Shooting Eros - The Emuna Chronicles: Book 1: Hell-bent (Shooting Eros Series)

by Benjamin Laskin

  “It’s highly doubtful,” Cyrus said. “I’m quite new in town.”

  “Hmm. We both thought that maybe you were at our wedding. But we looked through our photo album and didn’t see you anywhere.”

  “I’ve been known to crash a few weddings in my day,” Cyrus said with a smile, “but I’m sure I’d have remembered yours.”

  In fact, it was a splendid little wedding. Your joy reached the very courtyard of Heaven, and a chorus of ministering angels sang a hymn on your behalf. Volk and I slew eighteen yetzers that beautiful May morning, and paired up three couples. All three took their vows less than a year later.

  “Oh well,” Sara sighed. “Maybe one of us will remember something later.”

  The toast popped and Sara tossed it onto a plate with the steaming scrambled eggs and hash browns. She set the plate, silverware, butter, jam, salt and pepper, and a glass of orange juice in front of Cyrus.

  “Coffee?” she asked.

  “If it’s no trouble.”

  Sara poured a cup from the coffee maker and sat down across from Cyrus. She arched a curious brow when she saw him say a short blessing over the food before diving in.

  Cyrus said, “While I eat, could you fill me in on what happened while I was out?”

  “I only know what Sam told me. But apparently there was a ruckus in the jail cell, and when the officers rushed in to see what the matter was, they found you unconscious on the floor. You don’t remember?”

  Cyrus shook his head, no.

  “According to the inmates, you were talking to some elderly man in that cell, but strangely, no two stories were the same. All they could agree upon was that he had tied you up in some weird contraption or something.”

  “What did the man look like?”

  “Some inmates said he was tall, others said medium-height. Some said old, some said around fifty. Some said he had a long beard, others, a short beard. It’s very odd.”

  “And this contraption?”

  “Again, it varies. Some said it was ropes, others said leather straps. Some said it was a helmet of sorts, others a little wooden box. The only thing they agreed on was that it was black. But no such thing was found.”

  “Nor the man, I presume.”

  “Well,” Sara said, “there definitely was someone. The arresting officer, Officer Ferguson, had a record of him. But—”

  “The record disappeared?”

  “No, but Officer Ferguson did.”

  “As in vanished?”

  “That same evening, Officer Ferguson stopped to fill his car tank on the way home. He picked up a single Powerball lottery ticket while he was at the station. He’s now on his way to Nantucket with his family to look at some beachfront property. Lucky guy!”

  Cyrus suddenly remembered something the old man had said: “Pshaw, he’s fine. Better than ever, trust me.”

  “So he up and quit?”

  “Wouldn’t most people?” Sara said. “Anyway, they dragged you out of the cage and tried resuscitating you, but you were out cold. Or hot. An officer on the scene said that touching your chest was like touching a furnace. They were calling an ambulance when Sam came in and saw you. He checked your vitals—he had been a medic in the Marines—and said everything was fine. He brought you here.”

  “But why?”

  “I guess he wanted to save you from more trouble. He knew your situation, your lack of identification and the rest, and, well, he decided to handle it himself. After twenty-four hours, and you were still unconscious, he worried that he had screwed up big time, but, thank God, you’re okay. I called him while you were in the bathroom to let him know that you were up and around. He said he’ll be home in a couple of hours to check on you, and that if anything comes up to call him immediately.”

  “Well, I can’t thank you both enough,” Cyrus said. “This fellow they spoke of, did he have a name?”

  “You’ll have to ask my husband. I don’t remember. Wait, Eli something, I think.”

  “Yahu?” Cyrus hazarded.

  “No, though I guess you could call him a yahoo,” she said, “Certainly a troublemaker. Wait…Tish-something. Tishbee. That’s it. Eli Tishbee, or close to that. And that’s all anyone seems to know.”

  Cyrus dropped his fork. His hands flew to cover his face and he bowed his head.

  Baruch HaShem! Could it be? Did he dare believe it? Eliyahu haTishbi…Eliyahu haNavi! Of course! Cyrus laughed tears of joy into his hands. Eliyahu the mechanic! Hah!

  The name was the Hebrew for Elijah the Tishbite, Elijah the Prophet, one of two personages in the Bible who did not die. Instead, Elijah “ascended to Heaven in a whirlwind.”11

  Note 11: Cyrus was well aware of the numerous colorful tales of Eliyahu haNavi (Elijah the Prophet) in Jewish Aggadah and Talmud that had been passed down through the ages. Many of these stories depicted Eliyahu appearing in different guises in times of trouble or need, or to give instructions in Torah, reverence, or faith.

  “What’s the matter,” Sara asked, concerned. “Are you okay?”

  Cyrus nodded, quickly collecting himself. He removed his hands from his face and looked up. “Fine,” he croaked, reaching for a napkin to dry his eyes.

  “What happened? Your eyes are red. Were you…crying?”

  “I’m fine,” Cyrus said. “The past few days have left me a little emotional, I guess.”

  “Well, now that you have your memory back, maybe you can tell me where you’re from and how the heck you got yourself into the messes you did.”

  “I’m sorry, but my memory is still patchy. I seem to be able to remember everything except my own life.”

  “Maybe a good hypnotist might help,” Sara said. “Or a shrink.”

  “I don’t have any money, and, to be honest, I don’t really trust anyone tinkering around with my mind.”

  “Well, how are you going to function in this world? After all, when you go applying for jobs and stuff, they are going to ask you questions. You can’t be telling people you don’t remember who you are. That won’t get you very far.”

  “You’re right,” Cyrus said. “But some things have come back, so maybe in a couple of days I’ll know more.”

  “Listen,” Sara said, “I’ll have to talk to my husband, but we have a guest house in the back you can stay in for a bit if you like. It’s a little messy and needs some clearing out and elbow grease, but if you want to take on the job, you can stay there until you figure out your next move.”

  “That’s very kind, Sara, but I don’t want to impose.”

  “It’s not a big deal, really.”

  “Well, thank you. I’ll try to stay out of your way and do my share around here.”

  Sara tapped the table and said, “It’s a deal.” She smiled, the crinkles around her thirty-three-year-old eyes adding an extra dose of charm to her friendly countenance.

  Cyrus smiled back and looked down at the palm of his hand. The three words were barely discernible now: Save Ellen Veetal!

  35

  The Mess

  Virgil watched me apply ointment and bandage to my wounded leg. His feet dangled from the top bunk as I sat on one of the rickety chairs with my leg up on a desk. “I’m jealous,” he said.

  “You shouldn’t be,” I said. “If it hadn’t been for Captain Volk, I’d be dead. How jealous would you be then?”

  “Does it hurt?”

  “Burns like hell, but Captain Volk said I’ll be okay in a day or two.”

  “How many did you kill?”

  “Three. Captain Volk took care of the rest.”

  “That’s dang impressive, Kohai.”

  “They weren’t big ones.”

  “Doesn’t matter. The little ones can be just as dangerous. What did you use on them? Splicer rifle? Fire duster? The P22 Atomizer?”

  “Ruby-edged wakizashi short sword.”

  “Get out of here,” Virgil said with a wave of his hand. “No one uses antique stuff like that anymore.”

  “We do
.”

  “Really? Then you guys are nuts! Besides, the first rule we learn is to avoid going hand-to-hand with the fear demons. You saw what happened to cadet Terence.”

  “We were in cramped quarters. We had no choice.”

  “Well, don’t start getting cocky,” Virgil warned. “It’s one thing to have someone like Captain Volk watching your back, and another entirely to go at it alone.”

  I smiled, touched by my friend’s concern. “Don’t worry about that,” I said, holding out my freshly dressed leg. “The scar from this baby will be a constant reminder.”

  “Good,” Virgil said. “So tell me, any news on Cyrus? They find his corpse yet?”

  “He’s alive.”

  “He is? That’s grea—! I mean, really?”

  “Yeah, he made it.”

  “Do they know where he is?”

  “Last they heard, he was in jail.”

  “Jail! Hah, well that figures.” Virgil pretended to be pleased by Cyrus’s misfortune, but I knew that in his heart he was worried about the captain. “So, um, is he okay?” he asked, feigning not to care.

  “No one really knows, but it was reported he suffers amnesia.”

  “Hmm,” Virgil said. “Maybe that’s a good thing…for him, I mean.”

  “How’s that?”

  “Well, the guys were talking, and they said they heard that surviving downdraft is actually worse than getting gooped. Downdrafters all end up crazy because they know the ultimate reality, but they have no one who would believe them. Is it true?”

  “Why are you asking me?”

  “‘Cuz you are the go-to guy for all things wacky.”

  “Wacky, eh?”

  “You know—mystical, philosophical, unknowable.”

  “Wacky.”

  “For the unintimidated, anyway,” Virgil said.

  “I think you mean, uninitiated, but I like that too.”

  “There, you see? You know big words and ideas and stuff.”

  “Okay, Virge, I get it. Yeah, more or less, what you heard is right.”

  “So it would have been better had he got lost in translation, right?”

  “No,” I said.

  “No? Kohai, your beloved teacher is gonna go insane, kill himself, or worse! It will be a humiliating end for him.”

  “Maybe.”

  “What aren’t you telling me? I know you know something. You always know something.”

  “It’s not what I know, Virgil. It’s what I believe. And I believe that Cyrus will not turn out like the others before him. I believe that he is different. And I believe that he is there for a reason.”

  “Of course there is a reason. It’s called treason, dummy!”

  “No,” I said. “Something much bigger than that.”

  “Like what?”

  “If I told you, you’d have to kill me.”

  He laughed. “The line, Kohai, is ‘If I told you I’d have to kill you.’”

  “I know the line, Virgil.”

  Virgil frowned. “You don’t trust me, do you?” he said, offended and hurt.

  “You are my only friend around here, Virge. I have to trust you. But it’s not a matter of trust, it’s a matter of truth.”

  “Kohai, we’re cupids. We’re born with truth. It’s part of our very essence and runs through our veins like blood. We can know nothing other than truth.”

  “Sorry, Virge, but we are just messengers, not the message. In fact, we differ little from the yetzers. They are messengers just like us, only they carry a very different message. Now, aren’t you sorry you brought this up?”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “Good, so let’s drop it because it doesn’t get any prettier from here.”

  “I don’t want to drop it, Kohai.”

  “But you just said—”

  “I know what I said. You’re right. You are my best friend. If you got something to say, I want to hear it.”

  Jill Taylor-Sanders stirred her extra-large latte with its six packets of sugar and said, “Don’t you think you’re being a little rash?”

  She and Ellen Veetal were sharing a bench on the frost-covered lawn in one of many lovely little corners of the university’s campus.

  Ellen tucked her knees beneath her oversized, baggy sweater. “That’s rich coming from you,” she replied, trimming what sarcasm she could from her voice.

  “Don’t I know,” Jill said, not the least insulted. “Rich indeed. Experience is very valuable. To learn from another’s mistakes is a sign of wisdom, sweetie. So, wise up.”

  “Chauncey isn’t Jack, and I’m not you.”

  “True,” Jill said, dabbing the air with her straw, as if dotting an exclamation point. “But marriage is still marriage.”

  “You’re in a pretty good mood for someone who’s so miserable.”

  “That’s because shortly, Jill Taylor-Sanders will be back to Jill no-hyphen Taylor.”

  “So, am I supposed to congratulate you?”

  “Um-hmm,” Jill nodded, taking a sip from her latte.

  “And no doubt you are throwing a divorce party, right? They are all the rage.”

  “Of course. Next Saturday night. My place, eight o’clock. Don’t forget my present.”

  “Right. And how is Jack handling it?”

  “Oh, I’m sure he’s as thrilled as I am. I’ve been giving him my bitchy best.”

  “To make it easier for him, no doubt. Aren’t you thoughtful.”

  “Yep,” Jill said. “He’ll thank me one day.” She inhaled deeply, threw back her head, and expelled a frosty cloud of relief. “Ah, freedom. You know, it kinda feels like when you quit a crappy job…only better.”

  “Except the feeling doesn’t last long because you know you gotta start looking for another crappy job eventually.”

  “No more husbands for me. In fact, I think I’m through with men all together. I think I’m gonna become gay.”

  “Oh, really?” Ellen said facetiously.

  “Uh-huh. Why not?”

  “Well, don’t look at me.”

  Jill made a pouty face and sipped from her latte. “So, when’s the big day?”

  “We haven’t decided on a date yet.”

  “A big wedding, or one of those little garden thingies?”

  “We haven’t decided on that either,” Ellen said.

  “Don’t forget to invite me.”

  “Of course not.”

  “And invite some of your cute, nubile students—wink, wink.”

  Ellen shook her head. “You’re a real mess, you know that?”

  “Embrace the mess, baby. That’s my new motto.”

  “Start printing the T-shirts,” Ellen said.

  Jill put hand to chin, thinking Ellen’s joke not a half-bad idea. “Anyway,” she said, “whatever you decide on, I’m sure your wedding will go a million times better than mine did. Remember that? What a disaster!”

  “Did they ever figure out what went wrong with the sound equipment?”

  “Nah, but you can be sure that band will never get another gig there again.”

  “I suppose not, though they weren’t anywhere near their equipment when the screeching started and every piece of glass in the place blew. It was very strange.”

  Jill sighed. “I should have known right then that my marriage was doomed.”

  “I admit it was an inauspicious beginning. It’s kind of ironic now, though. Everyone who was there will remember that wedding.”

  “Rub it in a little more, won’t you?”

  “Hey,” Ellen said, throwing her arm around her friend and giving her a chummy squeeze. “Embrace the mess, remember?”

  “I hate you.”

  “But seriously, didn’t you think there was something very strange, even spooky, about that evening?”

  “Of course, I do. Haven’t you been listening? This whole episode of my crappy life has spooked the hell out of me.”

  “I’m not talking about you. I’m talking about what went on
at that wedding.”

  “Come on, Ellen. You’re spending way too much time hanging out with cranks and crackpots. Yeah it was a freaky night, but it’s par for the course for my freaking life.”

  “Not everything is about you, Jill.”

  “Sure it is. Just like everything is about you. It’s how we’re wired. You ought to know that better than most; you’re the one working on the Ph.D. in psychology.”

  “You don’t want to help me, do you?” Ellen said, frustrated.

  “With what? I don’t know what you expect me to say. Am I supposed to say that I witnessed poltergeists, when I didn’t? That people were acting a little strange, when in fact most everyone there was sloshed? That I felt that there was ‘something in the air,’ when at the time I thought I was the happiest girl in the world?”

  “Okay, okay.” Ellen sighed. “You’re right, and Chauncey’s right. I give up.”

  “Hey, you’re not giving up. You’re moving on.”

  “Whatever,” Ellen said. “I have to admit that Chauncey has been a pretty good sport putting up with my nonsense.”

  “There, you see? It wasn’t a total failure. In a way, it helped bring you two together. You got to see him in action, and when push came to shove, he supported you. That has to count for something, right?”

  Ellen smiled. “Look at you, all grown up and speaking sagacious words. Maybe you’re not as messed up as you think you are.”

  “No, I’m pretty screwed up,” Jill said. “Dishing out advice to others is easy. It’s fixing my own life that I suck at. But, that’s why I have you, right?”

  “I guess.” Ellen checked her cellphone for the time. “Well, I still got one last round of interviews to do away with, and then I’m finished. Onwards and upwards.”

  “Onwards, anyway,” Jill said.

  36

  Going Ballistic

  Commander Sett strolled with Judge Minos down a long, sterile-looking hallway in the Academy’s Research and Development Building. The judge tapped his cane on the floor as they walked, lifting it to point at every door they passed, demanding a short explanation of the research going on behind it. Sett found this annoying as every door had a sign saying what department it belonged to: Disgronifier Modifications, Harmonic Resonance Research and Development, Demon Dissection and Analysis, and so on.