Tales from the Crossroad, Volume 1

by Tom Piccirilli

  But the car vanished in traffic and the world stayed the same, and he knew he'd only dreamed the girl was death, like he'd dreamed the boy with the question, because death was something else, and it found you sometimes if you looked for it, and it found you sometimes when you didn't. But it always found you, like it found everybody, at the last. The girl wasn't the enemy, any more than the boy from his dreams, or the bullies, or the cold, snowy nights that had embraced him, or the girl who'd come and gone from his life.

  It was death that was the enemy.

  The police and social worker dropped Charlie off at an animal shelter, then took Antonio to a hospital. After being checked in, standing alone in the bathroom, he stared into the mirror, into his father's eyes. And through those dead man's eyes he saw he wasn't a boy, or a ghost, or someone choking in a cloud of poison gas released from subterranean hells, or even the cast of a dead person taken from a hollow found in volcanic earth.

  He was the hollow in the hard earth where someone had lived, and died, and now was gone.

  He was death, and death was the final part of all that a NOK was and ever would be.

  It was months before Antonio saw Charlie again. His foster family took him to the social worker who had helped him and had also adopted the dog to safeguard him for Charlie. He went to the social worker's back yard while the adults talked, and Charlie looked up from an intense stare down with whatever was hidden in a hedge, and saw him.

  And ran away through a neighbor's yard, into the shade of distant trees, never to be found or seen again.

  And Antonio thought it only natural that his last and only friend leave him because, after all, he was a NOK.

  PREVIEW FROM:

  The Beast That Was Max

  EDITOR'S NOTE: The Following is an excerpt from the novel The Beast That was Max by Gerard Houarner. This is Part Two: Chapter One.

  Chapter One

  "No," Alioune replied. She met Max's gaze without flinching, letting her sweetly seductive African-French accent take the edge from her denial. "We do not want her. Not now. Not like this. Not from you."

  "But you said you were interested in her," Max protested. "I brought her just for you. I haven't touched her. Not a bit."

  The four of them sat in silence for a few moments. Nicole, sandwiched between the twins Alioune and Kueur on the couch, stared out the ten-foot window behind Max. The crimson sunset warming his back and suffusing the vast loft with the red of a fresh wound also colored her pale face and tinted her blond hair. But her eyes were as dull as the waters of the Hudson River twenty stories below. As empty as the expressions on the twins.

  Max held his hands out in a pleading gesture. "Is it because she's sedated? The drug will wear off in a few hours. Put her in the Box," he said, with a nod to the open door leading to the soundproofed room next to the twins' bedchamber. "When she comes to, she won't remember where she is or how she got here. She'll have no idea what's going on. We can play any game we want with her. I have other drugs, mixtures. From the rain forests. The sea. To heighten the experience for everyone. In the meantime, we can sit, have dinner, relax. We haven't talked about Paris in a long time. We can reminisce. You can tell me about Dakar again, and Morocco, and what you did to the crew of the freighter that brought you to—"

  "Tonton B`eb`ete," Kueur said, putting her elbows on her knees as she leaned forward.

  Max's heart jumped at the old name; at the play of muscles under Kueur's smooth, golden brown skin; at the flash of affection in her voice. He remembered long ago feeling their weight as he bounced them one on each thigh during his visits to Lyc`ee. Remembered the heat of their bodies as they snuggled up against him, and the heat of their lips when they kissed him. Sweetly, innocently. Not a hint of forbidden passion. Not a stirring of hunger for illicit pleasure. That had always been for others. Never for their Uncle Beast.

  More than ever, Max, and the Beast that was his hunger, wanted them. Needed them. And the special thing they did between them that he saw only in the eyes of their lovers, before they disappeared.

  There was nothing in the world left for him to taste, except for his beloved twins. He tottered on the edge of a precipice, emotions and appetites giving way under him, drawing him closer to falling over the edge into unknown territory.

  "Tonton B`eb`ete," Kueur called again, waving her long finger to catch his attention. "It is very thoughtful of you to bring her. We are grateful for your kindness. But, Tonton, what you are doing is wrong. We're sorry, but we cannot accept your gift."

  "You're afraid your friends will wonder about her disappearance. Think of our flirtation at the Carlisle party. Investigate. Discover my hand, my tracks, and trace her back here." Max shook his head. He paced back and forth in front of the sofa on which the three women sat. "I may be old, but I haven't lost my skills. Do you remember how I took you by surprise that first time, in the Bois? No one, not even the gypsies, ever caught you like that. I was the one who showed you the lure-and-trap trick. Who do you still call for your disposal needs, if not your old Tonton? Do you think I can no longer run with my little adopted nieces? Trust me, please."

  "Why do you do this?" Alioune asked. She sat back, long legs crossed, hands in her lap. Her almond-shaped eyes bored into Max from someplace far away. Farther away than where the twins' Senegalese father and Vietnamese mother had been born.

  Words caught in Max's throat. He became aware of standing with his mouth open and turned to look out the window, and close his mouth with dignity.

  "If we wanted Nicole, we would seduce her ourselves," Alioune continued. "She is your payment, no? For what, our bodies? Is that all that drives you? Lust? Appetite?"

  Max turned back to face them. "No. No, my babies. I do this out of love for you. To please you. To deepen the bond that's kept us together all these years."

  Kueur stood. She came to Max, gripped his shoulder. Her musk scent, spiced with curry from the lamb she'd had for dinner, made his heart beat faster, his stomach churn. Warmth flushed through his groin. "Tonton, you will destroy what we already have if you insist on pushing this woman on us."

  "Do you want me to send her away. Is that it?" Max brushed past Kueur, eager to escape her smell. He grabbed Nicole's arm and pulled her up. Alioune's scent, rich and exotic and exciting like her sister's, enveloped him and he hesitated, stared at the woman still sitting on the sofa. Like a wild animal caught between two hunters, he glanced back and forth between the twins. Wanting them. Aching to turn, snarling and raging, and take them. Use them. Throw them away.

  But he was their Tonton B`eb`ete.

  He could not bring himself to tear away the seductively cut silk robes draping their lean, wiry models' bodies. He dared not taste the salty dampness of their private darkness, or feel the strength of their bodies struggling against his. The warm, electric texture of their skin, the shock of their touch, were snapshot memories he shivered at the dream of exploring any further.

  They were his only family. They did not share blood, or flesh, or appetites. But the spirit of the predator lived in them. Spoke to him. Ever since that first time in the Bois de Boulogne, when he'd seen what they did, what they were, he'd felt the bond of kinship. And in their way, the twins felt the bond, as well. They'd followed him after his visits to the Lyc`ee, where he'd put them to learn what he could not teach. They'd seen him satisfy the Beast that was his hunger for sensation, for stimulation of mind and body and soul. They knew exactly why they called him their Uncle Beast.

  They loved him. As much as they had, and could, ever love anyone. And he loved them, as well. Alioune and Kueur. His solitary treasures. The shadows of his spirit. His reflections caught and shaped by some kind of magic mirror, better than him, closer to perfection. He could not, would not take them. He would sooner kill himself.

  The depth of his passion surprised him. The Beast complained, unaccustomed to Max's drifting attention. The terrain of his inner life had suffered transformation since he recently found himself in the Bronx,
surviving what his employers told him was a custodial assignment that had ended in a massacre. Frustrated by the new territory of himself, rage shot through him.

  He slapped Nicole's face. The woman's body jerked. He let her go, and she took a few stumbling steps back.

  "Go home," he commanded. "Sleep. Forget everything. You have been ill, feverish. This has been a nightmare. You will return to your life, and tell no one of your foolish dreams."

  Nicole straightened, turned, walked unsteadily to the vestibule leading to the building's elevator. When the automatic doors had shut and the locks clicked back into place, Max turned to Alioune.

  "There. Happy? I offer to give you something precious, and what do you do with it? Throw it away. Unless. . ." Rage dissipated, leaving a terrifying emptiness not even the Beast or a murderous riot of violence could fulfill. Stunned, he looked to Kueur, who had drifted to the window and was staring at the sun sinking into New Jersey.

  A premonition chilled him, rattled the Beast. "Unless things have changed? And you didn't want to tell me? Something has happened, a disease, an accident, and you can no longer—"

  "We have not changed," Kueur said. "But you have."

  "Well, and what's wrong with that? What's wrong with giving instead of taking? It's all I've ever done. I could've easily taken that woman for myself. Consumed her. Feasted on the pleasures she had to give, on her blood, on her flesh. But no. I made her a gift to you. To show my love."

  "We know you love us," said Alioune. "In your way. You don't need to drag home your kill like a cat to show your feeling for us. Unless something in you has changed. Unless you want something more than what we have always given each other."

  Max stared down at Alioune. Into her eyes, razor-lined pits ending in black velvet cushions. His gaze slipped to her lips, moist, parted. He tried to see the pink of her tongue, but the darkness was too deep. Then he looked away. Cornered by her question, he searched for a way to escape over the bare marble island countertops in the darkened kitchen at the back of the loft; in the silent clock hanging in separate, colorful pieces of abstract swirling design on the long wall to his right; through the grain of the oak floorboards. He found nowhere to run. Instead, he plunged into the chasm at the heart of his new self. He floundered, falling without landing through space excavated by a lifetime of living with appetite and its satiation, the Beast, and mysteries that had carved their way through him, changing him, leaving no memories, only tracings of discontent.

  Talk, he screamed at himself, inside. Tell them what you feel. You want them. You always have. Since they were girls. Now more than ever. Admit that things have changed. You've run through everything there is in the world. There's nothing left except for them. But you're afraid, you've always been afraid. Of them. Of their power. You want the thing you've seen in the eyes of their lovers, before they vanished forever. But you're afraid.

  Of vanishing.

  Of loving them.

  The Beast that was Max howled. Cried for release.

  Love.

  lovelovelovelovelove

  The Beast did not want to be caged. It did not want to be killed, or tamed, or exiled to some lonely place, or hunted until it dropped and died choking on emotion. The Beast wanted the ecstasy of sensation. The pleasure of pain, the pain of pleasure.

  He was hard. His heart beat wildly.

  The Beast screamed for release.

  Max timed a leap. Checked the sofa for weapons, the twins for jewelry and accessories they might use to fight him. More than ever, he wanted to take from them what he wanted. Give them the only thing he really knew how to give.

  But he had not survived the years by letting the Beast have its way with every impulse. Nor had he devoted his life to the twins, protecting them and nurturing their relationship with him, only to snuff them out without getting what he really wanted. Not their bodies, but the thing they did together.

  He was not a madman. The Beast was not all of Max.

  He wanted, needed, more than what the Beast desired.

  Alioune's scent filled his lungs. Kueur's gaze bored into the back of his head. Max closed his eyes and remembered Emile, who had taken a liking to them and broken into their hotel room in Lisbon to take them one night when he knew Max was out of the city. Max missed Emile, and still felt the scar on his abdomen where Emile had cut him during a friendly barroom sparring session in Singapore. He missed him, though he would have killed Emile himself for attacking his charges if the twins had not managed the task by themselves. Unlike his old comrade Lee, age had dulled Emile's awareness of his limitations.

  He took a deep breath and thought of the condition of Emile's body when he'd come to collect the corpse. The twins had never cared for the details of cleaning up, and he really did not mind. Not for his twins. The task allowed him the vicarious pleasure of seeing the results of their handiwork and recalling that night in the Bois de Boulogne. He remembered the twins were also a beast, and fantasized what that beast might do to him under the right conditions, and what would happen if he was not careful.

  The Beast growled, and spat, and hissed. Circled. Settled, curling in on itself, tail twitching. Claws retracting. Eyes glowing. Watching. Waiting. Knowing that the Beast's way was not the way to get what was wanted. Needed.

  His heart slowed. He softened, though the warmth did not leave his groin.

  Max opened his eyes and found Alioune still watching him. There was no hint of fear, impatience or boredom in her expression. Her face remained a blank mask. He looked back at Kueur, and found a reflection of Alioune framed by dusk.

  Their blankness tore truth from him. Words spilled out like blood from a wound, surprising him.

  "I want to be with you. To be a part of what you do. I want you to give me what you've given those you've used and thrown away. You won't hurt me. I have the strength, the stamina, to take whatever you have to give. I just want to be… closer. No barriers between us. Do you understand?" His question hung in the air, fell without an answer. His voice had sounded strange, distant, as if someone else were speaking. He'd never heard himself beg.

  Kueur's gaze shifted to Alioune. Max turned back to the sofa, his eyes brimming with tears. He wondered how long it had been since he'd cried. He wondered if he wanted to cry because of the desperation tearing at his gut, or because he felt as if he'd surrendered a part of himself.

  "We've never given anyone anything," Kueur said gently, her voice drifting out of the fading light. "We do not give, nor do we take."

  "Let me watch, then. I'll get Nicole back, and let me see what you do."

  "As you did that night in the Bois?" Alioune asked. "Yes."

  Alioune stood, hips tilted and arms at her side, like a model. "And what did you see?"

  "Two little girls. The two of you. That prostitute, a Brazilian boy. His dress ripped off, his breasts slashed. Alioune cutting him, Kueur kissing his wounds. The blood on your faces. And him. That kid. Crying for you not to stop. Begging for you to keep going. Demanding that ... that you rape him."

  "What did you understand?" Kueur asked. The nearness of her voice startled him. She was standing five feet behind him.

  "That I—" The Beast howled, drowning out what he might have said: loved you? No, he would not have said that. Could not.

  "Why now?" Alioune asked.

  Max looked back and forth between the twins. "Because I'm getting old, and closer to death," he whispered. "Because I've tasted everything. Tried to feel . . . something, besides what this Beast inside me feels. Anything. There's nothing left to try, except for you."

  He waited a few moments for them to fill the silence. Then he walked to the door, defeated. Weak. Stripped of illusion and dream, carrying only bleak reality.

  The elevator came, and he went in. The twins stood next to each other, looking at him. The elevator doors began to close. Night flooded the loft through the wide window behind them. The doors closed, and Max went down.

  Alioune picked up the phone on the fourth r
ing. It was their bedroom line. Unlisted. No message machine. "Hello?"

  "I'm going to kill her," he said. "I'm watching her right now. She's in the McDonald's on Seventh and Thirty-third. You'd think she'd have better taste. When she comes out, she's going to stop at the Barnes and Noble, then walk over to Thirty-second to her office. I'll be waiting in the stairwell. She'll be found on the roof. There'll be headlines, I'm sure. Midtown Consultant Found Dead. Murder Comes to Midtown. Maybe the detectives will come to question you. I know they'll never target me. But she doesn't have to go that way. You don't even have to use her. Just give me—"

  Alioune hung up the phone. Max followed Nicole but did not wait for her in the stairwell next to her office. He went instead into the subway, traveled to the Lower East Side, lurked until evening among the old tenement buildings, and left a body behind but took with him the Beast of his unsatisfied appetite.

  Max kept the answering machine line busy speaking into the digital storage unit, filling it with threats and pleas and promises, until Alioune finally picked up the phone.

  "Tonton B`eb`ete," she said, her voice soft, full of sorrow.

  Max growled. "You know I'll come up there. You know what I'm capable of. I'll make you do to me what you did for the others. I can do it. I'm a hunter, a killer, and I am hungry. Only you can give me—"

  Kueur's voice sliced through his words, cutting him short on an extension. "You cannot hunt us. You cannot hurt us. You have helped us, and we appreciate your aid and support. But at the age when you were killing your pet collie Pat, torturing your adoptive mother by cutting yourself in the comfort of your American suburban home, and beating up lower graders in school for money, we were learning to survive in the streets of Dakar. When you were setting fires under parked trucks, we were making our way across Africa. Alone. And at the age when you learned to control your urges, refine them so that no one knew what was going on inside your head, we were in Milan, Lisbon, Marseilles, finally Paris, learning to control our own urges. In public. And we survived, Tonton. Without television, without parents to buy us food and clothes and shelter, without the police and jailers and counselors to teach us our lessons. We survived the women who shaped your appetites, the men who taught you how to satisfy your hungers. How can we not survive you?"