Poseidon’s Children

by Michael West

  The one.

  She’d known Larry Neuhaus was the one the night they first met. He had an aura of strength and determination; he knew what he wanted to do with his life and knew he’d do it. Peggy liked that.

  In the time that they’d been together, however, Larry had abandoned many of his dreams. Painting no longer held any enjoyment for him, and he made no attempt to hide it. She’d seen him punch a hole through a half-finished canvas more than once, scaring her, not because she thought he would turn his anger and frustration onto her, but because she knew they were killing him inside.

  Wasn’t that what the mirror was for? Slashing up his hand and wrist like that? Wasn’t he trying to kill himself then, the way Natalie had?

  Peggy shivered.

  Another life, she thought. Although Larry’s breakdown had been the most horrible experience she could remember, Peggy was glad for the changes it wrought in him. His enthusiasm was returning, a fact that made her happier than she’d been in a long while. His confidence and determination would soon follow, bringing back the man Peggy fell in love with, the man she knew he could still be.

  She strolled over to a glass case, looked in on a miniature representation of the entire island. As she studied the model, her eyes fell upon a tiny metal plate:

  Colonial Bay

  Founded 1680

  Even older than America.

  Her gaze shifted to a single white steeple sitting high upon on a hill, wondering if everyone in town practiced the same faith.

  It had probably been that way in the beginning, she thought. Escape to The New World and Enjoy Religious Freedom.

  Peggy stepped away from the display and a row of portraits caught her eye. She moved down the gallery, looked at each face and name in turn.

  If I did let Larry paint me, she wondered, would I end up in some museum like this?

  She skimmed the texts mounted next to each frame, discovering that the church she’d seen in the model had in fact been Colonial Bay’s first permanent structure; that it was not until 1758 that a shop was erected in the town. She also learned that the Pennacook and Massachuset tribes who lived on the mainland were afraid to visit this island.

  Probably scared of seeing some of these faces.

  Peggy suppressed the giggle she felt in her throat, wondering again how people might view her portrait in three hundred years. She shook her head.

  At least I’d have better hair than these guys.

  And then one of the canvases attracted her attention. The man reminded her of Mel Gibson in Braveheart. And, when Peggy looked over his accompanying text, she found a familiar name: Jonathan DeParle.

  As in Ed “the innkeeper” DeParle? She studied the man’s drawn features and smiled. Well, Ed, your great-grandfather’s worthy of a trip in the old Wayback machine. Hubba hubba.

  She pulled herself away from the picture, moved down a side hallway. The walls of the corridor were lined with muskets, bayonets, archaic bullets, and other relics. An accompanying plaque claimed they were from the Revolutionary War.

  A mural depicting the construction of Colonial Bay’s lighthouse covered the wall of the next room. In the center of the room, a display case held a patchwork quilt of flags that had flown over the town through the years. Peggy saw a British flag that was torn in one place and blackened in another, as if someone had rescued it from a fire. She found a “DON’T TREAD ON ME” banner...several versions of Old Glory...and one other flag, a flag she was unfamiliar with; a pure white banner, and, at its center, imprisoned by a hoop, was a large red trident.

  EIGHTEEN

  Howard Monroe grabbed his briefcase and made his way up the sidewalk to Colonial Bay’s only school. Even after ten years of this routine, he still couldn’t get used to the summer quiet. Classes had been over for two weeks, and no student would pass through these doors again until fall. He fumbled with his key ring, wondering why he always had trouble finding the right one, then stepped inside.

  “It’s the same shit every summer, buddy,” the principal whispered, his footfalls echoing through the empty halls. “Everyone else is out there swimming and enjoying the day while you’re stuck signing forms. You knew the job was dangerous when you took it.”

  When he turned a corner, Howard found the door to the pool propped open with a small wooden wedge. He looked into the chamber and saw the pool filled beyond capacity.

  That’s impossible, I saw them drain the thing myself.

  A puddle slowly soaked its way through his shoes and socks. He lifted his foot and saw a trail of water that extended from the pool into the gloomy hall.

  What the hell...?

  The principal followed the trail and found the office door ajar.

  Vandals. There are vandals in my office.

  Howard stood motionless for a moment, unsure of what to do and cursing himself for not owning a cell phone. It would take a few minutes to get to the pay phone in the teacher’s lounge, then another fifteen minutes for Chief Canon to get out to the school. Too long. The culprit, if he or she was still in the building, would be out the office window and gone by then.

  Howard snuck down the hallway, his briefcase held tightly in his hands. He would walk into the office, come up behind the trespasser, and whack them over the head with ten pounds of paperwork. Once or twice, the squish of his wet shoes caused him to grimace, but no one came to the office doorway. He neared the door, eased it open with his sweaty palm.

  The lobby was untouched, nothing out of place. Wet footprints on the light-brown carpet offered the only clue that something was wrong. He glanced over at his office. That door, too, stood ajar, painting a sliver of light across the lobby. He hesitated, took a deep breath, then made his approach.

  It looked as if a hurricane had struck. Books, folders, and loose paper littered the floor. Pictures hung at odd angles or had been ripped from the wall. And, most distressing of all, a naked woman knelt on his freshly cleared desk, looking like a cat ready to pounce.

  “Hello, Principal Monroe.” Her voice sounded strangely familiar.

  “Who the hell are you? What are you — ?”

  “You mean you’ve forgotten me already?”

  His eyes traveled down the length of her back; they came to rest on a small black tattoo at the base of her spine. “Christine?” He moved to the desk. “What...? Where are your clothes?”

  “I don’t wear clothes anymore. Why wear a mask on top of a mask? A little silly, don’t you think?”

  “Come on.” He set his briefcase down. “I’ll take you home. I hear you’ve got your parents nearly out of their minds with worry.”

  “They were always out of their minds,” she said, her voice growing distant.

  “Let me help you, Chrissy.”

  “Help me? You’re the one who needs help. You, my parents...All of you need help, not me. Karl’s already helped me.”

  Howard felt a stream of ice water run over him. “Chris, is Karl here?”

  “Colonial Bay isn’t our home, it’s our prison. Did you know that?” As she spoke, she slid off the desktop and put her hand on his cheek.

  His eyes drifted down to her breasts. They were badly bruised. “Oh, God,” he muttered, and his gaze met hers. “Did Karl do this to you?”

  She smiled over his shoulder. “Why don’t you ask him?”

  Howard’s stomach sank.

  “You surprised us, Principal.” A voice came from behind him. “School’s out for the summer...bastard.”

  Howard spun to see Karl Tellstrom. The boy leaned against a file cabinet on the opposite side of the room, naked as the day he was born. Sunlight streamed in through the blinds, painted him in yellow stripes.

  The principal motioned to Christine. “What’d you do to this girl?”

  Karl grinned. “What I’ve been doing for a lot of people. I’ve opened her eyes.”

  Howard took two steps toward the door, but Tellstrom gave the filing cabinet a push. It fell to the floor in front of the entrance, bloc
king Howard’s retreat. Karl shoved the principal back into the center of the office.

  Howard regarded Tellstrom without flinching; some people in Colonial Bay feared this little shit, but he was not among them. Karl had always been a bully, nothing more or less. “You listen to me, boy —”

  “No, you listen to me, Howie!” Tellstrom pulled a filing drawer from the downed cabinet, dumped its contents onto the already littered floor. “You’re weak, you and your whole fucking clan...and this island’s long overdue for a change.”

  Christine stood behind Karl. She slipped her arms around him and ran her fingers through the thick, black curls of hair that grew from his chest. She looked at the principal, and, for the briefest of moments, he saw in her eyes the little girl he’d once known, the one who knew right from wrong, then she turned away and buried her face in Tellstrom’s neck.

  “You’re crazy,” Howard declared with conviction.

  “Yeah, I probably am.” Karl craned his neck to kiss Christine’s forehead. “I’m in good company. Peter the Great was crazy. Columbus and Alexander were crazy.”

  “I’ll go find some rope,” Christine murmured. “We can tie him up and keep him in here...away from the pool.”

  Tellstrom nodded, then returned his attention to the principal. “You should’ve stayed home today, Howie.”

  “Karl, it’s not too late to put a stop to this.”

  The boy shook his head. “Do you know how pathetic you sound?”

  “I sound like a sane human being.”

  “Exactly.”

  “If your mother were alive,” Howard began, “she’d be sick to see what you’ve become.”

  Karl’s sunburnt face grew even redder as the rage boiled behind his eyes. “My mother would be proud of what I’ve become!”

  The principal heard the whoosh of air pushed into his ear, then felt a jolt of pain as the metal filing drawer collided with his skull and sent him to the floor. His eyes fluttered open, displayed double images to his reeling brain. The forms converged into focus, permitting him to see Karl Tellstrom’s nude form standing over him, the filing drawer raised high above his head. Blood dripped from a sharp corner of the tray, and the principal’s gut churned at the realization that it was his own.

  “Karl, no!” Christine tried to grab his arm, but Tellstrom backhanded her, slammed her back against the desk.

  The wounded principal propped himself up with his elbows.

  Karl struck him hard across the face with the drawer, ripped another gash in his cheek and shattered his jaw.

  Howard fell back against his desk. He coughed, spraying cherry droplets. His head spun, but he remained conscious, moaning and gargling as the pain blazed through his brain.

  Tellstrom lifted the cabinet above his head. “What I’ve become is the savior of our fucking people!”

  This time, the drawer came down with such force that Howard’s face gave way with a loud crack. A crimson splash dotted the walls and surrounding clutter; the principal’s arms and legs convulsed for a moment, then his body became inert. A dark spot appeared in the crotch of Howard’s shorts as his bladder released its contents one final time.

  “You should’ve stayed home,” Karl repeated. He lifted the misshapen tray; saw the wreckage that had once been a face, and smiled uneasily at his own handiwork.

  Christine rubbed her cheek. She stared up at her lover with shock-widened eyes, convinced this had to be a nightmare.

  “It’s begun,” Tellstrom told her, the bloodied drawer still clutched in his hand.

  NINETEEN

  New York rain pelted the glass. Below, the pavement was dark. Below, rivers formed and swept candy wrappers, bottles, and old condoms through grates into waiting sewers. Below, umbrellas passed one another in alternating bands as huddled masses moved uptown and downtown, moved in and out of cabs, subway stations, and doorways. In the distance, where twins of glass and steel once pierced low rain clouds on their way to Heaven, loomed an empty gray void.

  Roger Hays gazed at the vacant New York skyline from his high-backed, leather chair. Once, the view made him smile at the glory of his successes; now, it only served to remind him of his losses. He remembered watching helplessly on a London hotel television as his lofty offices fell in a cloud of ash and rubble, remembered some of his employees diving from their windows to escape the coming flames. He recalled wives and husbands, daughters and sons, fathers and mothers, all weeping an endless shower of tears. While he was able to rent new spaces for furniture, to recover some of his files and to hire new staff and aides, his vast power could not resurrect his former headquarters and all the wealth in the world could not bring back the dead.

  Tonight, he would see his son on a slab.

  He took a sip of wine and watched the rain. Heaven’s tears. Had he been thinking rationally, he might have wondered about his inability to shed even a single tear of his own, but his mind was occupied solely by rage.

  They said a shark stole David’s life, but Hays couldn’t help feeling skeptical. The fact that his son’s face had been mutilated made it feel like a hit, something Komarovsky, his chief rival, might have ordered.

  Yes.

  Hays leaned back in his chair, merciless thoughts playing in his head. The killer needed to be human so that he could have this person tortured for hours, perhaps days, and finally executed. Then he could feel some contentment, a sense of closure. He studied the drops of rain hitting his window, then lowered his eyes to the pool of red wine filling his glass. Blood for blood. He drank deeply, pledging that his son’s killer would pay in full.

  The intercom sounded on his desk. “Mr. Hays?”

  He ignored it. He’d given orders not to be disturbed.

  “Mr. Hays, a Dr. Miyagi here to see you. She says it’s urgent.”

  Miyagi? What was she doing here? “It will have to wait.”

  He heard the door to his office open and gave a resigned sigh. Secretaries made poor bodyguards. Anyone who wanted to get to him could, which was why Hays kept a loaded .45 in his top desk drawer. Miyagi was quite benign, however, so he spun his chair around to face her unarmed.

  She was not alone.

  “Mr. Hays?” It was the archeologist’s assistant, Alan...something; he walked cautiously into the office with Miyagi in tow. “We can’t say how sorry we are, both for this intrusion and for your loss.”

  Roger looked past the man to Carol, biting his lip to contain his mounting fury. Everyone from the doorman to the mayor was sorry for him. He did not need, nor did he want their pity. “How good of you to pop in and pay your respects. I thought you were in Atlantis.”

  She moved toward his desk, her head bowed, her slight accent more noticeable than usual as she spoke, “That’s where I’d like to be, sir, and I would never bother you, disturb you in this time of terrible tragedy —”

  “What do you need, Carol?”

  She raised her head, eyed him. His tone had surprised her. It was level and quite business-like.

  Alan stepped forward to speak for her once more. “Mr. Kravitz told us that you have not yet signed the necessary paperwork for our continued funding.”

  Hays breathed, annoyed. He knew this Alan had never cared for him, nor for his money, and he doubted if the man truly cared anything for his pain. In fact, when the check failed to arrive, Hays wondered how upset the man really was. “I haven’t seen the paperwork. As you know, I’ve had a bit of bad news and —”

  Carol broke in, “Without your further support, we’ll be forced to halt operations and this discovery, the return on your investment in this project, will be taken away.” She was visibly nervous, but set in her convictions and straight to the point. Hays had always liked that about her. In fact, if he could be said to truly like anyone, it would be Miyagi. “I wish this could wait until your return, but, with the news coverage this discovery has generated, we wanted to protect your interests.”

  The businessman smirked. “You could have called me, you know.”
>
  “I was afraid your office wouldn’t put me through.”

  “If they were worth a damn, they wouldn’t have. But then if they were worth a damn, you two wouldn’t be standing here now either.” Hays reached over and pressed a button on his intercom. “Miss Shone?”

  “Yes, Mr. Hays?” his secretary responded.

  “Have Kravitz bring me the paperwork for Dr. Miyagi’s continued funding.”

  “Yes, Mr. Hays.”

  The archeologist gave a slight bow of appreciation and respect. “Thank you. You don’t know what your continued support means to me, especially in your time of grief.”

  “Oh, I think I do.” He rose from his chair; his glass needed a refill, and his mind needed a distraction. “Would you care for some wine?”

  “Yes, thank you.” She looked to Alan and he nodded.

  “It’s Australian,” Roger told them. Glasses hung from a rack above his wet bar like odd stalactites. He plucked two more free and poured. “I picked up a case when I was there on business last year, and I’ve become quite fond of it.”

  Hays extended a full glass for Miyagi. After a moment, he turned to see why she hadn’t come for it. She stood at the other end of the room, staring at his bookshelf. “See something you like?”

  She pointed to his shelving, her eyes wide with shock or amazement, Hays could not discern. “Where did you get this?”

  Hays followed her finger to the driftwood sculpture sitting amid his other knick-knacks. He swallowed hard. “I picked it up in Colonial Bay.”

  The archeologist feverishly motioned for Alan to look at the statue.

  When her assistant saw the figure, his face reflected hers. “What does it mean?”

  “I don’t know.” Miyagi looked at Hays, still vacant. “Where is this from?”

  “It’s a small town, an island off the coast of New Hampshire. It’s where my son David was killed. I’m going there this evening.” They continued to stare at the carving. Hays saw nothing remarkable about the thing. He’d picked it up as a conversation piece. “What’s so exciting?”