Dream of a Falling Eagle m-14

by George C. Chesbro

  I pretended to ponder his invitation, then said, "I guess there's nothing left except to tell you I know your secret, and I know you're a liar. I know what's really going on here."

  He looked genuinely puzzled, and he absently ran a bloodstained hand back through his thick, white hair. "What do you mean, I'm a liar?"

  I nodded toward the bulge in the front of his robe. "All this chitchat and the anticipation of what you're eventually going to do excites you. That hard-on you've got tells me this whole business is more about sex than power, voodoo or otherwise. You're no voodoo master. Blow out your candles, and you're just a garden-variety necrophiliac who likes to dress up and who gets his rocks off by carving people up, or ordering them carved up. Do you eat your kills?"

  He didn't like that at all. His dark eyes flashed with anger, and he took a step backward. I'd put Dr. Guy Fournier in high dudgeon. "I am a voodoo master!" he announced indignantly.

  "Yeah, yeah, yeah. What you are is a corpse-fucker with a CIA day job. When you're not fucking stiffs, you're jerking off thinking about them. You may know a lot about Garth and me, but I also know a lot about people like you. I used to make a living writing papers and lecturing about people like you. Since you're going to kill us anyway, the least you can do is spare me all your voodoo bullshit. Probably everything else you've been telling me is bullshit too. Shadow Ops, indeed. You're just one more CIA flunky, probably a contract killer. Freaks like you are a dime a dozen. You're no different from Piggott; you may have known a little more, but the company still used both of you like Kleenex. You killed your flunkies when their usefulness was at an end, so don't be surprised if your masters dispose of you when all this is over."

  Color rose on his high cheekbones. "You are wrong, Frederick-son."

  I heard Garth stir. I turned my head to the left, saw that he had regained consciousness. He had raised his head and was looking around. Our eyes met, and he said evenly, "I'm going to kill that damn horse."

  My laughter was loud, long, and genuine. "Now, Garth, let's not blame our ill fortune on some dumb animal."

  "I specifically asked the stable manager for a nice horse. You remember?"

  "Your horse was very nice. You just didn't know how to ride her. But it's all worked out. Look who we've found."

  "This creep is Fournier?"

  "That's him."

  "How come he's got a hard-on?"

  "Actually, we were just discussing that phenomenon. He's a corpse-fucker, a necrophiliac. Think Jeffrey Dahmer with a Ph.D. in a high-rent district. Guy Fournier, I'd like to introduce you to my brother, Garth."

  "A corpse-fucker," Garth said, clucking his tongue. "That's interesting. Listen, Mongo, whatever plan of escape you've developed, I hope it doesn't involve horses."

  "No horses. The fact of the matter is that I've been waiting for you to wake up so that you can tell Fournier here to go fuck himself."

  "Me? Why don't you do it?"

  "I thought you should do it."

  "We'll flip a coin."

  "I always lose coin tosses with you. Actually, I've been trying to convince Guy that it would be in his best interests to surrender to us."

  "Any luck?"

  "The jury's still out. I suspect he's thinking about it. I mentioned the fact that, sooner or later, Veil or Chant Sinclair will feed him his balls if he kills us."

  "Be quiet!" Fournier snapped, abruptly stepping forward into the narrow space between the two tables and glaring down at me. The nostrils in his aquiline nose flared, and his lips were compressed in a thin line. "I already caught this act of yours back in my office, Frederickson. You couldn't fool me again, even if you were in a position to capitalize on it."

  "Damn. If you won't surrender, and I can't fool you, what am I supposed to do?"

  "This seeming nonchalance in the face of death, this witty banter with your captors; it's described in your dossier. It's a game you play. You're trying to throw me off guard, trick me."

  "Is it working?"

  Fournier's response was to suddenly extend the knife toward my brother's face, holding the tip of the blade less than an inch from his right eyeball. A chill rippled through me, and I quickly looked away so that Fournier couldn't see the terror on my face. He said, "I think you'll find the situation less amusing when I start stabbing your brother's eyes out."

  "You can make us scream, Fournier," I replied quickly, turning my head back to meet his gaze. "That's no big trick, and it's been done before. That doesn't make you a voodoo master. No matter what you do to us, you're still just a corpse-fucker with delusions of grandeur."

  "Yeah," Garth said evenly, looking directly at the knife tip millimeters from his eyeball. "So go fuck yourself."

  The Haitian's eyes rolled back up into his head. He turned toward Garth, wrapped both hands around the elongated handle of the knife and raised the blade over his head, directly above Garth's chest. Then he began to chant softly in Creole.

  My heart pounding and my breath catching in my throat, I strained with all my strength at the leather strap around my right wrist. Blood flowed, ligaments stretched, joints creaked-and suddenly my right hand slipped free. But I'd run out of time.

  "Die!" Fournier shouted in English, and went up on his toes to drive the knife into Garth's chest.

  Incredibly, it looked like Mongo the Magnificent was going to slip from the jaws of death one more time, escaping even this second encounter with Guy Fournier, and indeed killing at least one of the people primarily responsible for Moby Dickens' death.

  Mongo the Magnificent was not impressed.

  The professor was in a killing frenzy, intoxicated with his voodoo rites and sexual pathology. It would only take me a few seconds to unbuckle the straps from my ankles and left wrist, and I was sure Guy Fournier was planning to dawdle much longer than that with the business of plunging the knife home into Garth's chest, and then carving out his heart. Fournier would be dead, his neck broken, long before he finished the job. But Garth would be dead too. Not that his sacrifice wouldn't have been worthwhile. If I survived, there was still a chance I could prevent the assassinations of the president and vice president and the hijacking of the country. With what I now knew and with Fournier's corpse in tow, along with any other evidence I might find in this place, it was even possible I could take it over the top and put lots of CIA people, if not their whole apparatus, out of business permanently. With both of us dead, however, Fournier and his CIA handlers would just keep on truckin', possibly for a very long time, in a fascist America under the stewardship of President William P. Kranes. Garth's loss of life would not only serve to save mine, but also, in all likelihood, that of the United States of America. The stakes were astronomical, and so using Garth's death to save myself, kill Fournier, and put an end to all the impending brand of insanity seemed the only sane thing to do.

  But Mongo the Magnificent was still not moved by the logic of his thinking. Not long before, when I had been about to throw Moby Dickens out of my office, Garth had reminded me of the things that were meaningful, and I didn't need another reminder. I found that the prospect of survival, or of William P. Kranes becoming president, or the CIA prevailing, or the prospect of a fascist America, no longer interested me at all. What was important was that I hadn't had a chance to say good-bye to my brother.

  "Hey, shithead!" I shouted, reaching across my body with my free hand, grabbing a fistful of yellow robe, and yanking hard just as Fournier started to plunge the knife downward. "You've got a loose dwarf back here!"

  My yank had thrown Fournier off balance and thrown off his aim. The knife blade missed Garth and glanced off the edge of the marble tabletop. At least I had the satisfaction of giving the Haitian a good scare, because he must have jumped at least a foot in the air as he uttered a high-pitched sound that sounded like the yip of a small dog. When he came back down to earth he spun around, and his eyes went wide and his mouth dropped open when he saw me clawing frantically with my free right hand at the buckle of the
strap on my left wrist. I ceased my token effort and lay back down on the cold marble when Fournier pressed the knife to my throat.

  "Mongo!"

  "Just wanted to say good-bye, Garth! I love you, and it's been a hell of a ride!"

  "Cut him and you die, sir! If that hand with the knife so much as twitches, I'll blow you in two!"

  Wooaa. My heart skipped a beat or three, squeezed by both astonishment and hope. I could feel warm blood trickling down my neck, but my throat wasn't slashed, because I was still breathing through my nose and mouth as opposed to spraying blood all over the ceiling. The pressure of the sharp steel on my flesh eased somewhat, and then the knife moved away a few inches to where I could see it. I turned slightly, craned my neck a little to look behind me to where the voice had come from, and saw. . Francisco. He looked very pale, but his hands were steady. The shiny, new double-barreled shotgun he was aiming at Guy Fournier's chest still had the price tag dangling from the trigger guard.

  "Francisco!" I said, giggling hysterically. "I hope you don't think that working late like this means I'm going to pay you overtime!"

  "You promoted me to associate investigator, sir. I assumed that meant I was no longer working on the clock, so I couldn't qualify for overtime any more."

  Garth said, "Mongo, you promoted this employee to associate investigator without consulting me?"

  "Hey, I'm the senior partner, remember? Besides, the promotion was only temporary."

  "Well, I suggest we make the promotion permanent."

  "Agreed. Francisco, your promotion to associate investigator is now officially permanent."

  "Thank you, sir."

  "You're welcome. You've earned it. Now shoot this son of a bitch, will you?"

  Fournier, who'd suffered his second severe shock in less than a minute, didn't seem to know quite what to make of our business discussion, although he was clearly not amused by it. Still, the expression on his triangular face was almost comical. He kept blinking very rapidly, as if in disbelief, and his thin lips were again pressed together so tightly that white, bloodless lines had appeared at the corners of his mouth. His bright, expressive eyes swam with both rage and confusion as he abruptly pressed the blade back against my jugular and moved closer to me to where he was almost lying across my chest. "Drop that gun, Francisco," he said, his deep voice quavering ever so slightly. "If you don't, this man dies right now. I'll slice his head right off."

  "Then you'll die too. I'll give you both barrels right in the gut."

  Francisco's tone was perfectly even, steadier than Fournier's. I was impressed. I said, "Just shoot him, Francisco."

  "I can't do that without risk of hitting you, sir. The shells are loaded with buckshot. I don't know much about guns, and I didn't want to take a chance on missing the target if I did have to shoot."

  "If you'll pardon the expression, Francisco, I can live with that risk. He won't back off because he has everything to lose, and we can't hang around here all night. That's what he wants. He knows that the longer you stand there holding that big gun, the heavier it's going to start to feel. The muscles in your hands and arms will begin to cramp. He figures that sooner or later you'll lose your aim or drop your guard. Then he'll slit my throat and try to duck away behind the tables. So drop the bastard now while you've got the chance, before your muscles start to get sore. I'm your boss, and I'm ordering you to stop worrying about me and pull the fucking trigger."

  "Belay that order, Francisco," my brother said quietly.

  "You didn't have to tell me that, Garth," Francisco said dryly. "Now that I'm a permanent associate investigator, I have to make critical decisions like that myself."

  I watched Fournier's Adam's apple bob up and down. "He's as insane as the two of you," he said in a strained whisper.

  I grunted. "Must be something in the air at the brownstone."

  "He makes clever remarks when you're about to die!"

  "No, he makes clever remarks when you're about to die."

  The pressure of the knife blade against my throat increased ever so slightly. "Make him put the gun down, Frederickson," he whispered hoarsely, his mouth close to my ear. "Otherwise, I'll slaughter you like a pig. If he does put the gun down, I'll leave here without hurting you."

  "Go fuck yourself, Professor. First of all, you lie, and even if you weren't a liar I don't want you going anywhere. You're the voodoo master; you make him put the gun down. Cast a spell on him. If you were really a voodoo master instead of a weirdo who jerks off thinking about dead bodies, that's what you'd do. Go on, Fournier; voodoo him."

  Fournier lifted his head away from my chest and stared down at me. Strange shadows moved in his midnight eyes, and his expression changed. I couldn't tell what he was thinking, but the razor edge of the knife blade remained pressed snugly against my carotid artery.

  "Be careful, shithead," Garth said, chuckling. "Watch out for my brother. I'm telling you he's a silver-tongued devil. He can talk people into anything, and right now he's trying to talk you into getting yourself killed."

  "Shit, Garth," I said. "There you go again, letting the cat out of the bag. You take all the fun out of things."

  "I just like to see you fight fair, Mongo. You're the only sorcerer in this room, but this shithead doesn't realize it. I just thought he should be given fair warning of who he's up against."

  "You're such a spoilsport."

  "Fournier, I'm warning you that you'd better think twice before you do anything my brother suggests, because, even strapped to that table, he has more personal power and will than you've ever had, or will have. All you've got is a knife, a hard-on, and a line of bullshit. Let him into your head, and you're a goner."

  "Spoilsport, spoilsport."

  "So let's stop fucking around here, Fournier. As things now stand, two of us are going to die here tonight-Mongo, when you think the time is right and you suddenly cut his throat, and you when Francisco shows you what a mistake you've made and blows a hole through your chest. That will leave just Francisco and me to put an end to this assassination business and then spread the word that Dr.

  Guy Fournier, renowned hero to millions of Haitians, was never more than a flunky murderer for the CIA and a corpse-fucker, and really stupid to boot. There's no point in killing my brother, because it means instant death for you. What's the point? Give it up. You'd have saved yourself all this extra aggravation if you'd just followed my brother's suggestion in the first place and surrendered. Like Mongo said, we'll see that you're safely tucked away somewhere. Just think of how much fun you'll have testifying before Congress and curling the toes of all those pompous, chickenshit politicians."

  Somewhat to my surprise, the Haitian appeared to be giving it some thought. "It's too late to stop the assassinations," he said at last in a throaty whisper. "There won't be any congressional committees to testify to. They'll kill me."

  I cleared my throat. "Oh, don't be such a pessimist, Professor. I think Garth has made some excellent points. The president and vice president may already be dead, but don't forget that William P. Kranes isn't going to remain in office very long once Garth and Francisco leave here and the whole story comes out. Maybe I won't talk you into killing yourself after all. Why don't we all just walk out of here together, and Garth and I will introduce you to some of our FBI acquaintances. Garth's right; they'll fall all over themselves when they hear the dirt you have to dish on the CIA. And we promise not to tell anyone you're just a silly old corpse-fucker. What do you say? Ollie Ollie in come free?"

  He didn't have anything to say, at least not for some time. Finally he leaned close once again and whispered in my ear, "You and your brother make fun of me. You don't think it can be done, do you?"

  "Uh … I don't think what can be done?"

  Fournier, still keeping the knife blade pressed to my throat, straightened up and turned toward Francisco. "You're Roman Catholic, aren't you?"

  "Yes," Francisco replied evenly.

  Fournier very slowly reach
ed across my body with his free hand, pressed my right arm back down on the marble, closed the leather strap around my bleeding wrist, and buckled it tightly. "Do you know that I'm a Roman Catholic priest, Francisco?" His voice was once again confident and steady, low and soothing.

  "You were a priest. I don't think the Holy Father would approve of your activities."

  "Once a priest, my son, always a priest. No matter what your reason, kill me and you'll burn forever in the fires of hell. You'll have committed a mortal sin in killing me, a sin made even more grievous by the fact that the man you murdered was a priest. There can be no forgiveness."

  Incredibly, Guy Fournier-prodded by Garth's masterful, if off-the-wall, goading-seemed to be taking up my challenge to persuade Francisco to put down the shotgun.

  "Watch out, Francisco," I said through clenched teeth, drawing in my chin as far as I could in an effort to ease the pressure of the knife blade on my carotid artery. "He's making a run at your head."

  "I'm aware of that, sir."

  "Shoot him, don't talk to him."

  "Not yet, Francisco," Garth said softly. "He's still too close to Mongo."

  "I know, Garth."

  "Do you want to burn in hell, Francisco?"

  "You're to drop the knife, release those restraints, and then move away from the tables. Then nobody has to die."

  "You're also homosexual, aren't you?"

  Francisco did not reply.

  "That, too, is a mortal sin. But I can forgive you, Francisco. I can give you grace."

  "I don't need your forgiveness, Mr. Fournier. My parish priest is homosexual."

  "Which of these men do you love, Francisco?"

  "Both of them, but not in the way you mean." Our new permanent associate investigator paused, then added wryly, "They're not my type."

  "Sexually, you mean. Am I your type?"

  "Are you propositioning me, Mr. Fournier?"

  "I'm offering you the best sex you've ever had, Francisco, but also so much more than that." He paused, used his free hand to slowly raise his robe to expose his priapic condition, then continued, "I offer you forgiveness."