The Falcon and His Desert Rose

by George R. Lasher

  ~~~

  She had been a sweet, white-haired old gal who cooperated fully with the Egyptian Embassy. Not knowing why she had been selected, but eager to earn the promised 100,000 tax-free dollars, along with payment of all charges associated with her surgery, she called the hospital security desk as directed and told them her beloved nephew would be making a late night visit. She claimed that, before her surgery, she needed to inform him of changes in her will. “I need to see him,” she said, ”no matter what the hospital’s normal visiting hours are, and no matter how late it might be when he arrives.”

  After overcoming the feeble objections of the hospital’s chief of security, who had bigger fish to fry with the advent of Senator Gillpatrick’s admittance, she’d settled back in her hospital bed and dreamed of what she and her dear husband would do with the windfall amount.

  George had spent the day with her, griping about the limited channels on the hospital’s cable system and the sofa that amounted to nothing more than a bench with a thin, cornflower blue cushion laid across the top. Tired of his whining, Becky encouraged him to go home and let her rest. He protested mildly so she couldn’t say later that he had wanted to leave. Dutifully he kissed her, told her he loved her, and promised to be back in the morning before they took her to surgery.

  Not much later a Chinese anesthesiologist showed up with waiver forms that appeared to give him the right to leave her brain dead without any chance of compensatory damages if her husband sued. When she asked for the doctor to explain, she couldn’t understand his English and doubted that he understood hers. In the end, she sighed and signed. If she hadn’t, she assumed she would be denied the surgery she came for.

  Near midnight, a male nurse who spoke with a thick Arabic accent dropped by to give her a sedative and take her temperature and blood pressure. “Mrs. Evans, you’re NPO, now,” he said. “That’s medical jargon for no food or drink allowed until after the surgery.” Before he left, he gave something else to her. He reached into his pants pocket and pulled out a key. “I’ve been instructed to give you this,” he said.

  All she had to do now was wait for the man who would pose as her nephew. She had no inkling of the key’s purpose, and she didn’t care. She only cared that she would soon be cured of her diabetes. After that, she and George would board a plane to Las Vegas. They had made plans to stay at the Titanic, the newest resort hotel on the strip.

  She couldn’t wait to play those nickel slots. With 25 bucks she could play all day while drinking a slew of complimentary Fuzzy Navels. She loved the never ending parade of weirdoes that came and went around her. The things they wore, and some of the things they said, were as entertaining as the slots and the shows.

  Although anxious to meet her “nephew,” the hospital room faded as her heavy eyelids closed, replaced by her living room with new area rugs, marble-topped Victorian end tables, and a genuine Vegas slot machine in the corner, for when she got “the itch.”

  The dream vanished when the door swung open. Sucked in with the rush of air from the hallway came the noises and medicinal smells of the hospital. As her eyes blinked open, light and the voices of chattering nurses and squeaking wheels spilled into the room. A patient being pushed down the corridor on a gurney moaned as they rolled by. Always a light sleeper when not at home, Becky reached for her glasses on the bedside table. The travel alarm clock that George had brought showed three in the morning.

  Silhouetted in the doorway, Becky made out the figure of a tall, broad-shouldered man. Not expecting anyone else at this hour, she figured this must be the person the Egyptian Embassy had spoke of.

  For 39 years she and George had played the lotto and prayed their ship would come in. Blow the whistle and grab your boarding pass. Here it came. Rolling to her right in the narrow bed, she stretched out, opened the night stand drawer, and retrieved the key. Then she clicked on the lamp and welcomed her visitor.

  “Are you the man from the embassy?”

  “Are you Aunt Becky?” the man inquired.

  “Well...I’m sure not Uncle George.”

  The visitor closed the door gently behind him. “Even though you are being paid handsomely, I want you to know how much your cooperation is appreciated. Thank you, ma’am.”

  Any trepidation she harbored about this secret, late-night caller began to dissolve. From the non-threatening Wendy’s uniform to the fact that he was Caucasian and spoke perfectly understandable English, he exceeded her expectations. He even favored her nephew, Brian. But unlike Brian, who could be so loud and abrasive, this young man seemed soft spoken, polite, and ever so grateful for her cooperation.

  “Ohhh, my goodness,” Becky exclaimed as her “nephew” bent to gently kiss her on the forehead. She couldn’t recall the last time Brian had kissed her. He hadn’t even called her in years. After she handed him the key, her visitor offered to get a second pillow down from the top shelf in the closet.

  “That’s sweet of you to offer, hon,” she said, “but it isn’t necessary.”

  “These hospital pillows are so flimsy,” he insisted. “Trying to sleep on only one is almost like not having a pillow at all.”

  “I didn’t know young men as considerate as you still existed.” Becky turned her head away and covered her mouth to yawn. When she turned back, she started to say, “Excuse me,” but never got the “me” out before the extra pillow slammed down on her face.

  Punched in the stomach, her last breath burst from her lungs. Although she struggled to replace it, the considerate young man pressed down with incredible force, smothering her until her ineffectual flailing weakened and ceased altogether.

  ~~~

  Stopping in Baltimore at a predetermined Wal-Mart parking lot, Horus picked up a different vehicle, this time a Nissan Maxima. The Maxima’s nine inch trip information and video monitor, set into the simulated wood grain dash, estimated a travel time of four hours. Arrival at Jeanne’s apartment would be at about eight. Horus would have liked for the 360 mile trip to take less time, but he figured a fair percentage of it could be blamed on the traffic slowdown as he neared Boston.

  After programming his intended destination, he began looking for a news-formatted radio station with updates on the senator’s condition. He pressed the buttons with care, glad to have a working radio again. Zipping along on the elevated interstate which ran above the highway used by inner-city commuters, Horus didn’t feel as concerned about the politician’s condition as before, but remained curious as to how Gillpatrick could have escaped the toxic effects of the poison in Aldo’s soup.

  By the time the Maxima’s airfoils retracted and the vehicle decelerated in preparation of taking the proper exit, the answer became clear. It had been luck — blind, dumb luck. Twelve had died, but the president and Gillpatrick had managed to avoid skin contact with the lethal poison that saturated the tablecloth where they sat. Fate could be a funny thing. Horus shook his head. His brow furrowed as he closed his eyes to focus on his next challenge.

  ~~~

  At 15 minutes before eight, Jeanne lay asleep in her bed, dreaming of running through fields of tall grass and sunflowers on a breezy summer afternoon. She giggled as she reached the top of a hill and turned to look back at the two brown and white beagle puppies that bounced along behind her. They stopped to chase butterflies or sniff here and there at the interesting scents of other wildlife. In the distance she heard her mother’s voice calling for her, but she was having too much fun to return home just yet. A child again, not more than nine, her only real purpose in life was to have fun, the same as the puppies that scampered past her. Yapping happily, tails wagging, they zigzagged down the hill with Jeanne in pursuit. Her dark hair flew behind her in the wind as she followed the dogs to the banks of the river below.

  Reaching the bottom, she saw an odd boat, a big one, docked at the end of a pier that extended almost 50 yards across the river. Much larger than the fishing boats she usually saw, this one had been painted black. A long row of black oars
protruded from round holes along the side. The unfurled white sail was mounted on a tall double mast rising from the middle of the vessel. The painted image of a crocodile appeared on the stern, while the bow had been carved and painted to resemble a lotus. A strange insignia adorned the sail: a fierce bird, its wings spread wide, clutching an unfamiliar symbol in each of its talons.

  A sense of foreboding swept over Jeanne, causing her to stop. Panting to catch her breath, she watched while the two puppies raced the length of the pier and leapt into the boat as if they were both starved and it carried a shipment of fresh liver and bacon. Fearing she might hear yelps of pain from her little playmates, she shouted for them to come back. Instead of yelps, the puppies barked gleefully, as if to say that she should hurry and join them on board so that they could all play together.

  She took a couple of steps forward but halted, turned back around, and looked up as she imagined that she heard her mother’s voice again, calling from the top of the hill. Jeanne squinted, but saw nothing more than a large bird gliding in great sweeping circles underneath the clouds that floated high above the bluff. They were fat, white, fluffy clouds swimming lazily through the cerulean four o’clock sky, proudly exhibiting their ability to change shapes as they were gently urged forward, encouraged not to linger too long in any one place by their managers, the friendly winds that conducted their tour of the countryside each day. Everything seemed so relaxed and serene on the hill, while behind her the dark boat with the long oars and square sail beckoned, radiating an alluring sense of adventure intertwined with a hint of danger.

  Her mother would react to this situation by shaking a finger at her. “Don’t you dare go on that boat young lady. Don’t you dare!” Well, Mommy wasn’t here, and the puppies continued to bark their invitation as she stepped uncertainly from the soft ground of the grassy bank onto the gray, weather-beaten timber of the long pier. She walked slowly, cautiously stepping over the spaces where planks were missing, testing each board beneath her feet to be sure it could support her full 78 pounds.

  The bird she had seen circling above the hill called out above. Perhaps having spotted its prey, it prepared to swoop down. She hoped it hadn’t seen a mouse on the boat. She hated mice. White or brown, wild or tame, she hated them all. They had such beady eyes and sharp little teeth. Once, while disposing of a freshly killed mouse dangling from the trap that had snapped its neck, her mother had said that they carried disease. She had claimed that in olden times, the germs they carried caused millions to die in Europe. Jeanne had perused the map and pondered what it would be like to live over there, where everyone spoke foreign languages and ate different foods. The idea frightened her a little, but at the same time attracted her a lot, just like this boat.

  As she neared the boat, her two little pals, Siegfried and Roy, popped up, hanging their paws over the sides of the railing. They had been named by her father after the performers he and her mother had seen in Las Vegas on the first night of their honeymoon.

  “Bad dogs,” she scolded, shaking her finger as her mother often did. “You know better than to run onto some strange boat without waiting for me!” As the two pups gazed up adoringly, tongues hanging out, Jeanne looked around, puzzled by the lack of a crew or anyone on board. Where were they?

  Throwing caution to the wind, Jeanne stepped over the rail and onto what she realized must be a royal barge, exactly like what she would travel on if she were an Egyptian queen, like Cleopatra. But, what was it doing here?

  When she looked back towards the railing and the storage box that Siegfried and Roy had climbed up on to be able to peer over the edge, the dogs were gone. She thought that they might have jumped ship, so she looked for them on the pier. Not only were they not there, but the pier itself was no longer anywhere in sight.

  Instead of the steeply sloping hill rising from the riverbank, she now saw a huge temple where the hill should be. In front of the temple a pair of towering obelisks rose skyward, their long shadows stretched out over the waters of the river towards the barge which Jeanne felt moving beneath her. The breeze picked up. She heard the splash of the oars and felt the forward surge they provided as the barge cut through the water. But how could that be?

  A minute ago this vessel had been docked. She had been sure nobody other than herself and the two pups were on the boat. As bright as they were, she didn’t think Siegfried and Roy had raised anchor, cast off, gone below, and grabbed a pair of oars! Towards the rear of the craft she saw an opening in the deck. Afraid of who or what she might find, but wanting to know what was happening, Jeanne hurried to the hatch and peered down. Instead of stairs, a ladder provided access to the lower level. Standing at the precipice, she summoned all of her courage, took a deep breath, and descended into the shadows.

  The lower recesses of the ship’s belly were dark, musty, and surprisingly noisy. Around the base of the ladder a block of soft light shone down from the hatch. The only other illumination slipped, in thin sheets, through the cracks in the upper deck, or beamed in round shafts through the portals on each side from which the oars protruded.

  Down here, the motion of the barge seemed magnified. Wood creaked and moaned in protest of the never-ending stress it endured. As Jeanne’s eyes adjusted to the dim surroundings, she saw unlit oil lamps, sacks of provisions, and hammocks swaying back and forth on the ropes from which they hung.

  Rowers sat on benches, grunting like animals with the effort of pulling on the oars. As her vision sharpened further, Jeanne’s heart began to flutter. She saw dark, lean, muscular bodies, but they didn’t belong to men.

  As several of them turned to survey the frail, frightened visitor to their underworld, she saw grotesque, dog-like faces with ears that stood at attention near the tops of their heads. Canine snarls escaped from their pulled-back lips. Their drooling mouths exposed long, razor-sharp teeth. They were unlike anything she had ever seen except, she recalled, in a book on Egyptology that her father had left on the kitchen table. They were jackals!

  She screamed and ran to the ladder as several of the oarsmen dropped their poles and lunged for her. Her feet churned and she managed to keep her balance although she felt a strong pull and heard the rip of her dress being torn by extended claws. From just below her, powerful jaws snapped and the hot, damp breath of one of the demons bathed her ankles.

  The time it took to reach the upper deck couldn’t have been more than a couple of seconds, but she could barely catch her breath as she burst into the sunlight. Rather than glancing back, she sprinted for the side of the boat. Knees high, picking up speed like a young Olympian racing down the narrow runway towards the vaulting beam, she heard a familiar voice behind her, pleading with her to stop.

  She glanced down at the last minute as her muscles tensed in preparation for her leap to freedom. In the river, she saw what must have been a dozen crocodiles swimming alongside the boat. Running at such a high speed, she couldn’t avoid slamming into the barrier she had meant to hurdle. The bone-rattling, waist-high collision with the top of the rail knocked the air out of her, leaving her gasping and dazed.

  Above them, the crocodiles beheld a tantalizing morsel, head and arms dangling over the bow, close to falling into the river. They leaped as high as they could, their long, toothy snouts falling a foot shy of reaching her dark hair, billowing in the wind.

  In the distance, Jeanne heard the annoying sound of her defective doorbell, rasping weakly from behind her apartment’s sheet rocked walls, followed by a vigorous knock. Unaware of what she was doing, she rose from her bed and stumbled down the hallway, reeling from one side to the other, feeling as if she were still on the barge, tossed by the rise and fall of the ship. She heard the insistent rustle of the tall sail pulled tight by the stiff breeze. She felt the fine spray of the waves splash against the ship’s hull as the barge cut smartly through the water. Ahead, Jeanne saw a door, perhaps the entry to the captain’s cabin. Surely he would offer to help.

  Opening the door she heard a dis
torted voice. “I am here, my queen.” The voice echoed strangely in her mind. Rather than coming after spoken words and trailing off into the distance, the echo started before anything had been said, out of sync and distant, then gained volume and merged with the words. Jeanne had heard similar effects in some of her dad’s old Led Zeppelin records. She felt as if she were floating, unable to awaken from a bizarre dream, or perhaps a trance.

  Again, the same voice penetrated the fog that swirled in her brain. “I will never allow you to be harmed, but you must come with me. Your throne awaits you.”

  Dizzy and too weak to be terrified, Jeanne felt herself being lifted off her feet and carried to her bed. Someone pulled her tank top over her head. Her shorts slid off her hips, over her thighs and calves, and were pulled free from her ankles and feet. For a moment Jeanne felt eyes upon her, as if the entire world were voyeuristically focused on her body. She felt like some kind of living exhibit in an erotic art gallery. Adding to her confusion she heard the melodic ring tones, far away, of what sounded like her watch phone.

  Not paralyzed, yet finding her arms and legs as useless as a marionette puppet with no strings, she felt herself being dressed in Levis, a long-sleeved blouse, and sandals. In a fleeting moment of lucidity she postulated that Thomas might be the one carrying her down a flight of stairs. Had he scared off the predator who had undressed her? She was placed in what felt like a partially reclined car seat, heard doors being closed and an engine starting up. Again, she heard the echoing voice.

  “You must allow me to honor and protect you from this day forth. You must sit by my side as I fulfill my destiny. Together we shall rule the world.” So much for the idea that she had been rescued by Thomas.

  Feeling the vehicle move, she rolled her head in the direction from which the words came. In addition to the strange echo, the words sounded dragged out and slowed down, like they came from an old, portable cassette tape recorder with rundown batteries. Maybe whoever had abducted her really didn’t mean to harm her. After all, they said they wanted to honor and protect her. With great effort Jeanne mumbled a feeble response. “Okay, okay, but what about Siegfried and Roy?”