his mind circled his body. His brain turned somersaults, head over heels, like he was spinning by his belt from a wire.
Crash. Another tune. Heat scorched his face. Christiane was going at it.
Drum machine.
His foot hit the floor: on the freeway, interstate, a yellow line, following, more and more. He was climbing… rising… lifting to the sky: an aircraft, pulling up wheels. He was gliding… tilting… swooping… soaring. He was a bird on a current of air.
Sounds turned hollow… into deep space, drifting. An old one. Roger Sanchez: “Another Chance.”
He liked it. Faster. Now upside down… He smelled sweat… MDMA… He peeled off his vest and hung it from his shorts… Someone touched his shoulder. Who was that?
His eyes flickered open: Christiane was missing. Only guys pressed in: store detectives. Still as a tree. Arms branches. Growing. Everything moved but him.
Luke wasn’t here. He’d be wired by Bluestreak: only bodies as fit as their own. Those hours, those days, those months in the gym. You could trust the gym. You did it. It worked.
But where was Christiane? Sweating girls, where are you?
The store detectives had him hemmed in.
He was following a river: South Fork Eel… Chicago. Pouring over falls… cascading foam. Logs rolling down… San Francisco… foggy morning. Lake Michigan… skateboard… Jump.
His ears soaked sound, pouring into his body and flooding through his feet onto the dancefloor. Water lapped his legs… I-10 leaped the lake. Baton Rouge to the Big Easy… He was home.
BUT WHAT was this now? Her head was sliding. The pillow: it was moving. Head falling. What on earth was happening? Her cheek touched the mattress. The pillow was no longer in place.
Trudy’s eyes opened. She rolled onto her back. What’s that: that shadow? A person?
A figure stood over her. A man. A man. She cried out, “What’s happening?”
Hissss.
“What on earth? What on earth?” Her voice was so weak.
“Shhhh.”
“Who’s that?”
&nb
sp; Then the pillow.
She was raising her hands to her eyes when it dropped. A great weight fell on her face. She tried to twist her head, but the pressure only grew. More weight… and a terrible pain. A vast crushing load pressed down upon her chest. Somebody was kneeling on the bed.
Her left arm: trapped. She thrashed with her right. “Stop stop—stop stop—stop stop.”
But her cries were muffled. “Please stop! Who is it? Please stop! Please stop! Help me! Help!”
The knees gripped tighter—and tighter—and tighter. Her free hand snatched at an arm. It felt hard, slippery. She tried to scratch free. But her fingernails lacked any strength.
The mattress sagged under a vast crushing weight, as if her chest was pressed in a vice. “Somebody help me! Help me, help!”
She struggled to kick but was pinned.
It was useless, she was helpless. What on earth could she do? The pressure on her neck was too much. She struggled to breathe… suffocating… choking. She couldn’t get air. Need air…
Then muffled, through her writhing, she heard voices. Voices.
There were two of them. Two. Come to kill her.
“Get an arm. I need an arm.” That voice. That voice.
“For chrissake, use the leg.” A different voice.
“Hold the arm. I need the arm. Indeed, I do. I most certainly need the arm. Will you obtain the arm now? Now quickly.”
Doctorjee. Doctorjee. He’d come to kill her too. And another man with him. Two men.
She tried to twist sideways, but movement was impossible. “Please help me! Help me!”
But she knew.
A pause. Sweating. Through her cries, she heard footsteps. Then nothing but gasps. Her own gasps.
The knees moved a little, and the voices returned. “Need to keep her breathing longer. Get that part wrong and we’re fucked.”