The Beast That Was Max (39 page)

"If you try to harm, or cause harm to be done.”

“If I try to harm or cause harm to be done . . .”

“Very good. You see, our trust was well-founded.”

“Thank you, Mr. Tung."

Max followed the wail of despair as it wound into a nothingness.

~*~

When he woke, Max's first sight was of Mr. Tung sitting in a chair by the door to the loft bedroom. Face scratched, hair disheveled, Mr. Tung remained still while a trickle of blood ran from his hairline to cheek to jaw and dripped onto his ripped and rumpled tailored blue silk suit. Blood spatter, indentations, and streaks peppered the wall and door behind him. A cluster of lenses, microphones, and instruments hung above the doorway like a hunting technophobe's trophy head. An ozone tang sharpened the thicker odors of sweat and blood and semen.

Mr. Tung held up his hands, palm facing Max. "Do not be alarmed, sir. I am unarmed. Your lovers were quite thorough in searching me."

Max looked to the mambo curled up on the other side of the bed, her back to him. "I'm sure they found nothing useful." He scanned the windowless, fortified bedroom that was the loft's most secure area, checking the ventilation screens for tampering. Shadows wavered across eggshell-colored walls, cast by light from thick candles laced with medicinal herbs and potions placed on the two night tables, the Chinese lacquered chest at the foot of the bed, the low dresser and some folding tables distributed across the oak floor.

Mr. Tung's lips twitched. "There are more important matters to discuss."

"Mr. Johnson?"

"He is no longer with us. My associates have disposed of his body. They have not, however, been so successful eliminating the questions surrounding his death."

Max tried to sit up, but the weight of the child kept him pinned to the bed. It sat on his guts, pressed against his spine, pushed his stomach up into his chest. When the child kicked, Max gasped as if a heavyweight champion had surprised him with a dig to the belly. A vague feeling of unease still haunted him, spiking in sudden moments of dizziness and nausea. But the physical torments that had been ravaging him seemed muted, banished to the periphery of his awareness. In its place, a sense of well-being radiated from his center. From his belly. The feeling permeated his body, relaxed his muscles and nerves, suffused his bones and organs with warmth. He felt stronger than he had since the disaster at the airport. Only the shadow of the thing inside him, and the inescapable consequence of its intrusion, sent occasional shudders through his body.

He carefully slid his body up against the massive, curving headboard, propping a few pillows against his back. "We had to kill him."

“Why?”

"Because he was trying to kill me, Mr. Tung. Didn't you record what happened to the guards?"

"As a matter of fact, no, there is no documentation of what occurred."

"You had everything but a spy satellite in here, and you didn't catch sight of anything?"

"There were some ... odd readings prior to the blackout. Shadows appeared on the Bohm material frames. Anomalous paradoxes coalesced in the Schrodinger Box. Paradigm shifts were implied in changes of properties of orientation in the Penrose scales. Odd nuances flashed in Poincare field, but did not hold long enough for a strong image to develop."

"A demon? A ghost?"

"The technology is new. Our database is still being developed. None of the readings correlate to anything observed during s`eances, exorcisms, invocations."

"How about ordinary video and audio? Mr. Johnson is a material mass, not some insubstantial entity."

"Nothing before the blackout. Besides, the instruments were focused on the loft. It is possible you or one of your lovers managed to slip out, attack the guards from behind. Mr. Johnson might have discovered your ruse, tried to stop you."

"What ruse? Why would we want to kill him or the guards? Besides, I'm incapacitated, and the twins are obviously preoccupied. How were any of us supposed to escape your scrutiny?"

"Tricks and illusions. They are a part of your craft. You are well known for them."

Max shook his head, exasperated. "What would be the point?"

"Perhaps you do not wish us to understand what has happened to you. Or your ... condition may might be part of a plan to deceive us. Distract us from your true intention."

"Which would be?"

Mr. Tung leaned forward. Worry lines creased his face. Eyes narrowed, lips pressed together, he seemed to strain against invisible bonds. "Are you joining sides?"

"What?"

Mr. Tung glanced up at the cluster of instruments above his head. With a sharp edge in his voice, he continued. "Mr. Johnson's death has had serious repercussions. Alliances are forming where none existed. Territories are being violated where peaceful coexistence was the rule. Some believe you have been bought, or blackmailed, by members of the group I represent. You must see that your recent involvement with the twins might lead some to think you have become vulnerable, or perhaps wish to change your status. Others suspect you are escalating traditional rivalries for your own gain, or for some other party trying to establish their own niche in the ecology of power."

Max's head spun from the play of intrigue and conspiracy implied by Mr. Tung's speculations. All he could think of was the child, its life entwined with his, growing, becoming a larger part of him. Becoming something that might be his death. Or, if he dared believe the burgeoning sense of belonging to something vaster than himself, his new life.

Mr. Tung watched him, eyes flicking up and down the length of Max's body. His expression softened, and he wrung his hands as if his life depended on Max's next words. "Did you kill Mr. Johnson, Max? Are you working for one of the factions I represent? Are you going to declare yourself as our agent? You need to tell me now. Forces are being set in motion. Vows are being made. Your position must be clear." When Max did not answer, Mr. Tung pressed on, his face darkening. "Or is there something else going on? Are you coming after me next? Don't think you can survive alone, or depend on whatever new allies have pledged their protection. Even you can be killed."

"I have no friends, Mr. Tung," Max said, suddenly weary. "I have no interest in your politics. I'm merely one of the many tools your kind use, like your Poincar`e field and computers, your banks and corporations and other temples of the faith. I'm content with my role, Mr. Tung. I have no ambitions. All I ask is for honest work killing your kind, and to be left alone to handle my affairs." He waved a hand over his belly. "Like this."

"I wish I could believe you."

"What if Mr. Johnson sabotaged your equipment, killed the guards. What if he was the traitor, and my death was part of the plan to unravel the order of things. For whoever. For whatever master plan."

Mr. Tung sat back, crossed his arms over his chest. "I need evidence."

Anger roused Max for a moment. "Where's your evidence against me?"

"You're the one left alive. If Mr. Johnson had lived, he would have been the one to answer the questions."

Max slipped back into warm, rolling sea growing inside him, overwhelmed by the endless permutations of meaning, the folding and crumpling of reality to fit whatever need and agenda ruled the moment and its dark, nameless masters. It was easier to listen to the pulse of blood beating in his ears, feel the rush of blood coursing through him, bringing sustenance to the life within him. It was better to float in the briny ocean, beneath a sky filled with light and stars, waves carrying him gently to a distant shore, currents drawing, guiding him to an unknown but inevitable destination. He did not care.

Somewhere, a storm raged, thunder roared like a wild animal, and lightning lashed the world. Winds howled with outrage. Water heaved like a beast trying to break out of a smothering net, trying to lift the weight of lies and guilt from its hungering ghost of a soul. But the storm was far away, its voice a distant echo. The sea was all around him, lulling him in its rocking embrace, seducing him with its wet caresses. Water whispered promises of life as it lapped at the boundaries of his self. He wondered how the strange and fickle sea would keep its promises to both him and the thing growing in him.

Max struggled to keep his eyes open. "If you won't accept my answers, I've nothing else to offer you."

"Then I will stay at my post and keep watch over you until I find the truth."

"I didn't invite you to stay here," Max said, finally succumbing to drowsiness and shutting his eyes.

"Mr. Johnson explained our concerns."

"Yes. And I told him they're not mine." Max's words slurred together.

"You are not in a position to refuse our help."

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"A lot of good your help's done me, so far," said Max. He didn't hear himself speak, and heard nothing more.

~*~

Max floated, bobbing up and down, buoyed by the sea itself. Stars shined above, hard and piercing in their brilliance. The sky and water were both dark. Occasionally, an enormous swell boosted him high into the air. For a few brief moments, he saw mats of phosphorescent vegetation floating in the distance. Something probed the blanket of light and matter, pushed it up like a child trying to escape from under its parents' comforter. Or like a shark nosing a net blocking its escape from a closed channel into open sea.

Down Max went with the passing of the swell, coasting into a trough, hurrying into deeper night, haunted by the creature trapped beneath the sea.

~*~

Moaning drifted like clouds over the dark sea of his mind. He thought the sound was his. A restless moment in the waking world found him staring at the mambo as she writhed and flailed and moaned on the bed next to him.

Again, he rose out of the sea for a moment, into her eyes as she stared at him, her face shining with sweat.

"The loa…
 
still holds my reins . . ."

Max tried to answer, found himself slipping away.

“. . . you must be important. .."

He closed his eyes, heard her weeping.

"I'm dying…"

He wanted to call her name, but did not know it. No, he wanted to say, don't sacrifice yourself. No more innocents on my soul. Please.

But the sea took him down to itself again, and thoughts fell away, and he forgot the touch of guilt and pain over the mambo's dying.

~*~

"...outrageous conduct, totally irresponsible ... endangering lives ... report ..."

"... our responsibility, our Tonton ..."

“… paid to take care of him, and paid well.. "...and I have my ethics…”

Max thought he heard a gull cry. Or perhaps it was a scream.

"... have your life, for now, Dr. Plummer. Just tell us..."

"... hormonal imbalance, losing muscle mass but his breasts are enlarged, and he's burning up. . . impossible to say ... survive ... cancer.. . parasite.. . bizarre accelerated pregnancy you claim ..."

"... tell us what we can do…”

"... intravenous feeding, and antibiotics, and I'll need some monitoring equipment—"

"—can be of assistance in that area, Dr. Plummer... associates can ... wired directly to our equipment—”

“No," Max grumbled. "Mind your business."

"Just help our Tonton survive his ordeal, Dr. Plummer. Bring him to term. And don't concern yourself with diagnosis or prognosis."

"Who is in charge of his treatment, then?"

"We are. You are outside the bounds of your training and expertise."

"Aren't we all."

"Now about the mambo ..."

~*~

The insistent tapping on his hip broke into the rhythm of Max's floating journey to his distant shore. A line of darkness, deeper than the rest of the surrounding night, lay ahead on what he thought was the horizon. Something tapped again, and he reached down, suddenly afraid of what might be nudging him under water. Remembering the thunder, the struggle of something under a blanket, he felt only the ocean's warmth.

Then he felt an arm, and a voice brought him out of the dream of belonging.

~*~

"You want to die?" the mambo asked, voice warped by exhaustion and the loa riding her. Max brushed her hand away from his hip. Their plastic IV tubes slapped against each other. Antiseptics scented the air. Bedpans bumped together at the foot of the bed as Max stretched and moved his legs. Medical status monitors displayed pulse and other physical readings, emitting dim beeping sounds that were shadows of heartbeats. Mr. Tung sat by the door, his jacket hanging on the back of the chair, shirtsleeves rolled up, head and shoulders slumped forward. But his eyes were half open, and he watched the bed with the languorous attention of a snake mesmerized by its charmer.

"What?" Max said, fighting the pull back to sleep and dreams, trying to orient himself to a world of words and dry, unmoving land.

"It’s all right," Legba said, rolling the mambo on her side to face Max. "Many mothers have sacrificed themselves for their child."

"What are you talking about?" Max flailed his arm and legs, feeling as if his body had been stolen, replaced by a bloated, bulbous bag of fluid.