The Arms of Kali td-59

by Warren Murphy

  He arrived with wife, two children, dog, smiled for the photographers, and two days later assured the department that made the cases for shipping the product that they would never lose their jobs if they worked for him. The cases continued to be made in the Ohio town; they continued to read "Made in the USA." The products that went into the cases., however, were subcontracted out of Nepal, Bangladesh, and Ramfrez, Mexico, cutting labor costs to six cents an hour, seven cents if the workers got an extra bowl of rice.

  When his secretary came in and told him that the two NAA men were here for their meeting and one of them was an Oriental, Baynes thought that there must be a mistake in his appointment book and that one of his subcontractors was visiting him. He decided to see them anyway.

  "Hi. A. H. Baynes, and you two are from ... ?" The white man looked at a card he took out of his pocket. Baynes thought it was a business card and reached to take it. But the white man was reading it. "We're from National Aeronautic something," he said.

  "I thought you were from Asia," he said, smiling to the old man in the kimono.

  "Sinanju," said Chiun.

  "North Korea?" said Baynes.

  "You have heard," said Chiun serenely.

  "Everybody has heard of North Korea," Baynes said. "A great work force. Even better than Bangladesh. They eat every other day in North Korea, I've heard. And they've got to like it."

  "One does not have to gorge oneself on meats and fats and sugars if one knows how to make one's body work properly," Chiun said.

  "I'm going to be renegotiating some labor contracts pretty soon," Baynes said. "How often does a person have to eat, would you say? I'm really interested."

  "Once a week. It depends on how one stores one's food," Chiun said.

  "Wonderful. Let me write that down. You're not making this up?" Baynes was scribbling frantically on a white pad with a gold pen.

  "He's not talking about the same thing as you," said Remo.

  "I don't care," Baynes said. "The concept is perfect. I just have to turn it into more human terms."

  "Such as?" Remo asked.

  "Once-a-week eating is good for people. For good people. And we want to make everybody into good people."

  "It doesn't work for everybody," Remo said, and took the pad from Baynes's hand. Baynes lunged for it but Remo had it in the wastebasket before Baynes could reach it.

  "That's an assault," Baynes said. "You, a federal employee. You have assaulted an officer of a corporation."

  "That wasn't an assault," Remo said.

  "That is a legal assault," said Baynes, sitting down in a formidably dark cherrywood chair from which he could, if he wished, menace his growing empire.

  Remo took the arm of the chair and the arm of A. H. Baynes and blended them somewhat. Baynes wanted to scream but the white man's other hand was on his spinal column and all that came out was a barely audible peep from a desperately quivering tonsil.

  Baynes could not move his right arm. He did not even dare to look at it. The pain told him it would be an ugly sight.

  Tears came to his eyes.

  "Now, that," Remo said, "is an assault. Can you see the difference? The other thing with the pad was kind of a getting-something-out-of-the-way, not an assault. If you understand the difference, nod."

  Baynes nodded.

  "Would you like the pain to end?" Remo asked. Baynes nodded, very sincerely.

  Remo adjusted the spinal column where the pain-controlling nerves were. He did not know their names but he knew they were there. Baynes would not feel pain anymore.

  "I can't move my arm," Baynes said.

  "You're not supposed to," Remo said.

  "Oh," said Baynes. "I suppose that's your leverage for getting me to talk."

  "You got it," Remo said. "People are getting killed on your airline."

  "No, they're not. That is wrong. That is a misperception and we have responded to that before," Baynes said.

  "About a hundred people, all of them ticket-holders on just Folks, have been strangled."

  "Unfortunate, but not on our airline, and we'll sue anyone who suggests such a thing," Baynes said. "Any one."

  "I'm saying it," said Remo, making an obvious move toward the other arm, the one not yet blended with the cherrywood.

  "Saying it among ourselves is not slander," Baynes said quickly. "We're just brainstorming, right?"

  "Right. Why do you say they're not being killed on your airline?"

  "Because they get killed after they get off our airline," Baynes said. "Not on it. After it."

  "Why do you think somebody picked just Folks to do this to?" Remo asked.

  "What I hear is that they're cheap robberies. And we have the cheap consumer fares," Baynes said.

  "What's that mean?"

  "Lowest fares in the business. People Express took fares as low as they could really go. So we had to do something else to take them even lower. We're a semischeduled airline."

  "What's semischeduled?" Remo asked.

  "We take off after your check clears," Baynes said. "We also don't waste a lot of capital overtraining pilots."

  "How do you train your pilots?" Remo asked.

  "All Just Folks pilots have a working knowledge of the aircraft they fly. That doesn't have to mean countless hours of wasting fuel in the sky."

  "You mean your pilots have never flown until they fly a just Folks plane?"

  "Not so. Let me clear that up. They most certainly do fly. They have to fly to get their pilot's licenses.They just don't have to fly those big planes that use so much fuel."

  "What do they fly?" Remo asked.

  "We have the most advanced powered hang-gliders in the business. We have in-air training for our pilots."

  "So you think it's the low fares that attract these robbers and killers to your semischeduled airline?" Remo asked.

  "Exactly. May I have my arm back now?"

  "What else do you know?"

  "Our advertising department says there's no way we can capitalize on the fact that our fares are so low that even small-time killers fly us. They said an advertising appeal to hoodlums wouldn't help our ticket sales."

  Chiun nodded. "Hoodlums. Killing for pennies. The horror of it. Remo, I should have brought my petition with me."

  Remo ignored him. "Would any of your people recognize any of the killers? Maybe they fly frequently."

  "We wouldn't recognize our own employees," Baynes said. "This is a semischeduled airline. We don't go taking off on the button like Delta. You're not talking a Delta crew when you're talking Just Folks. We are semischeduled. We have to factor in some element of crew turnover."

  "What do you mean, crew turnover?" Remo snapped. "In the course of a whole year someone had to notice something."

  "What year? Who's been at just Folks a year? You're a senior member of our line if you can find the men's bathroom," said Baynes. "My arm. Please."

  "We are joining just Folks," Remo said.

  "By all means. Would you please separate my arm from the chair?"

  "I never learned how," Remo said.

  "What?" gasped Baynes.

  "I am a semischeduled assassin," Remo said. "By the way, what I did to your arm ... ?"

  "Yes?"

  "If you were to talk about this to somebody, I might just do it with your brain and a potato," Remo said.

  "That's crude, " said Chiun in Korean. In English he told Baynes, "There are many things we do not understand in the world. My son's desire for secrecy is one of them. Please be as solicitous of his feelings as he is of yours. "

  "You'll do to my brain what you just did to my arm," said Baynes. "Is that it?"

  "See?" Chiun told Remo. "He understood, and without your being crude about it."

  Baynes was thinking of how he would get his arm sawed free. Maybe he could walk around with a piece of cherrywood blended to his arm. He could live that way. Specially tailored suits could hide most of it.

  Suddenly the hands that hardly seemed to move wer
e at his arm again and he was free. He rubbed his arm. Nothing. It was slightly sore, but nothing was wrong. And the arm of the chair was just as it had always been. Had he been hypnotized? Had there been hidden straps holding him to the chair?

  He thought he might have talked too much. He should have been tougher and just called the police. Maybe he would try it now, he thought.

  The young white man seemed to know what Baynes was thinking because he took the airline president's gold pen and rubbed his finger very slowly over the clasp. First the gold shimmered under the fluorescent light as if it were waving, and then the metal melted on his desk, burning a smoking foul hole in the perfectly polished cherrywood.

  "You're hired," Baynes announced. "Welcome aboard just Folks Airlines. We have several vice-presidencies open."

  "I want to fly," Remo said. "I want to be on board."

  Baynes stuck a finger straight up in the air. "Which way is that?"

  "Up," said Remo.

  "You're now a navigator on a semischeduled airline. "

  "I want to move among the passengers," Remo said.

  "We can make you a flight attendant."

  "Sure," said Remo. "Both of us."

  On the next just Folks flight from Denver to New Orleans, there was no coffee, tea, or milk. The two flight attendants just sat all the passengers down and watched them. There were no complaints. When one of the pilots asked for a glass of water, he was thrown back into the cockpit and told to wait until he got home.

  Chapter Four

  Number 107.

  Holly Rodan's mother was delighted. When she heard that her daughter's new religion did not involve dating minorities, everything took on a positive glow. It was a real community kind of religion but Holly would not have to live there all the time. Just occasionally, for formal prayers and ceremonies, such as tonight, when Holly would be inducted, and then return home in a few days.

  "Do you need any special dress like for First Holy Communion or something like that?" her mother asked.

  "No," said Holly.

  "I see you have an airplane ticket. Is your church far away?"

  "Mother. I have found a meaningful involvement. Are you going to try to ruin it now?"

  "No, no. Father and I are really happy for you. I just thought I might help. After all, we can afford to help. We would be happy to give you the price of a full fare on a scheduled airline. You don't have to be poor or anything for your faith, do you?"

  Holly was a beautiful girl with a blond cherub's face, innocent blue eyes, and a ripe milkmaid's body.

  "Gawd, will you ever leave me alone," she said.

  "Yes, yes, dear. Sorry."

  "I have found a place for myself in this world."

  "Absolutely, dear."

  "I have done this despite the oppression of wealth . . ."

  "Yes, Holly."

  "A family environment devoid of a meaningful sharing . . ."

  "Yes, dear."

  "And parents who have never failed to fail me. Despite all this, I have found a place where I truly belong."

  "Yes, dear."

  "Where I am needed."

  "Absolutely, dear."

  "So get off my back, bitch," said Holly.

  "Absolutely, dear. Can I give you something to eat before you leave?"

  "Only if you want to saute your heart," Holly said.

  "God bless you, dear," said her mother.

  "She does," said Holly Rodan.

  She did not say good-bye to her mother and she did not tip the cabdriver who took her to the airport. She took her just Folks cardboard ticket to a counter, where someone checked it against a handwritten list of passengers, then made a mark on the back of her hand with a rubber stamp. She was then directed to a waiting area, where someone was renting stools to sit on.

  Holly steadied herself and thought of the prayers she had been taught. She chanted silently to herself and then knew that whoever she selected would be a demon and deserved to be killed for Her. Because She was the mother of all destruction and required that demons be killed so that other humans might live. All it took was killing, Holly realized. Kill, she thought. Kill. Kill for the love of Kali.

  She walked around the waiting room looking for a suitable demon to sacrifice.

  "Hello," said Holly to a woman with a paper bundle. "Can I help you get that onto the plane?"

  The woman shook her head. Apparently she did not believe in speaking to strangers. Holly smiled her warm smile and tilted her head winningly. But the woman wouldn't even acknowledge that she was there. Holly felt the first chill finger of panic. What if she couldn't get anyone to trust her? They had to trust you first, she had been told. You had to win their trust.

  An old man was sitting on a rented stool reading a newspaper. Old men had always seemed to trust her. "Hi," she said. "That's an interesting newspaper you're reading."

  "Was reading," the man corrected.

  "Can I help?" she asked.

  "Usually I do my reading solo," he said. It was a cold smile he returned.

  Holly nodded and walked away, frightened now. Nobody is going to let me help. Nobody is going to let me be friendly.

  She tried to calm herself but she knew she was going to fail. She would be the first to fail. Every other initiate had passed. It was supposed to be so easy because people traveling were supposed to feel vulnerable, grateful for help, but there was no one in the sparse waiting room of just Folks Airlines who would let her help.

  She tried a young boy reading a comic book and he physically kicked her away.

  "You're not my mommy and I don't like you," he snarled.

  The world was like that. She was going to fail. She had failed emotional development at the consciousness institute. All the marches for peace, for support to revolutions, to end all arms-they had all failed, because there was still no peace. Governments refused to sponsor and support revolutions, and there were still arms. All failures, and now, in the most crucial test of her life, she was failing again. She cried.

  A young man with a face of acne that looked ready to harvest with a hard rub of a washcloth asked if he could help.

  "No, dammit, I'm supposed to be the one helping," she said.

  "Help any way you want, honey," he said, giving her a lascivious wink.

  "Really?" said Holly. Her eyes widened. The tears stopped.

  "Sure," said the young man, who was a sophomore at a large Louisiana university and was returning to New Orleans on just Folks because it was cheaper than a bus. In fact, he said, when you considered what shoes cost today, it was cheaper than walking. While he was talking, he was recording everything in his mind to boast about back at the dorm if this pickup should turn out to be as successful as he hoped.

  "Are you going to be met by anyone?" asked Holly.

  "No. I'll just take a bus to the campus," he said.

  "Do you need a lift or anything?"

  "Well, I'll take one," he said.

  "What is your name, where are you going, and why; is there anyone you really care about in your life; what are your main worries and hopes? Mine are to live happily," said Holly. Dammit, she thought. She was supposed to ask those questions one at a time, not all at once.

  But the young man didn't mind. He answered them all. She didn't even bother to listen. She just smiled and nodded every few minutes and it was enough for him.

  Every one of his jokes was funny, every one of his ideas profound. He discovered in this milk-skinned, big-busted blond beauty an approval the world had never given him before.

  The two hardly noticed the two male flight attendants on just Folks, one of them wearing a kimono. They must have been efficient, though, because everyone seemed to stay in his seat and there were no calls for anything. Once someone wanted to use the lavatory and the old Oriental in the kimono explained how to use bladder control.

  But Holly and her new friend didn't mind at all. At the airport outside New Orleans, Holly offered the student a lift. He thought that was a
great idea, especially since she implied she knew of a lonely, secluded place.

  The place was an old ramshackle building in a black section of the city. Holly led him inside, and when she saw her brothers and sisters in Kali, she could hardly contain herself. They were her prayer-mates. And there was the phansigar. He had brought the strangling cloth.

  Holly smiled when she saw the yellow cloth in his hands. Tradition, she thought. She loved tradition. She loved calling the strangler "the phansigar," just as Kali devotees had done in the olden days. The cloth too was a part of that tradition.

  "This isn't going to be a gang bang, is it?" The student laughed and all the rest laughed with him: He thought they were wonderful people. They thought he was as brilliant as she did.

  He waited awhile for Holly to take off her clothes. While he was waiting, one of the others asked if he could get a handkerchief around the student's throat.

  "No, I don't go for kinky stuff."

  "We do," said the other man, and then they were all on him, holding his hands, his feet, and there was a cord around his neck.

  He couldn't breathe, and then, after a point of incredible pain, he didn't even want to breathe. "She loves it," said Holly, seeing the death struggles of the young man, his face becoming red, then blue with death. "Kali loves his pain. She loves it."

  "You did well, Sister Holly," said the phansigar, removing the yellow cloth. There was a red welt around the neck, but no blood. He untied the sacred strangling cloth, which was called the "rumal." They went through the student's pockets and found forty dollars.

  It barely covered the air fare, even the just Folks consumer fare. The phansigar shook his head. He did not know what the Holy One would say.

  "But isn't the important thing the death offering to Kali?" Holly asked. "Kill for Kali? Offer her up a demon? Doesn't Kali love pain? Even our pain? Even our deaths?"

  The phansigar, formerly a stationery-store clerk in Kansas City, had to agree. "It was a good death," he said. "A very good death."

  "Thank you," said Holly. "It was my first. I thought I wasn't even going to be able to say hello to anyone, I was so frightened."

  "That's just how I felt my first time," said the brother phansigar, he of the strangling cord, he who offered up the sacrifice suitable to Kali, the goddess of death. "It gets easier as you go along."