Ring Game

by Pete Hautman

  “It don’t look so good. There’s some kind of rock garden in the way. You want to wait for the rain to let up a little?”

  Grunseth growled, flung open his door, and ran for the chapel. He opened the chapel door and disappeared inside. Amundson hopped out of the car and followed.

  Hyatt took a long, deep breath. This was it: the turning point of his life. The point where instead of Hyatt Hilton going to the world, the world would come to Hyatt Hilton. From now on, it was out of his hands. His only concern, at the moment, was that Chip would show up at some inconvenient moment. What had happened to him? Most likely, he had simply gotten lost, or become so involved in his reconnoitering that he’d lost track of time. Would he have sense enough to simply disappear?

  Ten minutes passed before Amundson and Grunseth returned, walking slowly through the rain, arguing. Amundson got behind the wheel and started the car.

  Grunseth said, “It’s a damn tragedy is what it is.”

  Hyatt felt a chill rise up through his body to settle in a pool around his heart. His throat tightened. Something was very wrong.

  “Is she … is she okay?”

  Amundson put the car in gear and said to Grunseth, “I don’t see what’s so terrible. She’s eighteen, isn’t she?”

  “She’s twenty-three,” Hyatt said.

  Grunseth said to Hyatt, “Shut up.”

  Amundson said, “They’ll get married, the guy’ll get a better job. Daphne’s not the first kid to start a family that way.”

  Hyatt said, “Hey! What are you talking about? What did you find in there?”

  “Shut up. We’re taking you back to town.”

  “Oh my god.” Hyatt slumped back in the seat. “She’s dead, isn’t she? You have to arrest them. I know who did it. It was the Amaranthines. Polly and Rupe. I knew it. They just left her there, didn’t they?” Hyatt was both horrified and thrilled by the concept. Part of him was thinking that it was no problem if Carmen was dead. He could still make it work. He would be the bereaved fiancé, the survivor of a heinous crime, witness to the horrors visited upon the innocent by the blood-drinking Amaranthines.

  Polly entered the hospital room. “Dr. Bell says the girl’s going to be all right. She’s lost a lot of blood, but she’ll be fine.”

  “Good,” said Rupe. He was propped up on the bed, a cool, wet towel draped over his face and forehead. They were back at Youthmark, Dr. Bell’s private hospital in Rochester. Dr. Bell had given him a couple of capsules; his headache was beginning to subside, but the nausea that had plagued him for the past few weeks was stronger than ever. Sunrise was an hour away.

  “I’m not so sure it is good. What are we going to do with her? I told you Hyatt was up to something.” Polly sat down. “Maybe we should have let her bleed to death.”

  “Don’t say that, my sweet.” Rupe pulled the towel away from his face. The bandages were gone. The flesh around his eyes looked swollen and tender.

  “Why not? You realize that we are about to be savaged, don’t you? Look what he’s done to us!”

  “Nothing. He’s done nothing to us. We have a situation, that’s all. Hyatt will go to the police and make a few wild accusations. The police will go to Stonecrop. They’ll find nothing. We will be here. Dr. Bell said he would vouch for us.”

  “In exchange for a small donation, yes. I don’t trust him any more than I trust Chip.”

  “How is he doing?”

  “He’s sleeping. Dr. Bell gave him a pain shot. A rather potent one, I believe.”

  “Good. The man was in pain.”

  “He’s lucky he’s alive. I could have shot him for a prowler.”

  Rupe shook his head. “No one should die at Stonecrop. You did the right thing.”

  “At least we won’t have to worry about him for a few hours.”

  Polly stood up and went to the window. “Do you know what this is going to look like? The Amaranthine Elders at a plastic surgery clinic? Look at my face! I’m red as a tomato, and you with your eyes all puffy and sore from your surgery. And down the hall we’ve got a bride who was kidnapped by one of our employees, who is a few rooms down the hall with second-degree burns on his scrotum. Even if we can prove that this was all Hyatt’s doing, the press will strip us bare. It’s all about to blow up, Rupe. Between the media and the police and the rest of the hyenas, they’ll rip us open like a wounded lion.”

  Rupe grimaced. “That’s disgusting.” He replaced the moist towel across his face. “I wish you wouldn’t watch those nature shows. They’re all Death Programming.”

  “That’s how it’ll look. We’re facing our Watergate, our Waco. What do you think will happen when they start talking to Chip?”

  “Chip will tell the truth.”

  “That’s what I’m afraid of. He’ll tell them about our surgeries, our actual biological ages, the whole bit. He’s been spying on us, Rupe. I doubt there’s anything he doesn’t know. It’s one thing to have Hyatt out there making wild accusations, but Chip and Hyatt together—that’s really bad. Even if we’re off the hook for the kidnapping, the rest of it will sink us. How many of the Faithful do you think will keep writing us checks when they find out we’ve been lying to them?”

  “Possibly most of them. They want to believe, Polly.”

  “And those that don’t? Stonecrop is going to look to them like a giant scam. How many of the Faithful have you promised private cottages?”

  “Everyone will be taken care of, dearest.”

  “Only if half of them die. Chip is going to sink us, Rupe. He knows everything, and he’s going to talk. He’s lost his faith, just like Hyatt.”

  “You told me he repented.”

  “Yeah, he repented with six ounces of boiling hot tea in his lap and a gun to his head. But what happens when his blisters heal and some reporter gets hold of him? He’ll repent every which way. The man is a dog, Rupe. As for the girl, who knows? I’m still not clear on whether she’s working with Hyatt, or if she even knows what was going on at all. She could’ve died if we hadn’t pulled that tube out of her arm.”

  “We saved her life,” Rupe said. “When we found her she had lost a whole champagne bottle of blood, and then some. She didn’t even know who she was. We should be heroes.”

  “That’s not how the media will see it.”

  They sat without speaking, listening to the faint early morning buzzes and hums and respirations that filled the small hospital. Rupe could hear his pulse thumping in his right ear.

  After a time Rupe said, “Are you sure about that, love? At bottom, they are all Pilgrims.”

  47

  Everyone should have enough money to get plastic surgery.

  —Beverly Johnson, Supermodel

  CROW WAS STILL AWAKE at dawn, standing at the window, watching the sky lighten, waiting for the sun to mount the horizon. The rain had stopped, the clouds were all but gone. At seven o’clock he realized that he was facing west. He reached up with both hands and rubbed his jaw muscles, willing them to relax. His gums hurt from clamping his teeth, and his brain felt heavy. He had mentally rehearsed his next conversation with Debrowski too many times. It no longer had a logical thread, only a kind of dirgelike inevitability. He would confront her with his feelings, support his position with a structure of facts and, if necessary, delineate for her the inevitable balance between rights and obligations in all human relationships. He was sure she’d be impressed.

  Crow returned to the bed. After a time, he slept.

  His first visitor, Wes Larson, was sitting quietly in one of the plastic chairs when Crow awakened.

  When he saw Crow looking at him, Wes nodded. “Good morning.” Wes Larson was not smiling, but he looked content.

  Crow raised the head of his bed, bringing him up to the same altitude as Wes’s thumblike head. “How’s it going?” he said, figuring that Wes would take the question literally and talk for a while, giving him a chance to wake up.

  Wes said, “You awake enough to answer a few quest
ions?” There was a heartiness to his voice, along with a self-assuredness that Crow had never before heard from this social maladroit.

  “I could use a cup of coffee,” said Crow.

  Wes fixed his eyes on Crow, giving him a disconcerting I-am-a-giant-thumb-and-you-are-under-me look. “I don’t think they let you have coffee here,” he said. “You look better than you did last night.”

  “I’m conscious. That’s got to help. Why are you looking like that, Wes?”

  “This is how I always look.”

  “No it’s not. You usually look stern and uncomfortable. Today you just look stern.”

  A ghost of the old Wes appeared and disappeared. “I’m here on business,” he said.

  “Oh.” Crow understood. The last time he’d seen him, Wes was being “old friend.” Now he was being “peace officer,” a role with which he was far more comfortable. “I thought you BCA guys didn’t step in till the locals yelled uncle.”

  “We’re flexible. In this case, I had a prior relationship with one of the parties involved.” Wes removed a small spiral-bound notebook and a pen from the inside pocket of his gray suit.

  “And that would be me?”

  “That’s correct. I’d like you to tell me what happened yesterday afternoon.”

  Crow took a few moments to adjust his blanket and drink some water. He had no reason to hide anything. On the other hand, he didn’t know anything. His memory cut out after seeing that look of surprise on the clerk’s face. But if he said he remembered nothing, he’d get nothing in return.

  “Why don’t you bring me up to speed,” Crow said. “Tell me what you’ve got, and I’ll fill it in for you. If I can.”

  “You were driving a limousine registered to Biggie Industries, correct?”

  “That’s right.”

  “But you are not employed by Biggie Industries.”

  “That’s right. Look, Wes, I’m sort of under the weather here. Haven’t even had my breakfast. I don’t know how many questions I’m going to be able to answer. Maybe you should just tell me where you’re at instead of asking me for answers you already got.”

  Wes glowered at him for a few seconds, then said, “Fair enough. What do you want to know?”

  “Maybe you could start by telling me whether you’ve found the bride and groom.”

  “No and yes.” He consulted his notebook. “Hyatt Hilton showed up with the limousine at four o’clock this morning at the police station in Prescott, Wisconsin, just the other side of the St. Croix. He drove his vehicle directly into one of their patrol cars, then proceeded to tell the officer on duty that his bride had been kidnapped by vampires.”

  “Vampires? What about the bride?” Crow asked.

  “Carmen Roman is still missing.”

  “The vampires have her?”

  “According to Hilton, yes. He said they were doing some sort of weird cult ritual, these—” Wes checked his notebook. “Amaranthines. He reported that they were draining out her blood. The Prescott cop figured he had a chapter fifty-one, but apparently Hilton convinced them to take a ride out to this little church up on the bluffs, where he claimed he’d last seen Miss Roman. There was nobody there. No evidence of foul play. That’s it.”

  “That’s what?”

  “That’s where we’re at.”

  “Where is Hyatt now?”

  “We don’t know.”

  “You couldn’t figure out some excuse to hold him?”

  Wes shrugged. “The Prescott police had him. Like I said, they thought they had a psycho, holding him on a chapter fifty-one, but he walked.”

  “You’re kidding. They just let him leave?”

  “The way the Prescott cop told it, he just turned around and Hilton disappeared.”

  “Turned into a bat or something?”

  “All I have is what the Prescott cop said. At the time, they thought he was just another nut job. They didn’t even know that his missing fiancée even existed. They probably left him unattended, and he walked off. Okay, that’s all we got. Now how about you tell us who it was hit you.”

  “I don’t remember.”

  “You don’t remember?”

  “I didn’t see him.”

  “It was a he?”

  “It could have been a hermaphroditic Martian, for all I know. All I remember is going into the Clark station, and then I woke up here. That’s it.”

  “So it could have been anybody hit you. It could have been Hilton.”

  “I suppose. Why don’t you talk to the clerk? Didn’t he see the guy?”

  Wes frowned and put away his notebook. “He gave the investigating officers a statement, but when we attempted a follow-up interview we were unable to locate him. He gave us a fake name. We believe he was an illegal. Or maybe he was in on it.”

  “In on what?”

  “Whatever. We’re trying to get hold of the station owner. It’s not clear from what the clerk said, in his initial interview, what actually happened. He just said a ‘man in black’ came in and clobbered you and stole all his Snickers. It could easily have been your buddy Hilton.”

  “You like Hyatt for kidnapping his own bride? Why would he do that?”

  “We were hoping you could tell us.”

  “Sorry. I think you got yourselves a mystery.”

  “Good morning!”

  Crow looked past Wes and saw Debrowski holding a Starbucks tray, two tall coffees. A small duffel bag was slung over her shoulder. She walked in and set the tray on the bedside table.

  “You were sleeping so hard before, I thought you could use some real bean.”

  “Wes has been helping me to full consciousness,” Crow said.

  Debrowski nodded to Wes. “You want a coffee?”

  “No thanks, I was just leaving.” Wes stood abruptly. “We’ll talk later,” he said to Crow.

  “Anytime,” said Crow.

  Crow and Debrowski watched him leave, then looked at each other.

  “Was that fun?” Debrowski asked.

  “A blast.” He decided to plunge. “We have to talk,” he said, giving the word a portentous ring.

  “Oh?” Debrowski drew back, startled. “You mean you and me?”

  “Yeah …” Crow faltered. “Uh, they told me Hyatt turned up in Prescott.”

  “That’s right. How are you feeling?”

  “Not too bad, but I still don’t remember anything. Wes seems to think it was Hyatt that bopped me.”

  “That’s not what the clerk said.”

  “They told me the clerk disappeared. All he told them was it was a guy dressed in black.”

  “Yeah. A stocky guy dressed up like a ninja. That doesn’t sound like Hyatt. Is that what you wanted to talk about?”

  “No. I want to talk about you and me.”

  “Oh!” Debrowski looked down at the bag in her hands, thrust it toward him. “You want to check out of this dive? I brought you some clothes.”

  “Yeah.” Crow sat up. “A ninja? A Japanese guy?”

  “He didn’t say that. What he said was, ‘a ninja with a nose like a pig.’”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “I don’t know. Is that all you wanted to ‘talk’ about? I was hoping for something juicy.”

  “Just a second.” Crow held up a hand. He felt a memory coming, a black, gauzy image. Black shoes. “Just a second.” Blank pants. He closed his eyes and remembered being in the Clark station, seeing the clerk’s bored eyes widen. He remembered turning to see what the clerk was seeing. A pair of nostrils.

  “Crow?”

  Crow opened his eyes.

  “You okay?”

  “I remember now, the guy that hit me. You want to know something amazing?”

  “Always.”

  “I think Hyatt Hilton might be telling the truth.”

  Carmen woke up in the land with thick air. It was a familiar atmosphere, but an unfamiliar room. She sat up slowly, the air sliding past her face. A motel? The furnishings—a bed; a bedside table
; a television mounted high on the wall; thick, ugly curtains over the window—had the anonymous quality of a Motel 6. She swung her legs over the edge of the mattress, let her feet touch the floor. Cold linoleum. She had never been in a motel room with linoleum floors. But she had been stoned before. She was stoned now, on something really strong. She hadn’t felt like this since she’d tried Quaaludes, back when she was just thirteen.

  Carmen looked down. She was no longer wearing her wedding dress. She was wearing a loose cotton gown, open at the back.

  She remembered riding in a car with pig-face Chip, an older man with a bandage over his eyes, and a woman with big hair. She remembered waking up later and watching the fat doctor giving her something in her arm, smiling as he did it. Whatever the stuff was, it had knocked her out long enough for them to undress her and get her into bed. The fat doctor had probably intended for her to sleep for hours, but he hadn’t taken into account the size of her liver. Carmen stood up. Her legs were a bit wobbly, but the thick air helped. She moved toward the window, eight slow-motion steps, and parted the curtains. Bright daylight flooded the room. She was on the first floor, looking out onto a small park with benches, picnic tables, and dew on the grass. She could be anywhere. She did not know how long she had slept. She was sure of only two things: That Hy’s plan had gone kablooey—no surprise there—and that it would be in her best interest to get out of this place. She considered simply climbing out the window. Why not? She raised the window. No alarms, but the cool air raised goose bumps. She would go, but first she needed to find something to wear.

  Daytime drama star Wayne Savage, recovering from a chin and hair implant doubleheader, was awakened from his morning nap by a soft, clicking sound. In his dream, the sound had been a pair of geishas making music with chopsticks. He opened his eyes. A long-haired figure in a hospital gown stood at his closet looking through his clothes. The sound was that of plastic clothes hangers clacking together. Wayne worked his tongue around his mouth preparing to say something when he noticed that the back of the gown was open, revealing a nicely rounded female posterior. He decided to withhold comment and see what developed.

  The girl suddenly froze, then turned her head and looked back at him. Wayne remained very still, watching through nearly closed eyes. A pretty, sleepy-looking girl. She watched him for a few seconds, apparently decided he was still asleep, and shrugged the gown from her shoulders. Her body was full and round and much appreciated by Wayne, who had had his fill of the emaciated Hollywood type. This girl would look like a cow on film, but live in person she was a goddess.