The Best of Lucius Shepard (62 page)

The
pictures taken at Binh Khoi rankled me the most–I hated to see him laughing and
smiling. I would stare at those photographs, my emotions overheating, until it
seemed I could focus rage into a beam and destroy any object upon which I turned
my gaze. My eventual decision, I thought, would be easy to make. Anger and
history, the history of his violence and greed, were making it for me, building
a spiritual momentum impossible to stop. When the time came, I would avenge my
mother and claim my inheritance. I knew exactly how to go about the task. My
father feared no one less powerful than himself–if such a person moved against
him, they would be the target of terrible reprisals–and he recognized the
futility of trying to fend off an assassination attempt by anyone more
powerful; thus his security was good, yet not impenetrable. The uniqueness of
my situation lay in the fact that if I were able to kill him, I would as a
consequence become more powerful than he or any of his connections; and so,
without the least hesitancy, I began to plan his murder both in Binh Khoi and
Saigon–I had schematics detailing the security systems of both homes. But in
the midst of crafting the means of his death, I lost track of events that were
in the process of altering the conditions attendant upon my decision.

One
night not long after my seventeenth birthday, I was working at the computer in
the trailer, when Vang entered and lowered himself carefully in the chair
opposite me, first shooing away the marmalade cat who had been sleeping there.
He wore a threadbare gray cardigan and the striped trousers from an old suit,
and carried a thin folder bound in plastic. I was preoccupied with tracking my
father’s movements via his banking records and I acknowledged Vang’s presence
with a nod. He sat without speaking a while and finally said, “Forgive my
intrusion, but would you be so kind as to allow me a minute of your time.”

I
realized he was angry, but my own anger took precedence. It was not just that I
was furious with my father; I had grown weary of Vang’s distant manner, his
goading, his incessant demands for respect in face of his lack of respect for
me. “What do you want?” I asked without looking away from the screen.

He
tossed the folder onto the desk. “Your task has become more problematic.”

The
folder contained the personnel file of a attractive woman named Phuong Anh
Nguyen whom my father had hired as a bodyguard. Much of the data concerned her
considerable expertise with weapons and her reaction times, which were
remarkable–it was apparent that she had been bred for her occupation,
genetically enhanced. According to the file her senses were so acute, she could
detect shifts in the heat patterns of the brain, subtle changes in blood
pressure, heart rate, pupillary dilation, speech, all the telltales that would
betray the presence of a potential assassin. The information concerning her
personal life was skimpy. Though Vietnamese, she had been born in China, and
had spent her life until the age of sixteen behind the walls of a private
security agency, where she had received her training. Serving a variety of
employers, she had killed sixteen men and women over the next five years.
Several months before, she had bought out her contract from the security agency
and signed on long-term with my father. Like him, she was bisexual, and, also
like him, the majority of her partners were women.

I
glanced up from the file to find Vang studying me with an expectant air.
“Well,” he said, “what do you think?”

“She’s
not bad-looking,” I said.

He
folded his arms, made a disgusted noise.

“All
right.” I turned the pages of the file. “My father’s upgrading his security.
That means he’s looking ahead to bigger things. Preparing for the day when he
can claim my trust.”

“Is
that all you’re able to extract from the document?”

From
outside came voices, laughter. They passed, faded. Mei, I thought, and Tranh.
It was a cool night, the air heavy with the scent of rain. The door was cracked
open, and I could see darkness and thin streamers of fog. “What else is there?”
I asked.

“Use
your mind, won’t you?” Vang let his head tip forward and closed his eyes–a
formal notice of his exasperation. “Phuong would require a vast sum in order to
pay off her contract. Several million, at least. Her wage is a good one, but
even if she lived in poverty, which she does not, it would take her a decade or
more to save sufficient funds. Where might she obtain such a sum?”

I
had no idea.

“From
her new employer, of course,” Vang said.

“My
father doesn’t have that kind of money lying around.”

“It
seems he does. Only a very wealthy man could afford such a servant as Phuong
Anh Nguyen.”

I
took mental stock of my father’s finances, but was unable to recall an excess
of cash.

“It’s
safe to say the money did not come from your father’s business enterprises,”
said Vang. “We have good information on them. So we may assume he either stole
it or coerced someone else into stealing it.” The cat jumped up into his lap,
began kneading his abdomen. “Rather than taxing your brain further,” he went
on, “I’ll tell you what I believe has happened. He’s tapped into your trust.
It’s much too large to be managed by one individual, and it’s quite possible
he’s succeeded in corrupting one of the officers in charge.”

“You
can’t be sure of that.”

“No,
but I intend to contact my government friends and suggest an investigation of
the trust. If your father has done what I suspect, it will prevent him from
doing more damage.” The cat had settled on his lap; he stroked its head. “But
the trust is not the problem. Even if your father has stolen from it, he can’t
have taken much more than was necessary to secure this woman’s services.
Otherwise the man who gave me this”–he gestured at the folder–”would have
detected evidence of other expenditures. There’ll be more than enough left to
make you a powerful man. Phuong Anh Nguyen is the problem. You’ll have to kill
her first.”

The
loopy cry of a night bird cut the silence. Someone with a flashlight was crossing
the pasture where the trailer rested, the beam of light slicing through layers
of fog, sweeping over shrubs and patches of grass. I suggested that one woman
shouldn’t pose that much of a problem, no matter how efficient she was at
violence.

Vang
closed his eyes again. “You have not witnessed this kind of professional in
action. They’re fearless, totally dedicated to their work. They develop a sixth
sense concerning their clients; they bond with them. You’ll need to be
circumspect in dealing with her.”

“Perhaps
she’s beyond my capacity to deal with,” I said after a pause. “Perhaps I’m
simply too thickheaded. I should probably let it all go and devote myself to
Green Star.”

“Do
as you see fit.”

Vang’s
expression did not shift from its stoic cast, but it appeared to harden, and I
could tell that he was startled. I instructed the computer to sleep and leaned
back, bracing one foot against the side of the desk. “There’s no need for
pretense,” I said. “I know you want me to kill him. I just don’t understand
why.”

I
waited for him to respond, and when he did not, I said, “You were my mother’s
friend–that’s reason enough to wish him dead, I suppose. But I’ve never felt
that you were
my
friend. You’ve given me . . . everything. Life. A place
to live. A purpose. Yet whenever I try to thank you, you dismiss it out of
hand. I used to think this was because you were shy, because you were
embarrassed by displays of emotion. Now, I’m not sure. Sometimes it seems you
find my gratitude repugnant . . . or embarrassing in a way that has nothing to
do with shyness. It’s as if”–I struggled to collect my thoughts “–as if you
have some reason for hating my father that you haven’t told me. One you’re
ashamed to admit. Or maybe it’s something else, some piece of information you
have that gives you a different perspective on the situation.”

Being
honest with him was both exhilarating and frightening–I felt as though I were
violating a taboo–and after this speech I was left breathless and disoriented, unsure
of everything I’d said, though I’d been thoroughly convinced of its truth when
I said it. “I’m sorry,” I told him. “I’ve no right to doubt you.”

He
started to make a gesture of dismissal such as was his habit when uncomfortable
with a conversation, but caught himself and petted the cat instead. “Despite
the differences in our stations, I was very close to your mother,” he said.
“And to your grandfather. No longer having a family of my own, I made them into
a surrogate. When they died, one after the other . . . you see, your
grandfather’s presence, his wealth, protected your mother, and once he was
gone, your father had no qualms against misusing her.” He blew out a breath,
like a horse, through his lips. “When they died, I lost my heart. I’d lost so
much already, I was unable to bear the sorrow I felt. I retreated from the
world, I rejected my emotions. In effect, I shut myself down.” He put a hand to
his forehead, covering his eyes. I could see he was upset, and I felt badly
that I had caused these old griefs to wound him again. “I know you have
suffered as a result,” he went on. “You’ve grown up without the affection of a
parent, and that is a cruel condition. I wish I could change that. I wish I
could change the way I am, but the idea of risking myself, of having everything
ripped away from me a third time . . . it’s unbearable.” His hand began to
tremble; he clenched it into a fist, pressed it against the bridge of his nose.
“It is I who should apologize to you. Please, forgive me.”

I
assured him that he need not ask for forgiveness, I honored and respected him.
I had the urge to tell him I loved him, and at that moment I did–I believed now
that in loving my family, in carrying out my mother’s wishes, he had
established his love for me. Hoping to distract him from his grief, I asked him
to tell me about my grandfather, a man concerning whom I knew next to nothing,
only that he had been remarkably successful in business.

Vang
seemed startled by the question, but after taking a second to compose himself,
he said, “I’m not sure you would have approved of him. He was a strong man, and
strong men often sacrifice much that ordinary men hold dear in order to achieve
their ends. But he loved your mother, and he loved you.”

This
was not the sort of detail I’d been seeking, but it was plain that Vang was
still gripped by emotion, and I decided it would be best to leave him alone. As
I passed behind him, I laid a hand on his shoulder. He twitched, as if burned
by the touch, and I thought he might respond by covering my hand with his own.
But he only nodded and made a humming noise deep in his throat. I stood there
for a few beats, wishing I could think of something else to say; then I bid him
good night and went off into the darkness to look for Tan.

One
morning, about a month after this conversation, in the little seaside town of
Vung Tao, Dat quit the circus following an argument with Vang, and I was forced
that same evening to assume the role of James Bond Cochise. The prospect of
performing the entire act in public–I had previously made token appearances
along with Dat–gave rise to some anxiety, but I was confident in my skill. Tan
took in Dat’s tuxedo jacket a bit, so it would hang nicely, and helped me paint
my face with Native American designs, and when Vang announced me, standing at
the center of our single ring and extolling my legendary virtues into a
microphone, I strode into the rich yellow glow of the tent, the warmth smelling
of sawdust and cowshit (a small herd had been foraging on the spot before we
arrived), with my arms overhead, flourishing the belt that held my hatchets and
knives, and enjoying the applause. All seven rows of the bleachers were full,
the audience consisting of resort workers, fishermen and their families, with a
smattering of tourists, mainly backpackers, but also a group of immensely fat
Russian women who had been transported from a hotel farther along the beach in
cyclos pedaled by diminutive Vietnamese men. They were in a good mood, thanks
to a comic skit in which Tan played a farm girl and Tranh a village buffoon
hopelessly in love with her, his lust manifested by a telescoping rod that
could spring outward to a length of fourteen inches and was belted to his hips
beneath a pair of baggy trousers.

Mei,
dressed in a red sequined costume that pushed up her breasts and squeezed the
tops of her chubby thighs like sausage ends, assumed a spread-eagled position
in front of the board, and the crowd fell silent. Sitting in a wooden chair at
ring center, Vang switched on the music, the theme from a venerable James Bond
film. I displayed a knife to the bleachers, took my mark, and sent the blade
hurtling toward Mei, planting it solidly in the wood an inch above her head.
The first four or five throws were perfect, outlining Mei’s head and shoulders.
The crowd oohed and ahhed each time the blade sank into the board. Supremely
confident now, I flung the knives as I whirled and ducked, pretending to dodge
the gunshots embedded in the theme music, throwing from a crouch, on my
stomach, leaping–but then I made the slightest of missteps, and the knife I
hurled flashed so close to Mei, it nicked the fleshy portion of her upper arm.
She shrieked and staggered away from the board, holding the injury. She
remained stock-still for an instant, fixing me with a look of anguish, then
bolted for the entrance. The crowd was stunned. Vang jumped up, the microphone
dangling from his hand. For a second or two, I was rooted to the spot, not
certain what to do. The bombastic music isolated me as surely as if it were a
fence, and when Tranh shut it off, the fence collapsed, and I felt the pressure
of a thousand eyes upon me. Unable to withstand it, I followed Mei out into the
night.