Gregory Peck, and so many other men have taken him under their wings and
have taught him courage and determination. He knows that death is a
mystery of infinite complication because he has learned so many
conflicting lessons about it, Tim Robbins has shown him that the
afterlife is only an illusion, while Patrick Swayze has shown him that
the afterlife is a joyous place as real as anywhere and that those you
love (like Demi Moore) will see you there when they eventually pass from
this world, yet Freddy Krueger has shown him that the afterlife is a
gruesome nightmare from which you can return for gleeful vengeance.
When Debra Winger died of cancer, leaving Shirley MacLaine bereft, he
had been inconsolable, but only a few days later he had seen her, alive
again, younger and more beautiful than ever, reincarnated in a new life
where she enjoyed a new destiny with Richard Gere. Paul New man has
often shared with him bits of wisdom about death, life, pool, poker,
love, and honor, therefore, he considers this man one of his most
important mentors. Likewise, Wilford Brimley, Gene Hackman, burly old
Edward Asner, Robert Redford, Jessica Tandy. Often he absorbs quite
contradictory lessons from such friends, but he has heard some of these
people say that all beliefs are of equal value and that there is no one
truth, so he is comfortable with the contradictions by which he lives.
He learned the most secret of all truths not in a public theater or
on a pay-per-view movie service in a hotel room. Instead, that moment
of stunning insight had come in the private media chamber of one of the
men it was his duty to kill.
His target had been a United States Senator. A requirement of the
termination was that it be made to look like a suicide.
He had to enter the Senator's residence on a night when the man was
known to be alone. He was provided with a key so there would be no
signs of forced entry.
After gaining access to the house, he found the Senator in the
eight-seat home media room, which featured THe Sound and a the
better-quality projection system capable of displaying television, video
tape, or laserdisc images on a five-by-six-foot screen. It was a plush,
windowless space. There was even an antique Coke machine which, he
learned later, dispensed the soft drink in classic ten-ounce glass
bottles, plus a candy-vending machine stocked with Milk Duds, Jujubes,
Raisinettes, and other favorite movie-house snacks.
Because of the music in the film, he found it easy to creep up behind
the Senator and overpower him with a chloroform-soaked rag, which he
pulled out of a plastic bag a second before putting it to use. He
carried the politician upstairs to the ornate master bath, undressed
him, and gently conveyed him into a Roman tub filled with hot water,
periodically employing the chloroform to assure continued
unconsciousness. With a razor blade, he made a deep, clean incision
across the Senator's right wrist (since the politician was a southpaw
and most likely to use his left hand to make his first cut), and let
that arm drop into the water, which was quickly discolored by the
arterial gush. Before dropping the razor blade in the water, he made a
few feeble attempts to slash the left wrist, never scoring deeply,
because the Senator wouldn't have been able to grip the blade firmly in
his right hand after cutting the tendons and ligaments along with the
artery in that wrist.
Sitting on the edge of the tub, administering chloroform every time the
politician groaned and seemed about to wake, he gratefully shared the
sacred ceremony of death. When he was the only living man in the room,
he thanked the departed for the precious opportunity to share that most
intimate of experiences.
Ordinarily, he would have left the house then, but what he had witnessed
on the movie screen drew him back to the media room on the first floor.
He had seen pornography before, in adult theaters in many cities, and
from those experiences he had learned all of the possible sexual
positions and techniques. But the pornography on that home screen was
different from everything he'd seen previously, for it involved chains,
handcuffs, leather straps, metal-studded belts, as well as a wide
variety of other instruments of punishment and restraint. Incredibly,
the beautiful women on the screen seemed to be excited by brutality. The
more cruelly they were treated, the more willingly they gave themselves
to orgasmic pleasure, in fact, they frequently begged to be dealt with
even more harshly, ravished more sadistically.
He settled into the seat from which he had removed the Senator.
He stared with fascination at the screen, absorbing, learning.
When that videotape reached a conclusion, a quick search turned up an
open walk-in vault--usually cleverly concealed behind the wall
paneling--that contained a collection of similar material.
There was an even more stunning trove of tapes depicting children
involved in carnal acts with adults. Daughters with fathers.
Mothers with sons. Sisters with brothers, sisters with sisters. He sat
for hours, until almost dawn, transfixed.
Absorbing.
Learning, learning.
To have become a United States Senator, an exalted leader, the dead man
in the bathtub must have been extremely wise. Therefore, his personal
film library would, of course, contain diverse material of a
transcendent nature, reflecting his singular intellectual and moral
insights, embodying philosophies far too complex to be within the grasp
of the average film-goer at a public theater. How very fortunate to
have discovered the politician lounging in the media room rather than
preparing a snack in the kitchen or reading a book in bed.
Otherwise, this opportunity to share the wisdom in the great man's
hidden vault would never have arisen.
Now, curled fetally on the back seat of the Buick, he may be temporarily
blinded in one eye, bullet-creased and bullet-pierced, weak and weary,
defeated for the moment, but he is not despairing.
He has another advantage in addition to his magically resilient body, .'.. , .
unparalleled stamina, and exhaustive knowledge of the killing arts.
Equally important, he possesses what he perceives to be great wisdom,
acquired from movie screens both public and private, and that wisdom
will ensure his ultimate triumph. He knows what he believes to be the
great secrets that the wisest people hide in concealed vaults, those
things which women really need but which they may not know they
subconsciously desire, those things which children want but of which
they dare not speak. He understands that his wife and children will
welcome and thrive upon utter domination, harsh discipline, physical
abuse, sexual subjugation, even humiliation. At first opportunity, he
intends to fulfill their deepest and most primitive longings, as the
lenient false father apparently will never be able to do, and together
they will be a family, living in harmony and love, sharing a destiny,
&nb
sp; held together forever by his singular wisdom, strength, and demanding
heart.
He drifts toward healing sleep, confident of waking with full health and
vigor in several hours.
A few feet from him, in the trunk of the car, lies the dead man who once
owned the Buick--cold, stiff, and without any appealing prospects of his
own.
How good it is to be special, to be needed, to have a destiny.
Still we're at the point where hope and reason part, lies the spot where
madness gets a start.
Hope to make the world kinder and free but flowers of hope root in
reality.
No peaceful bed exists for lamb and lion, unless on some world out
beyond Orion.
Do not instruct the owls to spare the mice.
Owls acting as owls must is not a vice.
Storms do not respond to heartfelt pleas.
All the words of men can't calm the seas.
Nature--always beneficent o.nd cruel wont change for a wise man or a
fool.
Mankind shares all Nature's imperfections, clearly visible to casual
inspections.
Resisting betterment is the human trait.
The ideal of utopia is our tragic fate.
--The Book of Counted Sorrows
We sense that life is a dark comedy and
maybe we can live with that.
However, because the whole thing is written for the entertainment of the
gods, too many of the jokes go right over our heads.
Two Vanished Victims, Martn Stillwater Immediately after leaving the
roadside rest area where the dead retirees relaxed forever in the cozy
dining nook of their motorhome, heading back along I-40 toward Oklahoma
City with the inscrutable Karl Clocker behind the wheel, Drew Oslett
used his state-of-the-art cellular phone to call the home office in New
York City. He reported developments and requested instructions.
The telephone he used wasn't yet for sale to the general public.
To the average citizen, it would never be available with all of the
features that Oslett's model offered.
It plugged into the cigarette lighter like other cellulars, however,
unlike others, it was operable virtually anywhere in the world, not
solely within the state or service area in which it was issued.
Like the SATU electronic map, the phone incorporated a direct satellite
up link. It could directly access at least ninety percent of the
communications satellites currently in orbit, bypassing their land-based
control stations, override security-exclusion programs, and connect with
any telephone the user wished, leaving absolutely no record that the
call had been made. The violated phone company would never issue a bill
for Oslett's call to New York because they would never know that it had
been placed using their system.
He spoke freely to his New York contact about what he had found at the
rest stop, with no fear that he would be overheard by anyone, because
his phone also included a scrambling device that he activated with a
simple switch. A matching scrambler on the home office phone rendered
his report intelligible again upon receipt, but to anyone who might
intercept the signal between Oklahoma and the Big Apple, Oslett's words
would sound like gibberish.
New York was concerned about the murdered retirees only to the extent
that there might be a way for the Oklahoma authorities to link their
killing to Alfie or to the Network, which was the name they used among
themselves to describe their organization. "You didn't leave the shoes
there?" New York asked.
"Of course not," Oslett said, offended at the suggestion of
incompetence.
"All of the electronics in the heel--"
"I have the shoes here."
"That's right-out-of-the-lab stuff. Any knowledgeable person who sees
it, he's going to go ape-shit and maybe"
"I have the shoes," Oslett said tightly.
"Good. Okay, then let them find the bodies and bang their heads against
the wall trying to solve it. None of our business. Somebody else can
haul away the garbage."
"Exactly."
"I'll be back to you soon."
"I'm counting on it," Oslett said.
After disconnecting, while he waited for a response from the home
office, he was filled with uneasiness at the prospect of passing more
than a hundred black and empty miles with no company but himself and
Clocker. Fortunately, he was prepared with noisy and involving
entertainment. From the floor behind the driver's seat, he retrieved a
Game Boy and slipped the headset over his ears. Soon he was happily
distracted from the unnerving rural landscape by the challenges of a
rapidly paced computer game.
Suburban lights speckled the night when Oslett next looked up from the
miniature screen in response to a tap on the shoulder from Clocker. On
the floor between his feet, the cellular phone was ringing.
The New York contact sounded as somber as if he had just come from his
own mother's funeral. "How soon can you get to the airport in Oklahoma
City?"
Oslett relayed the question to Clocker.
Clocker's impassive face didn't change expressions as he said, "Half an
hour, forty minutes--assuming the fabric of reality doesn't warp between
here and there."
Oslett relayed to New York only the estimated traveling time and left
out the science fiction.
"Get there quick as you can," New York said. "You're going to
California."
"Where in California?"
"John Wayne Airport, Orange County."
"You have a lead on Alfie?"
"We don't know what the fuck we've got."
"Please don't make your answers so darn technical," Oslett said.
"You're losing me."
"When you get to the airport in Oklahoma City, find a news stand. Buy
the latest issue of People magazine. Look on pages sixty six,
sixty-seven, sixty-eight. Then you'll know as much as we do."
"Is this a joke?"
"We just found out about it."
"About what?" Oslett asked. "Look, I don't care about the latest
scandal in the British royal family or what diet Julia Roberts follows
to keep her figure."
"Pages sixty-six, sixty-seven, and sixty-eight. When you've seen it,
call me. Looks as if we might be standing hip-deep in gasoline, and
someone just struck a match."
New York disconnected before Oslett could respond.
"We're going to California," he told Clocker.
"Why?"
"People magazine thinks we'll like the place," he said, deciding to give
the big man a taste of his own cryptic dialogue.
"We probably will," Clocker replied, as if what Oslett had said made
perfect sense to him.
As they drove through the outskirts of Oklahoma City, Oslett was
relieved to find himself surrounded by signs of civilization--though he
would have blown his brains out rather than live there. Even at its
busiest hour, Oklahoma City didn't assault all five senses the way
Manhattan did. He didn't merely thrive on sensory overload, he found it
almost as essential to life as food and water, and more important than
sex.
Seattle had been better than Oklahoma City, although it still hadn't
measured up to Manhattan. Really, it had far too much sky for a city,
too little crowding. The streets were so comparatively quiet, and the
people seemed so inexplicably . . . relaxed. You would think they
didn't know that they, like everyone else, would die sooner or later.
He and Clocker had been waiting at Seattle International at two o'clock
yesterday afternoon, Sunday, when Alfie had been scheduled to arrive on
a flight from Kansas City, Missouri. The 747 touched down eighteen
minutes late, and Alfie wasn't on it.
In the nearly fourteen months that Oslett had been handling Alfie, which
was the entire time that Alfie had been in service, nothing like that
had ever happened. Alfie faithfully showed up where he was supposed to,
traveled wherever he was sent, performed whatever task was assigned to
him, and was as punctual as a Japanese train conductor.
Until yesterday.
They had not panicked right away. It was possible that a snafu perhaps
a traffic accident--had delayed Alfie on his way to the air port,
causing him to miss his flight.
Of course, the moment he went off schedule, a "cellar command,"
implanted in his deep subconscious, should have been activated,