Shadow Play (35 page)

King's face turned cold, and he backed away. "I should watch my tone if I were you. I'm still angry with you, you know. I haven't forgiven you for anything, and I don't trust you. Why should I?" He spun on his boot heel and paced, hands thrust into the pockets of his breeches, his halo of curls spilling over his brow. Repeatedly he flung them back with a toss of his head so that they eventually framed his face in disarray. His features took on the mien of a man much older than his thirty years—the same age as Morgan. His mouth was petulant and his brow creased in thought. "I trusted you," he said. "Do you know what it means for a man like me to trust someone who then stabs him in the back? That's what you did when you left me. I thought we had something special. But then you disappointed me by disapproving of my methods. Surely you can understand why I cast you out of
la casa blanca.
And then you undermined my influence among my workers. Instead of whip- ping you, I could have killed you, you know. After that you promised you'd do anything to win back my favor and so I again took you into my house. I allowed you to heal your wounds in my bed while I patiently took another. I opened my heart and

soul to you, Morgan. I confided things
that I've never told anyone. You lied to me; you made me believe you had accepted the conditions of our relationship. It's thanks to me that you are alive now, and what did you do to show your appreciation? You ran away—the final insult."

Resting his head wearily against his arm, Morgan said, "I'm sorry."

"I'm supposed to forget that you broke my heart and jeopardized my entire organization just because you say you're sorry. As I recall, you said that when Chavez laid open your back. You said you would do anything—"

"I mean it this time."

"Give me one good reason why I should believe you."

"I tried to make it out mere—"

"And of course you failed. You're a misfit, just like me. Born into this world by fornicating bitches who would rather spread their legs for a stranger than soothe their sons' feverish brows. They deserted us. Cast us from their lives more easily than they toss out their dirty sheets. Ironic, isn't it, that we both returned when we were older, and were both met with the same reaction? The difference is, I wasn't content with allowing my mother to turn away from me again. Not like you. I made her pay for all the times she forced me to crouch in some rank corner of some alleyway that smelled of human waste and rotting food and watch while she went about her so-called business of pleasuring men. Oh, she paid, all right. The ecstasy I got from holding her down and closing my hands around her beautiful throat is a feeling I won't soon forget."

His mouth curved in a smile. "Her dying words to me were not 'Forgive me for I was wrong,' but 'Stinking little monster...' " He shrugged and walked to Morgan.' 'I must admit to feeling a certain distress as I looked down on her . dead face. She was a very beautiful woman with her gold hair spread out over the pillow. She looked very young and almost kind. I couldn't help but wish that she had, at least once, looked at me with as much happiness as her death

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seemed to grant her. It occurred to me at that moment that death must bring with it a sort of absolution for the soul. A relief. But that makes sense, doesn't it? I mean, if it's true that our bodies are but vessels to carry our souls, and life is a sort of temporary stopping point before we go on to greater things, then it would stand to reason that joy should accompany the passing away of the flesh. And it also occurred to me, as I looked down on her dying smile, that I had not punished her at all. I had relieved her. I have to tell you, it was a bitter realization."

The strain of hanging by his arms was fast becoming a raw agony Morgan could not tolerate. The unsettling effect of King's words on his deteriorating sanity didn't help. But then that had always been the case where King was concerned. With his mind-twisting logic, he had managed to lure Morgan into his spell in the first place.

"Morgan, if I only thought that I could trust you..."

"You can. I swear it."

King was more than handsome when he smiled the way he was smiling now, allowing a trace of tenderness to touch the cold blue of his eyes. Had he, by some quirk of destiny, become a priest instead of an earthbound demon, he might easily have led the most unrighteous to the altar. As it was, he led them down a well-trod path of damnation with as little effort.

"If you returned solely for me," he said, "why did you creep across the floresta instead of boating up the river?*'

"You know no one passes your guards on the river. They would have killed me at first sight."

"And do you think I won't?"

"Right now, Randi, I don't give a damn one way or the other."

He laughed. "Morgan, you were always shockingly honest, for the most part. That's why your betrayal stunned me so." He snapped his fingers. The door was flung open and Chavez entered. At his sides, on short leashes, were King's pet jaguars.

Morgan closed his eyes, unwilling to allow King to see the fear and pain he could no longer hide. He was shuddering. His teeth were chattering, and he couldn't stop them. Stepping closer, King said, "I want to believe you, Morgan. I really do. But I'll need time to reflect on the matter. You know I'm not a man who rushes into anything, especially when I've been hurt so badly once before."

He stood as still as a Greek statue, looking up into Morgan's eyes, his own unblinking, his hands in his pockets and his suit coat caught just behind his wrists. He might have been some dandy watching the passing of a parade during Mardi Gras, equally fascinated, exhilarated, and frightened by the pandemonium displayed before him. "I'm going to leave you alone for a while, Morgan. There are other bothersome matters I have to attend to, but I'll be back. Perhaps then I can come to some sort of decision where you're concerned."

He left the room, glancing at Chavez and the cats, who lingered just inside the door. Morgan fully expected Chavez to taunt him, perhaps bully him physically, yet he said nothing, just stared at Morgan with such malice he might well have been some

harbinger of death that watched from a distance.

Then Chavez bent and released the growling cats. Morgan closed his hands as well as he could around the ropes that suspended him from the rafter overhead, knowing even as he attempted to pull himself up and away from the beasts that he was too weak. His fingers, wet with sweat and blood, could do little more than curl loosely around the ropes.

The door slammed and Chavez was gone. The jaguars, their black coats reflecting the fire that burned in the wall sconces, padded around Morgan, brushing his feet with their haunches, their occasional screams lurching him back from unconsciousness with heart-pounding frequency. He did his best not to recall the bloodcurdling cries of others who had been thrown to the hungry cats for punishment Had the
animals been fed recently, then chances were they wouldn't be looking for more meat. If not... "God," he whispered in the silence.

He awoke to feel the touch of gentle fingers on his brow. Then he told himself that he was dreaming again. He rolled his pounding head and called, "Sarah?"

"It's all right, Morgan. You're safe now in my bedroom. I've decided to forgive you."

The shock ran through him like a bolt of electricity. He opened his eyes and stared up at King.

"How do you feel?" Randi asked.

"Tired."

"You've slept off and on for thirty-six hours." He put his fingertips against Morgan's brow and frowned. "I fear you're ill. You've been running a fever. Haven't you taken your quinine?"

"I lost it."

"Morgan, didn't I teach you anything about the jungle? You simply do not go off without proper protection." He flashed Morgan a smile. "Never mind. We'll have you right as rain before long. Tell me, do you feel like eating some- thing solid? You've lived on nothing but broth the past days.;."

Morgan did his best to recall how he had come to be here in King's bed and not still hanging from the rafters as food for King's jaguars. Had he dreamed it all? He tried to move his arms and the pain was like a knife blade in his back. He must have groaned aloud, for King, who had left the bed and was pouring whiskey into a glass, looked over his shoulder.

"Careful. You'll be sore for a while, but we can take care of that as well, just as soon as

you're able to move about. There's a man I found in Singapore who can work wonders on sore muscles by simply massaging the right places. You'll think you've gone to heaven when he gets hold of you."

He brought Morgan the drink and helped him sit up, plumping the pillows behind his shoulders. Sitting on the bed, he leaned on one outstretched arm and regarded Morgan. He was wearing a loose shirt tucked into white deerskin breeches. Without either stock or cravat, the material fell away from his throat, exposing the fine gold hair on his chest. "By the time I returned to you, you had lost consciousness. I'm sorry I took so long, but you know how it is. There's the mine to deal with, not to mention the rubber. There seems to be an annoying sense of inertia these days among the
seringueros.
Then there were a few other problems, but I won't bore you with them now. Perhaps later, when you're stronger, we'll discuss the matter, like we used to, and you can get reacquainted with the business. As for now, do you feel strong enough to dress for dinner?" King didn't wait for an answer, just rolled off the bed and walked to the wardrobe. He threw open the door and pulled out a suit identical to the one he had been wearing a few days earlier.

"This should fit you perfectly. We're almost the same build, although you've lost weight since first coming to paradise. We'll get that back on you in no time. I've recently hired a new chef. Directly from Paris. By God, but his food is out of this world! You won't believe it. Dress quickly, won't you? I'll meet you in the dining room in half an hour. By the way, there's hot water and a razor. I know you'll want to shave. The bath has already been drawn. You know where it is." Hand on the doorknob, he paused and cast Morgan a last smile before exiting, leaving the room in quiet.

In an instant Morgan was swept back to the moment on the Betem docks when he had
first come face-to-face with Rodolfo King. There had been a vibrancy about him
that banished Morgan's usual caution when dealing with strangers. His handsomeness and
friendly charm caused people's heads to turn wherever he went. God, how he
had admired King. Even after he'd arrived here and seen the
horrible, stomach-turning truth about the man behind the fantasy King built for himself, he had actually hoped he could change him. Indeed, it was as if two human beings lived simultaneously inside King, one the epitome of good, the other of evil.

The good, for a while, had given Morgan his first taste of friendship, respect, happiness, and hope. The evil had brought all of it crashing down inside him with a finality that was as deep and dark as an abyss. He'd only begun to see the light again with Henry, and Sarah. But they were gone. And he was here. All he had left was King.

He did not venture from the bed that night to join King for dinner, nor the next day, nor the next. Off and on he slept, vaguely aware each time that King entered the room to check on his condition. He awoke one morning to find an entire roomful of new clothes spread out upon the furniture: breeches, suit coats, fine embroidered waistcoats, silk

shirts, leather boots, and an array of hats that could fill a storefront. Satin cravats were tossed here and there, and fixed to them were stickpins of diamonds, rubies, sapphires, or emeralds. No doubt they had all belonged to King, but he was only too happy to shower them on Morgan, just as he had done before. "Enjoy!" the
patrao
exclaimed with a flashing smile. "There's more where those came from!"

And so the gifts continued to arrive throughout the days that Morgan spent recuperating. There were cases of the world's best whiskey, tobaccos with the fine, thin papers of the Indies that were slightly spiced and treated with the juices of hashish. And books. Stacks upon stacks of them, with well-oiled leather spines and gilded pages, found their way to his bed. Morgan would close his hands around them and turn them over and over, relishing their texture and weight before opening the pages and allowing his eyes to absorb the magic of the typeset words, and his mind to feast on the images they painted on his imagination.

He had admitted his love of the written word to only one
human being, and that had been King. No. There had been the time before when, as a child, he had confessed to the Mother Superior that he wanted some day to be a great writer. She had laughed, kindly, if not condescendingly, and replied that only the great minds of the world were competent enough to successfully accomplish such an extraordinary feat.

"They are men with great insight, my dear Morgan. They are men of great dreams and aspirations. They are well- educated. They are not angry young men who hide behind garden sheds and smoke instead of going to Mass like they are supposed to."

"But I have a lot I'd like to say," he'd told her. "And no one wants to listen."

"Then say it in a confessional as you repent for your sins. I assure you, Father Joseph will listen."

So out of spite he had gone to confession that afternoon and as he stared at the curtained window at the priest's silhouette, he had begun to spin a tale so woven in fact and fiction. Relaying it as if he were the protagonist of the riveting story, Father Joseph had fallen off his stool in his apparent dismay and ordered Morgan to recite twenty Hail Marys in order to save his endangered soul. He had done so to please the doddering cleric, but Morgan had been filled with euphoria because—whether the father had wished to admit it or not—he had sat spellbound through the monologue.

At night, long after the lights had been doused, he had continued to lay in his bed, hands pillowing his head as he stared at the ceiling and visualized his words, scribed on the pages of a book, imagining that a hundred years from then there would be men and women who would read his work and be uplifted by his insight.