Raga Six (A Doctor Orient Occult Novel)

by Frank Lauria

  throbbing brain. "Science always proves we don’t exist."

  Orient squeezed against the pressure caressing his lungs and brain to sleep. He bit his lip and concentrated on trying to smother the silent implosions of ecstasy at the base of his brain.

  Raga reached down and picked up a large-vesseled hypodermic filled with a brownish liquid. Its color was turgid next to Raga’s eyes, flashing like yellow lightning as she lifted the hypodermic to the candle flame. "This is Alistar’s legacy to my beauty. A simple mixture of rare herbs, cocaine, and B12. It needs only a little of your blood to renew my life, and my youth."

  The pleasure in Orient’s body bristled, sending small shocks of sensation along his spine. His awareness began to fade into his senses.

  "I didn’t want to sacrifice you, Owen." He heard Raga’s voice inside his skull as his will shriveled under the intensifying sensation. "But you’re so very stubborn. Like Alistar." Her voice was warm and husky. "Don’t resist. It will be pleasant, I promise you. More pleasure than I’ve ever given you. I won’t take much of your blood. Just enough to make the serum active. As soon as your blood is joined to mine, your life will be absorbed." Orient groaned as the rapture in his cells began to spread down his chest. "It’s the highest form of love, my darling," Raga crooned.

  "Julian."

  Argyle’s cracked voice opened Orient’s eyes. He saw Argyle lying on his side on the floor. He was trying to lift his head and his mouth was opening and closing like a fish tossed onto land. His vision jumped as Pia approached the pillow, holding Julian against her naked breasts. She put him down gently on the pillow next to Raga. He was asleep. Pia reached out and removed the sheet from Sun Girl’s body. He saw her hands moving over Sun Girl’s breasts and stomach as Raga lifted the hypodermic. Then a jolt of raw delight crackled across his belly and squeezed his eyes shut.

  "Woi, woi, moi, woi Agovi—" Raga chanted softly, her voice increasing the ecstasy in his million nerve fibers and bringing him to the edge of some delirious, pulsing release. "Woi, moi Bouki.’The words rose and fell in his brain like sugar cubes tumbling into boiling milk, dissolving as they reached his bubbling comprehension. The rhythm of her voice touched a half-consumed response and snapped across his disintegrating memory.

  The singsong of Raga’s chant shifted slightly as his reflex blocked the vibrating pleasure spilling out of his senses. She paused and intensified the intonation of the words, sending an electric spatter of new sensation through his consciousness. Another reflex twitched and he remembered. He dug his concentration into the reflex, and it opened. "Woi, woi, woi Agovi—-woi, woi, woi bouki—" the rhythm of her voice beat against the spasms of his thoughts like warm rain in a forest. And then he understood the rise and fall of Raga’s voice. He understood the source of Raga’s power.

  "Agovi." Raga hurled the word against his memory. The demon of Voodoo.

  Orient clenched his fist and opened his eyes. He glimpsed a blur of blue on his outstretched hand and the knowledge lashed across his mind. The source. He brought the lapis ring on his finger close to his face.

  "Woi Agovi, mount thy empress Diana—" Raga implored, swaying from side to side, her mouth open and slack. Pia held Sun Girl’s head tenderly as Raga touched the tip of the needle to the girl’s neck.

  His memory clawed against his delirium and he felt the connection. Raga was calling a voodoo prayer. His reflexes jerked at he tried to breathe the word…The key.

  He flexed his trembling memory against the delicious vibration sucking at his nerves and pulled the word along the dust-clogged tunnel of his throat.

  Loupgarou, the name in Martinique for the vampire. And Raga was from Martinique.

  "Loup-gar-ou," Each sound scraped across his cracked tongue.

  Raga stopped her low chant. Orient’s careening vision slammed to an abrupt stop against the glazed smooth skin of her face. He saw Raga open her eyes, turn her head, and start to stand, her features poised on the brink of surprise. All reality floated in slow motion through a cottony silence that stuffed every fraction of perception. He saw Pia’s mouth move slightly and her head lift. Raga was still getting up. As she turned, she stared at him wonderingly with her flame-rippled gold eyes. He saw the stone on his finger and opened his tips. As he spoke, each word disappeared into the dry, thick silence arotmd him. Raga was on her feet and Pia was rising, balanced on her toes. Argyle was on the floor, looking at him with a startled expression. His sounds were frozen into the stillness. Everything became motionless.

  "... maroshana Sphytaya hun traka . . . "

  The noiseless words of power swelled in his throat, accelerating momentum as he completed the invocation of his judgment.

  "Ham...MA!" The last word was a loud rasping shout of desperation that sent the delicate structure of the silence tumbling down around him. Fragments of movement flashed past his vision with blurred rapidity. Raga dropped the hypodermic and extended her hand to help Pia. Pia was falling to the floor. Argyle was up on one knee. Julian had opened his eyes and was screaming, his high shrieks rising over the sudden, crashing motion.

  Orient tried to stand up. He saw Argyle reach Julian and Sun Girl. He got to his knees, then fell forward as the noise and the blurs faded and his senses faded with them.

  CHAPTER 27

  A long distance away, through the thick fog, someone was sobbing. He tried to see through the mist as the sounds came nearer. The sobs were close and the fog became a blur of flickering colors that focused into hazy images.

  Argyle was rocking Julian back and forth in one arm. He was crouched over Sun Girl. Orient sat up and his vision blurred again. He closed his eyes. When he opened them again, he saw Raga and Pia lying on the floor in front of the pillow. He got up slowly to one knee. He heard Sun Girl moan and Julian cry out. He stood up, his arms extending in front of him to maintain his balance.

  "It’s all right, baby," Argyle whispered as Sun Girl woke up struggling. She stopped struggling and fell weeping against Argyle’s shoulder when she saw Julian reaching out for her.

  Orient took a few unsteady steps. A movement across the floor stopped him. Raga’s white fingers were fluttering over the rug groping blindly for something. He realized it was the hypodermic. He bent down and picked it up.

  Argyle looked up.

  "Should get them out of here—" Orient said.

  Argyle nodded, his face streaked with sweat.

  Orient reached down and took Julian in his arms. The boy felt light against his chest as he lifted him. Argyle got to his feet and helped Sun Girl stand up. She leaned against his arm and lifted her hand out to Julian. Argyle picked up the sheet and wrapped it around her shoulders. When they reached the door, Orient stopped. "Can’t go with you," he said.

  Argyle looked at him.

  "I’ve got to stay. Take them home." Orient’s voice was hoarse.

  He set Julian down.

  Argyle didn’t say anything. He lifted Julian with one arm and put the other around Sun Girl’s shoulders as Orient opened the door. He paused and looked up. "If you’re not back in half an hour, I’m coming back," he grunted.

  "I’ll be back in the morning," Orient said. He closed the door behind them. He stood there for a moment, his hand around the knob as he cleared his lungs. He had an impulse to follow them, but the certainty that he must remain crushed his desire to rush outside. He turned and started walking back to the corridor.

  When he reached the room, he saw Raga stretched out on the floor near the candles. Pia was lying a few feet away, her body very still. Raga arched her back as he came closer and twisted her mouth to speak. Orient heard her breathless rasp against his ear. "Please, Owen—give it to me—" Her eyes were fixed on his hand. He looked down and saw that he was still holding the hypodermic. "Don’t let me die, darling—" Raga whispered. She tried to smile.

  Orient looked away. With a sudden lunge he wheeled and threw the hypodermic against the wall. The glass shattered, sending a brown spray of liquid up to the ceiling an
d staining the air with the stench of rotted flowers.

  "Owen!"

  He turned as Raga cried out. She was staring up at him, her delicate face set in hard lines of rage. Her slender hand opened and closed as she tried to speak. Her lips curled away from her teeth with loathing.

  Orient turned away and walked across the room into the shadows. He sat down on the floor, wrapped his arms around his legs and waited. The light from the candle flames across the room caught the surface of the stone on his finger and glinted in the corner of his vision.

  He stared at the ring and concentrated his tattered energy on the word of his judgment. Loupgarou. As he looked at the dark blue lapis, the numbers of the calculation loomed in his thoughts. The sum of the letters was five five four. Divided in half it became two seven seven. He shut his eyes and rested his head against his knees. The reality of the key consumed the remains of his doubts and left him empty. There was no emotion left except the certainty of his judgment.

  After an hour had passed he got to his feet and walked back to the candles. He bent down to examine Pia. The girl’s face was wrinkled and her features were swollen. Her hair was steel-gray. She looked like a woman of seventy. A dead woman.

  He stood up and walked to where Raga was lying. He knelt down next to her. The smooth white face had become brown and mottled like old photograph paper. A parched web of cracked, flaky skin covered her shoulders and withered breasts. He put his hand over her heart and felt his fingers sink slightly into her chest, as if her ribs were made of dust. He pulled his hand away and looked at her, trying to remember. There was nothing.

  He stood up and blew out the candles.

  CHAPTER 28

  Julian was the first to forget.

  He spent his days in the present; swimming in the sea, playing beach soccer with Sordi, or sailing with his mother and Argyle. Sometimes Sordi took him to explore the fishing villages along the green coast and Julian began to learn a few words of Italian as he made friends with the Ischians.

  During the month Orient spent with them on the island, he watched Julian as the quiet days took fascinating shapes for the boy and the wonders of the moment disconnected reality from the dreams of the past. After a while Sun Girl and Argyle also left their memory behind and slipped into the daily joy of their lives together.

  Orient felt the days ripen slowly to contentment, but he knew there was a void inside him that had to be filled elsewhere. He swam and enjoyed the hours with his friends and tried to shape the moments like Julian did, to help him touch whatever life they held.

  He realized that he needed to begin to build something right away; form new time to fill the emptiness.

  He waited a few weeks, then spent his last few dollars for passage on a boat leaving Naples for New York.

  The boat was crowded with tourists returning from vacation. The proximity to their intrepid exuberance and the routine events of the voyage broke down Orient’s tendency to be withdrawn. When it became known that he was a doctor, a few people came to him for advice. One was a shy pretty girl who was about to enter medical school. She asked him many questions during the days they spent on deck, taking the sun. And as Orient tried to answer her, he found the replies to some of his own questions.

  By the time the boat neared New York, Orient was making plans to try to restructure his video tape experiment. He knew that it would take money and time. He also knew that he could take a job at a hospital and do it a few steps at a time. The first thing was to get a place to live and a job within the next few weeks.

  Orient calculated the money he had left as he waited in line with the passengers, waiting for his passport. He wondered if he could afford a cab to a hotel. It would have to be a very short ride.

  "Doctor Owen Orient?" A burly man in customs uniform came out of the door at the front of the line and called out his name. "Step this way, please."

  Orient picked up his bag, walked past the line of curious, smiling passengers, and went into the office. There were four men in the room, waiting for him.

  None of them were smiling.

  The burly man who had called Orient inside was standing next to the desk, glowering at a passport in his hands. Two men in raincoats stood on either side of the door, their arms folded. There was another man, also in uniform, sitting behind the desk. He looked up as Orient entered. "Doctor Owen Orient?" he asked.

  "That’s right." Orient heard someone close the door behind him.

  "It says in our books that you left New York in May," the man behind the desk went on. "Yes, I did." The man nodded, his eyes flicking to the officer next to the desk.

  "Give them the passport," he said.

  The burly official folded the passport shut and handed it to one of the men at the door. The man at the desk wrote something down. "Will you go with these two men, Doctor," he said, not lifting his head.

  Orient followed the two men in raincoats into the other room. When they closed the door behind him, he realized that it was made of solid steel. The room next to the office was bare except for a table and two chairs standing bleakly under a fluorescent light. One of the men took the suitcase from his hand.

  "This all your luggage?" he snapped.

  Orient nodded. It was beginning to occur to him that this wasn’t routine procedure.

  "Do you have the key, Doctor?"

  Orient reached into his pocket and saw the men tense slightly. He found the key to his bag and held it out. One of the men took it from his hand and walked over to the table with his suitcase.

  The other man walked over to Orient. "Do you object to being searched?" he asked, his voice flat.

  Orient shook his head.

  "Do you mind removing your shoes?"

  Orient took off his shoes, then his pants and shirt as the two men checked his clothing and luggage. They spoke to Orient or to each other only when necessary.

  When they were finished they gave him back his clothes.

  "May I have my passport now?" Orient asked as he began to repack his bag. "Not yet," one of the men said.

  "Why not?"

  "Because you’re under arrest," he said patiently.

  "I don’t understand."

  "You’re wanted for suspicion of narcotics traffic," the man said quietly. "We’re Federal officers."

  Orient stared unbelievingly at the man. "Are you serious?"

  The man stared back at Orient. "We’ve had a warrant out on you since before you skipped the country."

  Orient tried to sort out what the man was saying. "Are you sure you’re not making a mistake?"

  "Finish packing your bag," the other man said. "There’s no mistake. Do you know a man called Joker?"

  "Yes. Sure I do."

  "Well, he told us everything." Orient folded his shirts into his bag, his mind spinning like a wheel in mud, trying to find some traction of fact to clear his confusion.

  The two men took him to a police station in Brooklyn in an unmarked car. Orient heard himself booked by the desk sergeant as being held for suspicion of conspiracy to transport narcotics and unlawful flight to avoid arrest. Then he was taken to a small cell on the first floor. It was just a bare cage with no bed or toilet facilities. Orient made himself comfortable on his suitcase. He knew the charges were false so he was more impatient to establish his innocence than apprehensive about the arrest. Still, there was always the possibility that if they checked his activities over the past few months, they might uncover some things he wouldn’t be able to explain.

  One of the men who had arrested him came to the door of his cell and unlocked it. "This way, Doctor," he said amiably.

  Orient followed him to a small office. The man took a chair behind the desk and gestured to a chair across from him. Orient sat down. The man was wearing a brown suit, blue tie, and pink shirt under his raincoat. He took a pack of cigarettes and offered one to Orient.

  Orient shook his head and waited.

  The man lit his cigarette and looked at Orient. "It all looks like
a mess, Doctor," he admitted, watching Orient’s face. "We have evidence that you and Joker conspired with Pola Gleason to deliver a pound of cocaine. Names, times, everything. We also know about your outstanding professional record, Doctor. Especially on the Mulnew case. You could avoid a lot of bad publicity by cooperating with us."

  "I admit I know a man called Joker, but as far as I know, he didn’t traffic in narcotics."

  "We have evidence," the man said softly.

  "There’s no possible evidence," Orient insisted. "I’d like permission to call my attorney."

  "Who is your lawyer?"

  "Andrew Jacobs."

  "You mean the senator?" The man lifted his eyebrows. "Any reason why a doctor needs the services of a high-powered legal man like him?"

  "I think I have the right to have a good lawyer without it implying that I’m guilty of anything."

  "So you do," the man agreed mildly. "Any special reason why you moved out of the country?"

  Orient smiled. "Nothing illegal."

  The man took a puff on his cigarette. "Do you know Pola Gleason?"

  "I met her once."

  "At her apartment?"

  "Yes."

  "Why?" The man looked down at his cigarette.

  "I’ll answer all your questions when my attorney gets here."

  The man sighed. "If you cooperate, you might even save your license to practice," he suggested.

  "There’s nothing to cooperate about," Orient said. "Do I get my phone call?"

  The man pointed to the telephone on his desk and ground out his cigarette.

  After he made his call, Orient was taken back to his cell. In an hour he heard Andy Jacobs’s hoarse voice downstairs. A few minutes later he saw the senator’s ponderous bulk and lined bloodhound face at the cell door. "Let’s get goin’, Owen," Jacobs rumbled in a deep monotone as a guard unlocked the door. "Take your suitcase. You’re leaving this establishment."