Carrion Comfort (105 page)

It would be just like Nina— or Willi for that matter— to provoke me in just such a manner. If I killed her now, there would be the mess in the parlor to clean up and I would be no nearer to ferreting out Nina’s hiding place. And there was always the possibility that some part of her previous story was true. Certainly the bizarre Island Club she had described to me was real enough, although Mr. Barent was much more of a gentleman than she had let on. There did seem ample evidence that the group was a threat to me, although I failed to see where Willi was in danger. If I let this opportunity pass, I would not only lose Miss Sewell but would have to live with the anxiety and uncertainty of what this group might decide to do about me in the months and years to come.

So despite the melodrama of the previous half hour, I had come full circle to the position of uneasy alliance with Nina’s Negress— the same place I had been for the past several weeks.

“Very well,” I sighed. “
Now
,” said the girl. “Yes, yes, yes,” I muttered. Justin slumped into immobility. My family froze into statues. My gums rubbed against one another as I clenched my jaws, eyes closed, my body straining with the effort.

Miss Sewell looked up when the heavy door at the end of the corridor slammed open. The security guard sitting on a stool in the booth there jumped to his feet just as Willi’s Negro entered. The guard raised his machine pistol. The Negro took it away from him and slammed his open palm into the man’s face, flattening the guard’s nose and sending slivers of bone into his brain.

The Negro reached into the booth and threw a switch. The bars slid up into the wall and while the other prisoners cowered in their niches, Miss Sewell stepped out, stretched to improve circulation, and turned to face the colored man.

“Hello, Melanie,” he said. “Good evening, Willi,” I said. “I knew it was you,” he said softly. “It is incredible how we recognize each other through all of our disguises, even after all of these years.
Nicht wahr?
”

“Yes,” I said. “Would you get this one something to wear? It is not right that she is naked here.”

Willi’s Negro grinned but nodded, reached over, and ripped the shirt off the dead guard. He draped it over Miss Sewell’s shoulders. I concentrated on manipulating the two remaining buttons. “Are you going to take me up to the big house?” I asked.

“Yes.”

“Is Nina there, Willi?”

The Negro’s brow furrowed and one eyebrow lifted. “Do you expect her to be there?” he asked.

“No.”

“Others will be there,” he said and again showed the colored man’s teeth.

“Mr. Barent,” I said. “Sutter . . . and the others in the Island Club.” Willi’s cat’s-paw laughed heartily. “Melanie, my love,” he said, “you never fail to amaze me. You know nothing, but you always succeed in knowing everything.”

I showed my slight pout on Miss Sewell’s features. “Do not be unkind, Willi,” I said. “It does not become you.”

He laughed again. “Yes, yes,” he boomed. “No unkindness to night. It is our last Reunion,
Liebchen.
Come, the others await.”

I followed him down corridors and up and out into the night. We saw no other security people although I retained my slight contact with the guard still standing near the administrative office.

We passed a tall fence where the body of a guard still sizzled and smoked, spread-eagled against the electrified wire. I saw pale forms moving through darkness as the other naked prisoners fled into the night. Overhead, the clouds raced. The storm was coming. “The people who hurt me are going to pay for that to night, aren’t they, Willi?” I said.

“Oh yes,” he growled through white teeth. “Oh yes, indeed, Melanie, my love.”

We walked toward the large house bathed in white light. I had Justin point his finger at Nina’s Negress. “You wanted this!” I screamed at her in a six-year-old’s shrill voice. “You wanted this. Now just you
watch
!”

S
aul had never been in a rain like this one. As he sprinted along the beach, the downpour filled the air with a weight of water that threatened to crush him to the sand like a massive curtain smashing some hapless actor who had missed his mark. Searchlights stabbing in from the boats beyond the surf or downward from the helicopter served only to illuminate sheets of the torrent gleaming like lines of tracer shells in the night. Saul ran, bare feet sliding on sand turned to the consistency of mud in the downpour, and concentrated on not slipping and falling, sure in some strange way that if he went down he would not rise again.

As suddenly as the deluge worsened, it quickly let up. One second the rain battered at his head and bare shoulders as the thunder and pounding of water on thick foliage drowned out all other sound, and the next instant the pressure lightened, he could see more than ten meters through blowing curtains of mist, and men were shouting at him. The sand leaped up in small spurts ahead of him and for a mad second Saul wondered if it was some reaction of buried clams or crabs to the storm before he realized that people were shooting at him. Overhead, the roar of rotors overcame storm sounds and a huge shape flashed by, white light slashing across the beach at him. The helicopter banked hard and skidded through thick air ahead of him, slewing sideways only twenty feet above sand and surf. Outboard motors screamed as two boats cut in through the white line of the outer breakers.

Saul stumbled, caught himself before he went to his knees, and ran on. He did not know where he was. He distinctly remembered the north beach being shorter than this, the jungle set farther back. For a second, as the searchlights swept across him and the helicopter completed its turn, Saul was sure he had run past his inlet in the downpour. Things had been changed by the night and storm and tide and he had run right past. He went on, his breath a ragged, hot wire in his throat and chest, hearing the shots now and watching as the sand leaped ahead and to either side of him.

The helicopter roared back up the beach with its skids flashing toward him at head height. Saul threw himself forward, scraping his chest and belly and genitals against sand as harsh as sandpaper. The blast from the rotor blades pressed his face deeper into the sand as the helicopter passed over. Whether automatic weapons fire meant for him found the machine or something mechanical found its own breaking point, Saul did not know, but there came a sudden sound like a wrench dropped into a rolling steel barrel and the helicopter surged and shuddered even as it passed over Saul’s prone form. Fifty yards down the beach it tried to climb for altitude but succeeded only in slewing left over the surf and then banking too steeply to the right as the rotor assembly and tail boom tried to counter-rotate with a will of their own. The helicopter flew directly into the line of trees.

For a few seconds it appeared that the rising craft would use its own rotors to hack a path through the top thirty feet of vegetation— palm fronds and leafy debris were flying above the tree line like ditchdiggers leaping out of the way of a runaway motorcycle in a Mack Sennet comedy— but seconds later the helicopter itself appeared above the forest’s edge, completing an impossible loop, the cabin’s Plexiglas gleaming in rain and reflected glare from its own spotlight which now stabbed skyward from its inverted belly. Saul threw himself down again as bits and pieces of the helicopter began crashing down across a fifty-meter segment of beach.

The cabin hit the edge of the beach, bounced once, skipped across the first three white lines of surf like a hard-flung stone, and disappeared in ten feet of water. A second later something triggered the explosive charges still in the cabin, the sea glowed like an open flame seen through thick green glass, and a geyser of white spray rose twenty feet into the air and blew in toward Saul. Small bits of wreckage continued to patter onto the sand for half a minute.

Saul stood, brushed sand from his skin, and stared stupidly. He had just realized that he was standing in a small stream set in a broad depression on the beach when the first bullet struck him. There was a stinging on his left thigh and he spun around just in time for a second, more solid blow near his right shoulder blade to send him sprawling in the muddy stream.

Two speedboats were coming in on the surf while a third circled a hundred feet out. Saul moaned and rolled to one side to look at his left thigh. The bullet had drawn a bloody groove just below his hip bone on the outside of his leg. He fumbled with his left hand to find the wound on his back, but what ever had hit him there had left his shoulder blade numb. His hand came away bloody, but that told him little. He raised his right arm and wiggled his fingers. At least his arm still functioned.

To hell with it, Saul thought in English and crawled toward the jungle. Twenty yards down the beach, the bow of the first boat touched sand and four men waded ashore, rifles held high.

Still crawling, Saul looked straight up and saw the ragged edge of clouds pass over. Stars became visible even as lightning continued to illuminate the world to the north and west. Then the last of the clouds passed over like some vast curtain pulling back for a third and final act.

Tony Harod realized that he was scared shitless. The five of them had descended to the main hall where Barent’s people had already set out two huge chairs facing each other across an expanse of tiled floor. Barent’s Neutrals stood guard at each door and window, automatic weapons looking incongruous with their blue blazers and gray slacks. A small cluster of them stood around Maria Chen, including a man named Tyler who was Kepler’s aide, and Willi’s other catspaw, Tom Reynolds. Harod could see out the broad french doors to where Barent’s executive helicopter sat idling thirty yards down the swale toward the sea cliffs, a squad of Neutrals surrounding it and squinting into the glare of floodlights.

Barent and Willi seemed to be the only ones who really understood what was going on. Kepler continued pacing and wringing his hands like a condemned man while Jimmy Wayne Sutter had the glazed, smiling, slightly stunned look of someone deep in a peyote dream. Harod said, “So where’s the fucking chessboard?”

Barent smiled and walked to a long, Louis XIV table covered with bottles, glasses, and a breakfast buffet. Another table held an array of electronic equipment and the mustached FBI man named Swanson stood nearby with earphones and a microphone. “One does not need a chess-board to play, Tony,” said Barent. “It is, after all, primarily an exercise of the mind.”

“And you two’ve been playing through the mails for months, you say?” asked Joseph Kepler. His voice was strained. “Since just after we turned Nina Drayton loose in Charleston last December?”

“No,” said Barent. He nodded and a servant in a blue blazer poured him a glass of champagne. He sipped and nodded. “Actually, Mr. Borden contacted me with the opening move a few weeks before Charleston.”

Kepler laughed harshly. “So you let me think I’d been the only one to make contact with him when you and Sutter’ve been in touch all along.”

Barent glanced toward Sutter. The minister was staring blankly out the french doors. “Reverend Sutter’s contact with Mr. Borden goes back much farther,” said Barent.

Kepler walked to the table and poured a tall glass of whiskey. “You used me just like you did Colben and Trask.” He downed most of the drink in one gulp. “Just like Colben and Trask.”

“Joseph,” soothed Barent, “Charles and Nieman were in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

Kepler laughed again and poured another drink. “Captured pieces,” he said. “Taken off the board.”

“
Ja
,” Willi heartily agreed, “but I have lost some of my own pieces.” He salted a hard-boiled egg and took a large bite of it. “Herr Barent and I were much too careless with our queens early in the game.”

Harod had moved close to Maria Chen and now took her hand in his. Her fingers were cool. Barent’s guards were several yards away. She leaned close to Harod and whispered. “They searched me, Tony. They knew all about the gun in the boat. There’s no way off the island now.”

Harod nodded.

“Tony,” she whispered, squeezing his hand, “I’m frightened.”

Harod looked around the large room. Barent’s people had rigged small spotlights to illuminate only a portion of the black-and-white tiled Grand Hall. Each tile looked to be about four feet square. Harod counted eight rows of illuminated squares, each row having eight squares across. He realized that he was looking at a giant chessboard. “Don’t worry,” he whispered to Maria Chen, “I’ll get you out of here, I swear it.”

“I love you, Tony,” whispered the beautiful Eurasian.

Harod looked at her for a minute, squeezed her hand, and walked back to the buffet table.

“Something I don’t understand, Herr Borden,” Barent was saying, “is how you deterred the Fuller woman from leaving the country. Richard Haines’s people never found out what happened at the Atlanta airport.”

Willi laughed and picked small, white flecks of egg from his lips. “A phone call,” he said. “A simple phone call. I had prudently tape-recorded certain telephone conversations between my dear friend Nina and Melanie years before and had done some editing.” Willi’s voice shifted to a falsetto. “Melanie, darling, is that you, Melanie? This is Nina, Melanie.” Willi laughed and helped himself to a second hard-boiled egg.

“And had you already chosen Philadelphia as the playing area for our middle game?” asked Barent.

“
Nein
,” said Willi. “I was prepared to play wherever Melanie Fuller went to ground. Philadelphia was quite acceptable, however, since it allowed my associate Jensen Luhar to move freely among the other blacks.”

Barent shook his head ruefully. “Some very costly exchanges there. Some very careless moves on both our parts.”

“
Ja
, my queen for a knight and a few pawns,” said Willi and frowned. “It was necessary to avoid an early draw, but not up to my usual tournament play.”

The FBI man, Swanson, came up and whispered to Barent. “Excuse me a second, please,” said the billionaire and went over to the communications table. When he returned he glowered at Willi. “What are you up to, Mr. Borden?”

Willi licked his fingers and stared at Barent in wide-eyed innocence. “What is it?” snapped Kepler. “What’s going on?”

“Several of the surrogates are out of their pens,” said Barent. “At least two of the security people are dead north of the security zone. My own security people have just detected Mr. Borden’s black colleague and a woman . . . the female surrogate Mr. Harod brought onto the island . . . not a quarter of a mile from here on Live Oak Lane. What do you have in mind, sir?”

Willi opened his palms. “Jensen is an old and valued associate. I was only bringing him back here for the end game, Herr Barent.”

“And the woman?”

“I confess that I planned to utilize her as well.” Willi shrugged. The old man looked around the grand hall at two dozen of Barent’s Neutrals armed with automatic rifles and Uzis. More security people were visible only as shadows on the balconies above. “Surely two naked surrogates do not pose a threat to anyone,” he said and chuckled.

The Reverend Jimmy Wayne Sutter turned away from the windows. “But if the Lord creates something new,” he said, “and the ground opens its mouth and swallows them up, with all that belongs to them, and they go down alive into Sheol, then you shall know that these men have despised the Lord.” He looked back out into the night. “Numbers sixteen,” he said.

“Hey, thanks a whole fucking shitload of a lot,” said Harod. He removed the cap on a quart of expensive vodka and drank straight from the bottle.

“Quiet, Tony,” snapped Willi. “Well, Herr Barent, will you bring my poor pawns in so we can resume the game?”

Kepler’s eyes were wide with rage or fear as he tugged at C. Arnold Barent’s sleeve. “Kill them,” he insisted. He thrust a finger at Willi. “Kill
him.
He’s insane. He wants to destroy the whole goddamned world just because
he’s
going to die soon. Kill him before he can . . .”

“Shut up, Joseph,” said Barent. He nodded at Swanson. “Bring them in and we will begin.”

“Wait,” said Willi. He closed his eyes for half a minute. “There is another.” Willi opened his eyes. His smile grew very, very wide. “Another piece has arrived. This game will be more satisfying than even I had anticipated, Herr Barent.”

Saul Laski had been shot by the Wehrmacht SS sergeant with the piece of sticking plaster on his chin and had been dumped into the Pit to lie with the hundreds of other dead and naked Jews. But Saul was not dead. In the sudden darkness he crawled across the wet sand of the Pit and the smooth, cooling flesh of corpses that had been men, women, and children from Lodz and a hundred other Polish towns and cities. The numbness in his right shoulder and left leg were turning into searing cords of pain. He had been shot twice and dumped into the Pit— at last— but he was still alive. Alive. And angry. The fury flowing through him was stronger than the pain, stronger than fatigue or fear or shock. Saul crawled across naked bodies and the wet bottom of the Pit and let the anger fuel his absolute determination to stay alive. He crawled forward in the darkness.

Saul was vaguely aware that he was experiencing a waking hallucination and the professional part of his mind was fascinated, wondering if the shock of being shot had triggered it, marveling at the verisimilitude of the sudden overlay of realities separated by forty years of time. But another part of his consciousness accepted the experience as reality itself, a resolution of the most unresolved part of his life— a guilt and obsession that had left him
without
much of a life for four decades, a fixation that had denied him marriage, family, or thought of the future in forty years of reliving his own inexplicable failure to die. Failure to join the others in the Pit.

And now he had.

The four men who had come ashore shouted to each other and fanned out behind him to cover thirty yards of beach. Small arms fire rattled into the jungle. Saul concentrated on crawling forward in the almost total darkness, feeling ahead with his hands as beach sand and loam gave way to more fallen logs and deeper swamp. He lowered his face into the water and raised it with a gasp, shaking droplets and twigs out of his hair. He had lost his glasses somewhere, but it did not seem to make a difference in the darkness; he might be ten feet or ten miles from the tree he was searching for and it would never matter in such blackness. Starlight did not penetrate the heavy foliage overhead and only a faint gleam of his own white fingers inches from his face convinced Saul that the impact of the bullet in his right shoulder had not blinded him somehow.