“Grandfather has already yielded,” Soussan said in a soft, sibilant whisper that sounded almost crystalline in the frigid mountain air. “Can’t you see?”
“Say it in words, Sensei!”
The old Japanese slowly sank to his knees, then bowed over and touched his forehead to the tops of Chant’s sneakers. “You are Sensei now, John,” Bai murmured. “I am the pupil. I yield. My life is yours.”
“Get up, Sensei.”
“You defeated him when you defeated me, Chant,” Soussan said. “There was only one door I needed to see through, and it was the one where I found you and love on the other side. I do love you, Chant.”
“Truth?”
“Truth. Love has value. Love is also power, obviously, but it is so very, very much more that it makes a lie of almost everything Grandfather has ever told me.”
“Get up, Sensei,” Chant repeated.
The woman grasped the back of her grandfather’s robe, gently lifting him to his feet. The old man’s face was impassive, his eyes as cold and barren as the windswept ground on which they stood. Soussan kissed the old man gently on the cheek, then turned to Chant.
“Now I am yours forever—if you will have me. No matter what you think, I honestly believe that Grandfather is not ‘dead,’ as you claim. I believe in my heart that Grandfather loves both of us, and wanted you to win.” She paused, bowed her head slightly. “Will you have me, Chant? May I come with you?”
Chant felt, and struggled to ignore, the throbbing in his groin and the wild hammering of his heart. He remembered what had happened to his three opponents, and he kept his kodachi raised. “First things first, Soussan,” he said in a voice that he somehow managed to keep steady. “My car is parked down on the service road. Let’s go … both of you.”
Soussan shrugged, cocked her head to one side and winked at him—this time with her black eye. “To poor Mr. Baldauf’s place, of course.”
“Of course.”
Soussan laughed with a sound like that of ice tinkling in a glass. “Won’t he be surprised? At least he’ll finally get to see what John Sinclair really looks like.”
Chant granted, then motioned to the right with his kodachi. “Soussan, Sensei … please.”
With Chant following behind, the ninja master and his granddaughter walked across the clearing and through a thick stand of fir trees to Chant’s car.
“Grandfather has yielded,” Soussan said over her shoulder, “and I have told you that I love you. But you still don’t trust us, do you?”
“Let’s just say that I’m an extremely cautious man, Soussan.”
“I put an arrow through those men’s heads to save your life.”
“Perhaps they were already dead men.”
“They didn’t look that way to me when Kiyama was getting ready to split your skull.”
Chant did not reply. He motioned Bai and Soussan away from the car while he opened the door, then reached under the dashboard and removed the .45 automatic he had taped there. He leveled the gun on the man and woman, then reached across the space between them and took Soussan’s bow from her hands. He threw it, her quiver of arrows and his sword off into the woods.
“Do you drive?” he asked Soussan in a curt tone.
“Sure do.” The woman grinned, shook her head, then suddenly burst into laughter. “Chant, I love you so much! It’s an incredible feeling!”
“Let’s go. Sensei, please ride in the front with your granddaughter.”
The old Japanese, moving like an automaton, got into the front seat while Soussan walked around the car and slid in behind the wheel. Chant got into the back, slumped down in a corner and kept his gun trained on a spot between the heads of the man and woman.
“You won’t need the gun when we get to the mansion, Chant,” Soussan said as she drove expertly down the steep, narrow service road toward the main highway.
“Why not?”
“There are no guards. Grandfather told Baldauf that it was an insult for him to keep guards around when he was under our personal protection. As you may have noticed, my grandfather scares Baldauf even more than you do; the guards went.”
“Where’s Baldauf?”
“I can’t be certain, but if things hold true to form he’ll be in the library, waiting for a report on the evening’s activities. You should see how anxious he gets. It’s really quite amusing.”
“I’ll bet.”
“Are you going to kill him?”
“I don’t know; I haven’t decided yet. If he weren’t responsible for so much death and suffering, I’d almost feel sorry for him. Whatever happens, I think it’s a safe bet that he won’t hire ninja again.”
Soussan laughed lightly. “That does sound like a safe bet.”
As Soussan had indicated, there were no guards around the mansion.
“Happy New Year,” Chant announced as the three of them walked into the dimly lighted library and found Wilbur Baldauf, dressed in an open-necked white shirt and black cardigan sweater, sitting behind a newly installed desk that matched the one that had been smashed by Ko. “I’m John Sinclair. I understand you’ve been looking for me, Mr. Baldauf.”
Baldauf had just been raising his cigar to his lips. The fat hand froze in midair and the lit cigar dropped to the desk top as he stared into the cold, iron-colored eyes of the tall, solidly built, black-clad man who motioned for the Japanese man and woman to stand to the side against a wall, then approached him. He opened his mouth to speak, but no sound would come out. Sweat broke out in great droplets on his face, rolled down his flesh to drip in his lap. His pale green eyes were wide with terror.
Chant picked up the cigar off the desk, dropped it on the Chinese carpet at his feet and ground it out with the toe of his sneaker. Then he put the bore of the .45 between Baldauf’s eyes.
“Did your relatives give you their powers of attorney before they left?” Chant asked quietly.
Baldauf, eyes raised and slightly crossed as he stared at the gun at his head, nodded.
“Where are the papers?”
“B-bank.”
“Pick up the telephone and get somebody to open the bank and bring the papers here.”
“Ca—…can’t.”
“Why not? It’s your bank; it’ll open when you say it opens.”
“Safe deposit box …” Baldauf swallowed, finally found his voice. “You’re that Colonel Fox; I recognize your voice.”
“Pick up the telephone.”
“You’re not going to pull that trigger, are you?”
“I most certainly am—if you don’t do what I tell you.”
“The box is in a vault with a time lock. It won’t open until eight.”
Chant studied the man, decided that Baldauf was telling the truth. He glanced at his watch, then—still keeping his gun trained on Baldauf’s head—sat down in an overstuffed chair near the desk and crossed his legs. “We’ll wait,” he said casually. “You can start calling your lawyers around dawn; I’m sure you pay them enough so that they won’t mind starting work a bit early. By the time the vault opens, we should have most of the paperwork out of the way. You have at least another four hours to live, Baldauf. Breathe it all in; think about it, and see if you want to keep living. If you do, the price is that you turn over everything the Baldaufs own to the Hmong.”
Baldauf turned to look at Bai, who scarcely seemed to be breathing. “Goddam you!” Baldauf shouted at the Japanese, rising out of his chair and pounding his fist on the desk.
“Sit down, Baldauf,” Chant said evenly, “and keep your hands on the desk. Get up again, and you’ll be signing papers in the morning with your left arm in a sling.”
Baldauf slowly sank back into his chair, but he continued to glare at the old Japanese. “You Jap asshole,” Baldauf whispered in fury as his face reddened. “You Jap asshole fake! You said everything was going to be fine. Don’t worry, was what you said; Sinclair was a dead man. Jap asshole! Jap fake!”
Bai abruptly sat down
on the floor and crossed his legs under him, beneath the long, flowing robe. He sucked in a deep breath, slowly exhaled, then sat up very straight and crossed his arms over his chest. “For your fee, Mr. Baldauf,” Bai said in a low, even voice, “a rare spectacle. My fee, and my Baldauf Industries shares, will be transferred to the Hmong, of course.” He turned to Chant, bowed his head. “What I asked you to do, Sensei John Sinclair, I now do myself.”
“Grandfather?!”
“Sensei!” Chant shouted. “No!”
Soussan grabbed for her grandfather’s arm at the same time as Chant leaped out of his chair, but they were both too late. The frail hand that emerged from the folds of the billowing sleeve held a long, curved dagger. Without hesitation, Bai plunged the dagger into his left side, drew the blade across his belly.
Soussan shrieked and leaped back as the old ninja master’s entrails hit the floor with a plopping sound, slowly oozed out from beneath the folds of his robe. Bai’s faint smile relaxed into a grimace as his eyes closed, and he fell over on his side.
Suddenly the air in the library was pungent with the smell of blood, undigested food, and fecal matter—then vomit, as Baldauf threw up over the desk and into his lap.
“No, don’t!” Soussan cried, intercepting Chant with a hand on his chest as he started toward the body “There’s nothing you can do. He’s dead.”
“We can get him out of here,” Chant replied softly, putting his arms around the woman’s shoulders and holding her tight.
“No.” Soussan pushed Chant away, turned to face Baldauf, who was trembling violently in his chair, vomit dripping from the corners of his mouth. “I believe I heard you call my grandfather a ‘Jap asshole fake’, you fat pig. He couldn’t deliver what he had promised, so he decided to give you his life in exchange. Now that you’ve lost everything your family owns, if not your life, perhaps you’d care to follow Grandfather’s example? You can even use his knife; it’s still warm, so you won’t even feel a chill in your belly when you slice it open.”
Baldauf’s answer was to vomit up the little bile that was still left in his stomach; when that was gone, he continued to heave dryly, gasping for air.
“I’ll get the Hmong to take the body away and prepare it for burial, Soussan. Sensei Bai will be treated with respect; you can go with them to make certain. You won’t be harmed. This duel is finished.”
Soussan shook her head. “You said we would wait until dawn.”
“Soussan, this isn’t necessary.”
“Chant, I am yours—and I will do as you say. But it is my wish to stay here with you until this business is concluded. It is also my wish that my grandfather’s body remain where it is until dawn, so that Mr. Baldauf may reflect upon the man he called a ‘Jap asshole fake.’ If you will permit it, I would keep vigil, here, with my grandfather until the sun rises. It will be the end of an old life, the beginning of a new. You understand the importance of ritual.”
Chant thought about it, finally nodded. “Cover him.”
“As you wish,” Soussan murmured. She went across the room, yanked down a large, silver-thread tapestry, lovingly draped it over her grandfather’s blood-smeared body.
“You don’t get such consideration,” Chant said as he turned to the fat, green-faced man who was still sitting behind the desk, as he had been told to do. “It’s bad enough that I have to smell you for the rest of the night; I’m not going to sit here and smell your puke. Get it cleaned up—now. I don’t care if you have to eat it.”
Trembling, Baldauf rose and looked around. He stepped around his chair, pulled another tapestry down from the wall behind him, used that to wipe his mouth and clothes, and to cover his sickness. Then he sat back down, folded his hands on the desk and looked pleadingly at Chant.
“You’d damn well better pull yourself together before morning, Baldauf,” Chant continued in a low voice. “You’ve got a lot of important papers to sign, and—just as important—a good show to put on. I want this transfer airtight, with no court challenges later on. If I don’t like your performance, I may call the whole thing off and pull you apart like a chicken. I’m getting a little tired of fucking around with you.”
Baldauf nodded quickly. Chant grunted, turned away.
Soussan was kneeling, head bowed and hands in her lap, beside the tapestry-draped body.
Chant sat down again in the easy chair and leaned back. And waited.
EIGHTEEN
Still, something was wrong.
Chant knew he was not centered—he felt as if his kai were diffused, his powers waxing and waning dangerously, like a candle flame in a wind; he felt as if he might fly apart at any moment.
He was afraid, and he did not understand why.
Across the room, Soussan was still kneeling by her grandfather’s body, unmoving, her head and shoulders bent low.
He wanted this woman more than he had ever wanted any other, Chant thought; indeed, he wanted her more than he had ever wanted anything. Even now, with the smell of her grandfather’s guts permeating the air, he ached with desire; he wanted to take her at that moment, spread her legs wide and enter her on the floor, next to the body, in front of Baldauf.… He didn’t care.
He had triumphed over his most dangerous opponent, Chant thought, triumphed over seemingly impossible odds; he had achieved what he wanted for the Hmong; he had defeated Baldauf, as well as Master Bai and Bai’s three superkillers. He had won his greatest triumph, and a woman like no other.
And yet …
Something was terribly wrong.
… used as a weapon against the poison in your heart.
Slowly, experiencing an incredible weakness in his knees that shouldn’t be there, Chant rose from the chair. Baldauf, whose flesh was still tinged green after an hour, started in fright. Soussan, sensing the movement, turned and looked at Chant inquiringly.
“I have to go out for a couple of hours, Soussan,” Chant said quietly. “I’ll be back before dawn.”
Soussan frowned. “Why, Chant Where are you going?”
“I wish to honor Master Bai in my own way, Soussan.”
“Chant,” Soussan whispered, a promise of paradise in her voice, “I don’t want you to go.”
“I … must.”
Soussan stared at him strangely for some time, then bowed her head. “As you wish, my darling. We’ll be here when you get back.”
“I need help.”
Kim Chi blinked away sleep as she stared at the man standing in the doorway of her apartment John Sinclair, this man she had loved for so long, now seemed like a stranger to her. His iron-colored eyes were unnaturally bright, their color shimmering with conflict and pain that was not physical. His face was gaunt, his lips drawn back from his teeth, as if he were desperately struggling to contain a pressure that could blow him apart at any moment.
“Yes,” Kim Chi said simply as she took his huge, heavily muscled hand in her own tiny hand and pulled him into the room, shutting the door behind her with her foot. She gently touched the scars on his cheek and throat. “How can I serve you, Chant?”
“I must ask you to do something which you may find shameful, Kim Chi, and I cannot explain why I want you to do it.”
Kim Chi wrapped both her hands around Chant’s, squeezed it hard. His flesh felt cold, clammy. “You don’t have to give me a reason for anything, Chant. It is enough that you ask. I have said that I love you, and with love must go trust. Nothing I could do for, or with, you would be shameful to me.”
Shadows moved across the iron-colored eyes. “I must ask you to make love to me as you’ve never made love before. Forgive me for asking like this, but it’s what I need. Arouse me—make me want you. Please.”
Without a word, Kim Chi removed her nightgown and panties. Then she began undressing Chant.
For more than an hour Kim Chi caressed, stroked, kissed, sucked, and licked Chant’s body while Chant lay passively on the bed, staring at the ceiling. Although the room was warm and Kim Chi’s flesh glisten
ed with perspiration, Chant’s skin remained cold and dry.
His penis remained flaccid.
“Chant, what’s wrong with you? What’s wrong?”
He said nothing, and Kim Chi redoubled her efforts, desperately trying to arouse him—all to no avail. Finally Chant gently but firmly pushed her away from him. He would not look into her eyes.
“Chant?” Kim Chi whispered hoarsely. Her body was trembling now with exhaustion, but also with an amorphous fear, which she could not name, but which gripped her heart and lungs like an iron fist. “What has she done to you?”
She waited, watched with growing horror as he slowly sat up, then abruptly traced the scar on his cheek with his index finger. She had never seen him like this, his face contorted into a rigid, tortured mask reflecting pain, grief, loss … and rage.
Tears welled in Chant’s eyes, rolled down his cheeks, dripped off his chin to soak the sheets along with Kim Chi’s sweat.
“I will heal you, Chant,” Kim Chi whispered softly. “Whatever she’s done to you, I will heal you. If you’ll let me.”
“Kim Chi,” Chant groaned, “I don’t think you can. I don’t.”
“No! You haven’t lost yet, Chant! I won’t let you be defeated!”
NINETEEN
Chant entered the library with his .45 automatic drawn. Soussan was still standing beside her grandfather’s tapestry-draped body, and Baldauf was still sitting rigidly behind his desk.
Soussan glanced up, gasped audibly when she saw Chant’s face “Darling, what’s the matter?”
Chant walked across the library to where Soussan was kneeling, kicked the bloody knife Bai had used off into a shadowy corner. “Get up, Sensei,” Chant said in a low, taut voice. “We’re not going to wait until dawn for this particular ceremony.”
He waited three heartbeats, then perfunctorily fired four bullets into the outline of the body under the tapestry—one slug into each knee and elbow.
Fresh blood welled up through the bullet holes, staining the silver-and-gold weave, and there was a muffled cry of surprise and pain. Watching Soussan carefully with his peripheral vision, Chant hooked the toe of his sneaker under the edge of the tapestry and kicked it away to reveal the writhing, softly moaning figure of the old, crippled ninja. As Bai rolled to his left, his long robe rode up over his waist to reveal the shreds of the rubber bladder he had strapped around his body to contain the animal blood and entrails that had rolled out on the floor when he had slashed through his robe with his knife:
Chant Page 18
