by Tom Wallace
Collins put a hand on his friend’s shoulder. There were a thousand things he wanted to say—should say—to help ease Snake’s suffering. To try one last time to bring Snake back from those jungles. But—”Listen, Snake, have you heard from Seneca recently?”
“Not since we left Nam. Why?”
“I need to find him.”
“The last I heard he was in Africa, or Russia, someplace like that.”
“What about Deke?”
“He was around here a month or so ago. Just popped up one morning, like you did today. Surprised the hell out of me.”
“What did he want?”
“Nothing, really. We talked for a couple of hours, then he left.”
“What did you talk about?”
“Mostly, we talked about the past, about the guys. Some of the things we did over there. Nothing serious.”
“Did he ask for your help?”
“Help? No. Why? Is somethin’ going down?”
“Yeah, but I don’t know what,” Collins said. “That’s why I need to find Deke ASAP.”
“Chicago, man. That’s where he lives. He’s a bouncer at one of those blues clubs he loves so much. He shouldn’t be hard to find.”
Collins looked straight into Snake’s eyes. “Did you hear about Taylor?”
“Taylor? No. What about him?”
“He’s dead.”
“The Cardinal? Dead? No, I hadn’t heard. When? How?”
“Murdered. A couple of weeks ago.”
“You know who did it?”
Collins shrugged.
“Cardinal was a good guy. He …” Snake looked down. “It’s all bullshit, man, bullshit by the bucket loads.”
Collins went to the craps table, picked up the dice, and tossed them. Boxcars. “What can I do to help?” he asked.
“Erase the past; make the dreams go away.”
“Sorry. That’s beyond me.”
“And I thought the great Cain could do anything.”
“Is the monkey close?”
Snake snickered. “He’s always close, man. Always ready to climb right up my ass and gnaw at my heart.”
“If you need anything—anything—call me at this number.” Collins handed Snake a card. “Anytime.”
Snake opened the office door, and they walked into the pool hall, now empty except for the woman behind the counter.
“How’s the Grey Fox doin’ these days?” Snake asked.
“You know Lucas. Same tough old bird as always.”
Collins stepped outside into the darkness, turned, and looked back at Snake. “If you happen to hear from Deke again, let me know. And don’t wise him to the fact that I was around here asking questions. Okay?”
“Okay.”
Collins climbed into his car and drove away, leaving Snake standing framed in the darkened doorway. Seldom had he felt such overwhelming sadness. Sadness for Snake’s pain and anguish, for his personal horde of demons, for the nightmares that wouldn’t fade, for the torment that would never end.
For his inability to conquer the most devastating enemy of all.
The enemy within.
On certain nights the District of Columbia is a spectacular sight, magnificent and majestic, a spit of land more worthy of Olympus and the Greek gods than the very human politicians who run America. To see it on one of those special nights, to walk within that beauty, is to be awed. There is no way to remain unmoved; the delicate blending of light, shadow, moon, and marble is enough to humble even the most indifferent observer.
Simon Buckman was the exception. Never one to see beauty in inanimate objects, he gave no thought to the glorious mixture of time and place, of history and legend, as he pulled himself from his car and shuffled apprehensively toward the Tidal Basin in Potomac Park. To his left, across Independence Avenue, was the Lincoln Memorial. To his right, safely tucked behind the south corner of the Basin, was the Jefferson Memorial. Those sculpted monuments to two towering figures in American history were of no concern to Simon now. Not at night. Not at 2:30 in the morning.
For Simon, night meant shadows and sound … especially sound. Night sounds had always terrified him. Trees jostled by a soft breeze, leaves brushing against objects hidden by the darkness, grass whispering—sounds he associated with nightmares, with some inner fear that left him gasping for breath. Simon Buckman preferred the safety of daylight.
On his way through the park, he had to step aside to avoid collisions with midnight joggers. Not once, but twice. “Stupid idiots,” he mumbled. What kind of fool would jog at this hour, in this city, with its outrageously high homicide rate? Without realizing it, he reached inside his coat pocket and felt the small-caliber pistol. Small-caliber, maybe, but big enough to do considerable damage. He felt reassured.
Simon pushed his way to the edge of the Basin. Another jogger, a young man running hard to keep up with a Great Dane, sped past. Simon scooped up a handful of water from the Basin and splashed it onto his face. Relief from the stifling heat was instant.
A sudden gust of wind whipped through the park, stirring the cherry trees. And his imagination. Those nightmare sounds surrounded him, engulfed him. Half-turning, hand on pistol, he met the darkness.
“Goddammit, man, would you please hurry up?” he whispered. “I’m not fuckin’ stayin’ here all night.”
Standing alone in the Washington night, plagued by his worst fears, he couldn’t help but question the wisdom of this trip. Maybe he should have waited, let things pass, maintained the status quo. That would have been the prudent thing to do: to leave well enough alone. Most certainly, standing here alone in the middle of the night was anything but sane. It was crazy, ridiculous. Only an idiot would have made this trip.
Not true, he quickly told himself. This meeting was essential.
Simon had flown to D.C. to meet with Karl. There were grievances that needed to be addressed, issues resolved. Simon hadn’t been anxious to make this trip—he detested flying, a fear even greater than his fear of night—but these were important matters. Urgent matters. This trip also served a second purpose: he would finally meet Karl. At last, he would match a face with the voice he’d heard countless times.
He had tried to paint a mental picture of Karl. The portrait he invariably came up with was that of a short, thin, perhaps effeminate, middle-aged man. It was the voice that triggered the image: high-pitched, reedy, supremely confident. Karl’s speech was different, too: clipped, distinctive, English-sounding, always spoutin’ those big fuckin’ fifty-cent words. Simon saw Karl as an actor, a slight figure alone on the stage, Gielgud-like, a fuckin’ fairy reciting Shakespeare to a theatre full of fairy watchers.
Standing alone in the darkness, Simon heard with surprising clarity that familiar voice calling out his name—once, twice. Jeezus, that fuckin’ voice sounds close, Simon thought, like it’s real, like it’s … oh, fuck, it’s coming from behind me.
Startled, Simon whirled, his hand clutching the pistol. “Karl? Is that you?” Simon tilted his head, straining to see into the darkness. Nothing. He took a small, tentative step forward, his fingers now squeezing the pistol. “Is that you, Karl?”
“Don’t come any closer.” That voice, distinctive, confident. Gielgud at the top of his game. “What you have to say can be said from there.”
“I prefer to see who I’m talking to.”
“What you like or don’t like is of no consequence to me,” Karl snapped. “Just do as you’re told. Understand?”
“Sure. You bet,” Simon said.
“You buffoon. This—”
“But, Karl, I—”
“Never interrupt me, do you understand? Never.”
“I, I—”
“This meeting is unnecessary,” Karl said, his tone still nasty. “I’m growing weary of your alarmist attitude. Your … weakness.”
Simon slumped against the side of the Basin, stunned by Karl’s words. He felt tired, beaten, as if everything—the flight, the shadows, Seneca, Karl�
��s anger—were suffocating him. He gulped the hot night air.
“I don’t mean to sound alarmist,” Simon said. “It’s just that we have a problem that needs to be taken care of immediately.”
“It’s not your job to worry about problems. You’re to follow orders and nothing more.”
Simon took out a handkerchief and wiped his face. “Yes, yes, I’m aware of that. But there’s this problem.”
“What problem?”
“That crazy Indian.”
“Seneca?”
“Yes, he’s—”
“You called this meeting to tell me you think Seneca is a problem?”
“I did,” Simon admitted, meekly. His hands were shaking, and beads of sweat had begun to collect on his upper lip.
“You fool. I should have you shot for such an imbecilic move.” Karl’s voice was deeper now, more hard-edged, with a hint of controlled fury. Gielgud had given way to De Niro.
“I just thought—”
“Shut up. In the first place, you don’t think; I doubt you even possess that particular capacity. Second, I’m the one who decides what’s a problem and what isn’t. And third, I’m the only one who takes care of problems. Right now you’re the only problem I see.”
“Look, I don’t mean to make waves or anything, but I’m the one who has to deal with that crazy bastard. It was my balls he nearly pulled off. I know what I’m talkin’ about. He’s crazy out of control. He needs to be taken care of.”
“You’re overreacting, as usual,” Karl said. “Seneca will follow orders. If he doesn’t—”
“If? You mean ‘when.’”
“If he doesn’t, he’ll be dealt with accordingly. Same as you, if you interrupt me again.”
“Well, you’d better be prepared, because he’s a renegade who has no loyalty or respect.”
Karl said, “Loyalty? Respect? Those are rather nebulous terms, don’t you think? Especially in our line of work. Myself, I prefer more concrete words, like efficient, cunning, resourceful. Words that accurately define that crazy Indian, as you like to call him.”
“I don’t know from nebulous, or whatever the fuck that word means. I’m just tellin’ you how it is.” Simon was relaxed now, his fears having been somewhat assuaged by Karl’s less-menacing tone. “Out of curiosity, what is our line of work?”
“You’re to act as intermediary between Seneca and me. Right now that’s all you need to know.”
“Have it your way. But don’t forget I warned you.”
“I always have it my way,” Karl said. “Never forget that.”
“By the way, the Indian said he needs to know when and where you want to meet. Said he needed to know yesterday.”
“Seneca has many wonderful attributes, but I’m afraid patience isn’t among them. Tell him I’ll be in touch within the next two weeks. Tell him I’ll know by then the precise time and location of his next task.”
“He said no more dress rehearsals.”
“That sounds like Seneca,” Karl said. “You inform my Cherokee friend that this is no dress rehearsal. Make it clear to him that this is the real thing. That he’ll be more than pleased.”
Simon Buckman stood at his hotel window and watched the sun rise out of the eastern sky, a bright orange avenger come to drive away the demons of night. Simon’s eyelids drooped as he stared at the expanding orb. He had never felt more exhausted, yet sleep wouldn’t come. His body, indeed his entire being, was spent, worn. He needed to crash, to sleep for hours, but it wasn’t going to happen. There were too many thoughts crisscrossing in his head, too many ideas, too many words. No way sleep could break through that mental wall.
He was especially troubled by Karl’s words.
What you like or don‘t like is of no consequence to me.
Simon sneered, paced, still smoldering from what Karl had said four hours earlier in the frightening D.C. night.
You‘re to follow orders and nothing more.
Simon’s blood boiled inside him. He didn’t have to take that kind of shit from anybody, and that included Karl. Who was this Karl, anyway? Some kind of a god? Hell, no. And even if he was some big hotshot, that didn’t give him the right to treat people in such a shabby, disrespectful manner.
Right now, you‘re the only problem I see.
That one particularly galled Simon. How dare anyone challenge him, or admonish him, like he was some amateur? Hadn’t he performed countless tasks over the years, often with little or no monetary remuneration? Dirty, thankless tasks, some of which were plenty hazardous? Had he ever complained? Never. Had he once asked for special favors? No. He had always been a good soldier, had always done as he was told. He deserved respect.
Buffoon.
Fuck Karl.
Simon went into the bathroom, filled a glass with cold water, gulped it down. The liquid cooled his throat but not the fire that burned within, or the stinging resentment he felt for Karl. Nothing could quench that.
Karl. What rock did he slither out from under? What hole? It bothered Simon that he knew so little about the man. In all the years, through all the jobs he had performed, Simon had never so much as heard Karl’s name mentioned, not even in passing, until three months ago. Until then, for all Simon knew, the man didn’t exist. Then, like some fiery meteor, Karl appeared, a king barking orders and treating a loyal warrior like some second-class citizen.
It wasn’t right. It had to stop.
Simon fell back onto the bed and closed his eyes. The weariness he felt was overwhelming, almost painful, yet any thought of sleep was out of the question.
Karl’s words kept getting in the way.
After tossing and turning for another two hours, Simon swung around and sat on the edge of the bed. He looked at his watch: 8:30. Three hours until his flight departed. He looked out the window. The sun, now clear of the horizon, made its steady climb upward. The day held great promise.
At that moment, Simon made his own promise. He would see that Karl paid dearly for his disrespect, for saying those hateful words that refused to go away.
The morning dawned much differently in Sarasota, Florida, than it did in the nation’s capitol. A midnight storm, the last remnants of a major hurricane south of Cuba, had drenched the area and sent the temperatures tumbling nearly twenty degrees. By mid-morning, little had changed. A steady drizzle fell, and thick, gray clouds kept the chill in the air. Florida weather forecasters were promising a less-than-beautiful weekend.
Hannah Buckman awoke to the sound of waves slapping against the sides of the yacht. She lay on her back, eyes closed, and listened as the rain assaulted the deck with increasing intensity. It was a sound she loved: the rain. So romantic. She also loved the rocking of the yacht, the peaceful swaying back and forth. It was so soothing, like being in a hammock gently caressed by the breeze. But those weren’t her feelings this morning. Today, she felt anything but peaceful. She had consumed too much alcohol last night at the Old Salty Dog on Siesta Key, and now she was paying the price. Her stomach was angrier than a live volcano, her eyes sandy as the desert. Probably, she was going to throw up, no matter how hard she fought it. For the moment, until the inevitable occurred, she decided remaining perfectly still was the best course of action to take.
It wasn’t until she dozed off and awakened again nearly an hour later that the volcano erupted. She dashed for the bathroom, making it just in time. Throwing up was bad enough; the dry heaves were worse.
After splashing cold water on her face, Hannah lifted her head and looked in the mirror. And flinched. The face staring back was virtually unrecognizable. A horror movie queen in full makeup. A trickle of dried blood curled from the corner of her mouth to the bottom of her chin, a narrow thread giving her mouth a slanted, lopsided look. Both lips were noticeably swollen; there was puffiness under her left eye and a series of bite marks beneath her right ear. Even more prominent were the bite marks on her neck and breasts. Several were ringed with dried blood; all had left deep bruises. She close
d the bathroom door, removed her robe and examined her body in the full-length mirror. What she saw repulsed her, caused her to shake with fear. Her flesh, from shoulder to ankle, front and back, was a mass of purple bruises, bites, and welts. Nearly every inch of her skin had been battered mercilessly.
Hannah struggled to remember. Had there been an accident? Had she slipped and fallen? Had she…? She couldn’t remember. She shook her head, blinked her eyes, as if that would somehow lift the alcohol haze and allow her to remember. But it didn’t help. Last night was a million years ago, distant, unreachable.
Jesus, what happened to me?
She waded into that haze again, pushing hard to break through. It lifted, briefly, revealing fleeting impressions, grainy, flickering newsreel scenes that lingered teasingly, then faded. One image—the Indian, dark eyes burning like hot cinders, his skin hard, smooth. A second image came, then disappeared as quickly—hands around her throat, contracting, suffocating.
Finally, the dam broke, releasing a wave of images, faster, each one clearer, longer. His mouth covering her breasts, teeth biting into her nipples. Her hands and legs tied to the bedposts, spread-eagle, helpless. The long knife blade, glistening as it trailed across her body. The numbing fear she felt when the Indian guided the blade from her sternum to the top of her pubic area. Through the rapidly disappearing haze, she heard the grunting sound he made when he entered her. She felt his savage thrusts, the strange, yet exquisite pleasure she experienced as he drove deeper inside her. Pleasure mixed with pain and fear. She felt his climax, heard his deep, guttural groan, the most primitive sound she’d ever heard. She remembered being untied, flipped onto her stomach. She could see him take the long strap of soft leather, feel him flog her, softly at first, then with frenzied enthusiasm. She tried to scream, but he silenced her by covering her mouth with a scarf. And always the knife in plain view promising pain, maybe even death. He entered her again, stayed inside for what seemed like an eternity, climaxed, his breath coming fast. Then he slept, his body covering hers, a deep, peaceful sleep. An animal fully sated. Sometime during the night, her pain and fear dulled by the alcohol, she too found sleep.
