Carrion Comfort

  “An hour ago you said we should kill him,” said Barent.

  Willi shrugged. “You still can if you wish, Herr Barent. The Jew is almost dead as it is. But it suits my sense of irony that he has come so far to serve me again.”

  “You still contend that he came to the island on his own?” sneered Kepler.

  “I contend nothing,” said Willi. “I request permission to use him in the game. It pleases me.” Willi leered at his host. “Besides, Herr Barent, you must be sure that the Jew was well conditioned by you. You would have nothing to fear from him even if he arrived armed.”

  “Then why is he here?” asked Barent.

  Willi laughed. “To kill me,” he said. “Come. Make up your mind. I want to play.”

  “What about the woman?” said Barent. “She has been my queen’s pawn,” said Willi. “I give her to you.”

  “Your queen’s pawn,” repeated Barent. “And does your queen still rule her?”

  “My queen has been removed from the board,” said Willi. “But you can ask the pawn when she arrives.”

  Barent snapped his fingers and half a dozen men with weapons stepped forward. “Bring them in,” he said. “If they make any suspicious moves, kill them. Tell Donald that I may be flying out to the Antoinette earlier than we had anticipated. Recall the patrols and double the security south of the zone.”

  Tony Harod did not at all care for the smell of recent events. As far as he could tell, he had no way off the fucking island. Barent had his helicopter waiting just beyond the french doors, Willi had his Lear jet at the landing strip, even Sutter had a plane waiting; but as far as Harod could make out, he and Maria Chen were stranded. Now a new phalanx of security people had entered, herding Jensen Luhar and the two surrogates Harod had picked up in Savannah. Luhar was naked, all muscled black flesh. The woman wore only a torn and bloodied shirt that looked as if it came from one of the security zone guards. Her face was smeared and smudged with dirt and blood, but it was her eyes that bothered Harod the most; they were almost comically wide, staring roundly from behind dangling strands of hair, their irises completely surrounded by white. If the woman looked bad, the man named Saul whom Harod had brought onto the island looked terrible. Luhar appeared to be holding the Jew upright as they stood ten paces in front of Barent, and Harod’s former surrogate was a mess: blood dripping from his face and soaking through his shirt and left pant leg. The man’s left hand looked as if it had been run through a mangle with metal teeth. Blood fell from the dangling hand onto a white-tiled square. But something about his gaze suggested alertness and defiance.

  Harod could figure out none of this. It was immediately obvious that Willi knew both the man and the woman— even admitting that the Jew had been a surrogate of his once— but Barent seemed to be going along with a proposition that both of these wretched prisoners had come to the island of their own choice. Willi had said earlier that Barent had been the one who had conditioned the Jew, but the billionaire had not brought him to the island. He seemed to be treating him as a free agent. The dialogue with the woman was even more bizarre. Harod was confused.

  “Good evening, Dr. Laski,” Barent had said to the bleeding man. “I’m sorry I did not recognize you sooner.”

  Laski said nothing. His gaze shifted to where Willi sat in one of the high-backed chairs and did not change even when Jensen Luhar jerked his head around to face Mr. Barent.

  “It was your airplane that landed on the north beach some weeks ago,” said Barent.

  “Yes,” said Laski, his eyes never leaving Willi. “A clever arrangement,” said Barent. “A pity it did not succeed. Do you admit that you came here to kill us?”

  “Not all of you,” said Laski, “only him.” He did not point at Willi, but he did not have to.

  “Yes,” said Barent. He rubbed his cheek and glanced at Willi. “Well, Dr. Laski, do you still plan to kill our guest?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you worried, Herr Borden?” asked Barent.

  Willi smiled.

  Barent then did an incredible thing. Leaving the chair he had been sitting in since just before the three surrogates’ arrival, he walked to the woman, lifted her filthy right hand, and kissed it gently. “Herr Borden informs me that I have the honor of addressing Miz Fuller,” he said in a voice smoother than melted margarine. “Is this correct?”

  The wild-eyed woman smiled and simpered. “You do,” she said in a thick Southern drawl. There was dried blood on her teeth.

  “This is indeed a plea sure, Miz Fuller,” said Barent, still holding the woman’s hand. “It has been a source of great disappointment to me that we have not met before this. May I ask what has brought you to our little island?”

  “Mere curiosity, sir,” said the wild-eyed apparition. When she moved slightly, Harod could see the thick V of her pubic hair through the opening of her shirt.

  Barent stood straight-backed and smiling, still fondling the woman’s grimy hand. “I see,” he said. “There was no need to arrive incognito, Miz Fuller. You would be most welcome in person on the island— at any time— and I am sure that you would find our . . . ah . . . accommodations more comfortable in the guest wing of the Manse.”

  “Thank you, sir.” The surrogate smiled. “I am currently indisposed, but when my health improves, I shall avail myself of your generous invitation.”

  “Excellent,” said Barent. He released her hand and walked back to his chair. His security people relaxed a bit and lowered their Uzis. “We were just about to finish a game of chess,” he said. “Our new guests must join us. Miz Fuller, would you honor me by allowing your surrogate to play on our side? I assure you that I shall not allow any threat of capture to spoil her participation.”

  The woman smoothed down the rags of her shirt and fluttered her hands at the tangle of hair, moving some from in front of her eyes. “The honor would be all mine, sir,” she said.

  “Wonderful,” said Barent. “Herr Borden, I presume you wish to use your two pieces?”

  “Ja,” said Willi. “My old pawn will bring me luck.”

  “Fine,” said Barent, “shall we pick up on the thirty-sixth move?”

  Willi nodded. “I had taken your bishop on the previous move,” he said. “Then you moved toward centering your king with a response of K-Q3.”

  “Ah,” said Barent, “my strategies are far too transparent for a master.”

  “Ja,” agreed Willi. “They are. Let us play.”

  Natalie breathed a deep sign of relief when they broke out of the storm clouds somewhere east of Sapelo Island. The wind still battered at the Cessna and the starlight illuminated a whitecapped ocean far below, but at least the roller coaster ride had flattened out. “About forty-five minutes out now,” said Meeks. He rubbed his face with his left hand. “Head winds are addin’ about a half hour to the flight.”

  Jackson leaned forward and said softly next to Natalie’s ear, “Do you really think they’re going to let us land?”

  Natalie set her cheek against the window. “If the old woman does what she said she would. Maybe.”

  Jackson snorted a laugh. “You think she will?”

  “I don’t know,” said Natalie. “I just think it’s more important that we get Saul out. I think we did everything we could to show Melanie that it was in her self-interest to act.”

  “Yeah, but she’s crazy,” said Jackson. “Crazy folks don’t always act in their own self-interest, kid.”

  Natalie smiled. “I guess that explains why we’re here, huh?”

  Jackson touched her shoulder. “Have you thought about what you’re going to do if Saul’s dead?” he asked softly.

  Natalie’s head moved up and down an inch. “We get him out,” she said. “Then I go back and kill the thing in Charleston.”

  Jackson sat back, curled up in the backseat, and was breathing loudly in his sleep a minute later. Natalie watched the ocean until her eyes hurt and then turned toward the pilot. Meeks was looking at her strangely. Conf
ronted with her stare, he touched his baseball cap and turned his attention back to the glow of the instruments.

  Wounded, bleeding, fighting just to stay standing and conscious, Saul was pleased to be precisely where he was. His gaze never left the Oberst for more than a few seconds. After almost forty years of searching, he— Saul Laski— was in the same room as Oberst Wilhelm von Borchert.

  It was not the best of situations. Saul had gambled everything, even allowing Luhar to overpower him when he could have gotten to his weapons in time, on the slim hope of being brought into the Oberst’s presence. It was the scenario he had shared with Natalie months earlier as they sat drinking coffee in the orange-scented Israeli dusk, but these were not optimum conditions. He would have a chance of confronting the Nazi murderer only if Willi were the one to use his psychic abilities on Saul. Now all of the mutant throwbacks were there— Barent, Sutter, the one named Kepler, even Harod and Melanie Fuller’s surrogate— and Saul was terrified that one of them would attempt to seize his mind, squandering the single, slim chance he might have to surprise the Oberst. Then there was the fact that in his scenario to Natalie, Saul had always painted the picture of a one-to-one confrontation with the old man, with Saul being the physically stronger of the two. Now Saul was using most of his strength of will and body just to remain standing, his left hand hung bleeding and useless, and there was a bullet lodged somewhere near his collarbone, while the Oberst sat looking fit and rested, thirty pounds heavier in muscle than Saul and surrounded by at least two superbly conditioned cat’s-paws with at least half a dozen other people nearby whom he could use at will. Nor did Saul believe that Barent’s security people would allow him to take more than three unauthorized strides before they gunned him down in cold blood.

  But Saul was happy. There was no place else in the world he would rather be.

  He shook his head to focus his attention on what was happening. Barent and the Oberst were seated while Barent set the human chess pieces in place. For the second time in that endless day, Saul had a waking hallucination as the Grand Hall shimmered like a reflection on a wind-rippled pond and suddenly he saw the wood and stones of a Polish keep, with gray-garbed Sonderkommandos taking their plea sure under centuries-old tapestries while the aging Alte sat huddled in his general’s uniform like some wizened mummy wrapped in baggy rags. Torches sent shadows dancing across stone and tile and the shaven skulls of the thirty-two Jewish prisoners standing at tired attention between the two German officers. The young Oberst brushed his blond hair off his forehead, propped his elbow on his knee, and smiled at Saul.

  The Oberst smiled at Saul. “Willkommen, Jude,” he said. “Come, come,” Barent was saying, “we shall all play. Joseph, you come here to king’s bishop three.”

  Kepler stepped back with an expression of horror on his face. “You have to be fucking kidding,” he said. He backed into the bar table hard enough to topple several bottles.

  “Oh, no,” said Barent, “I am not kidding. Hurry, please, Joseph. Herr Borden and I wish to settle this before it gets too late.”

  “Go to hell!” screamed Kepler. He clenched his fists as cords stood out in his neck. “I’m not going to be used like some fucking surrogate while you . . .” Kepler’s voice cut off as if a needle had been pulled from a faulty record. The man’s mouth worked a second, but not the faintest hint of sound emerged. Kepler’s face grew red, then purple, and then darkened toward black in the seconds before he pitched forward onto the tiles. Kepler’s arms seemed to be jerked behind him by brutal, invisible hands, his ankles bound by invisible cords, as he propelled himself forward by a spastic, humping, flopping action— a disturbed child’s idea of a worm’s locomotion— his chest and chin slamming onto the tile with each absurd spasm. In this way, Joseph Kepler inched his way on his face and belly and thighs across twenty-five feet of open floor, leaving streaks of blood from his torn chin on the white tiles, until he arrived at the king-bishop-three square. When Barent relaxed his control, Kepler’s muscles visibly twitched and spasmed in relief, and there was a soft sound as urine soaked the man’s pant leg and flowed onto the dark tile.

  “Stand up, please, Joseph,” Barent said softly. “We want to start the game.”

  Kepler pushed himself to his knees, stared in shock at the billionaire for a moment, and silently stood on shaky legs. Blood and urine stained the front of his expensive Italian slacks.

  “Are you going to Use all of us like that, Brother Christian?” asked Jimmy Wayne Sutter. The evangelist was standing at the edge of the improvised chessboard, the light from the overhead spots gleaming on his thick, white hair.

  Barent smiled. “I see no reason to Use anyone, James,” he said. “Provided they do not become an obstacle to the completion of this game. Do you, Herr Borden?”

  “No,” said Willi. “Come here, Sutter. As my bishop, you are the only surviving piece other than kings and pawns. Come, take your place here next to the queen’s empty square.”

  Sutter raised his head. Sweat had soaked through his silk sports coat. “Do I have a choice?” he whispered. His theater-trained voice was raw and ragged.

  “Nein,” said Willi. “You must play. Come.”

  Sutter turned his face toward Barent. “I mean a choice in which side I serve,” he said.

  Barent raised an eyebrow. “You have served Herr Borden well and long,” he said. “Would you change sides now, James?”

  “ ‘I find no plea sure in the death of the wicked,’ ” said Sutter. “ ‘Believe in the Lord Jesus Christ and ye shall be saved.’ John 3:16, 17.”

  Barent chuckled and rubbed his chin. “Herr Borden, it seems that your bishop wishes to defect. Do you have any objections to his ending the game on the black side?”

  The Oberst’s face bore the petulant expression of a child. “Take him and be damned,” he said. “I don’t need the fat faggot.”

  “Come,” Barent said to the sweating evangelist, “you shall be at the king’s left hand, James.” He pointed to a white tile one space advanced from where the black king’s pawn would have begun the game.

  Sutter took his place on the board next to Kepler.

  Saul allowed himself a glimmer of hope at the thought that the game might proceed without the mind vampires using their power on their pawns. Anything to defer the moment when the Oberst would touch his mind.

  Leaning forward in his massive chair, the Oberst laughed softly. “If I am to be denied my fundamentalist ally,” he said, “then it amuses me to promote my old pawn to the rank of bishop. Bauer, verstehts Du? Come, Jew, and accept your miter and crook.”

  Quickly, before he could be prompted, Saul moved across the lighted expanse of tile to the black square in the first rank. He was less than eight feet from the Oberst, but Luhar and Reynolds stood between them while a score of Barent’s security people scrutinized every step he took. Saul was in great pain from his wound now— his left leg was stiff and aching, his shoulder a mass of flame— but he tried to show none of this as he strode forward.

  “Like old times, eh, pawn?” the Oberst said in German. “Excuse me,” he added. “I mean, Herr Bishop.” The Oberst grinned. “Quickly, now, I have three pawns remaining. Jensen, to K1, bitte. Tony, to QR3. Tom will serve as pawn in QN5.”

  Saul watched as Luhar and Reynolds took their places. Harod stood where he was. “I don’t know where the fuck QR3 is,” he said.

  The Oberst beckoned impatiently. “The second square in front of my queen rook’s tile,” he snapped. “Schnell.”

  Harod blinked and lurched toward the black square on the left side of the board.

  “Fill your last three pawn spaces,” the Oberst said to Barent.

  The billionaire nodded. “Mr. Swanson, if you don’t mind. Next to Mr. Kepler, please.” The mustached security man looked around, set down his automatic weapon, and walked to the black square to the left and rear of Kepler. Saul realized that he was a king knight’s pawn who had not yet moved from his original square.

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nbsp; “Ms. Fuller,” said Barent, “if you would allow your delightful surrogate to proceed to the queen rook’s pawn original position. Yes, that is correct.” The woman who had once been Constance Sewell stepped gingerly forward on bare feet to stand four squares in front of Harod. “Ms. Chen,” continued Barent, “next to Miz Sewell, please.”

  “No!” cried Harod as Maria Chen stepped forward. “She doesn’t play!”

  “Ja she does,” said the Oberst. “She brings a certain beauty to the game, nicht wahr?”

  “No!” Harod screamed again and pivoted toward the Oberst. “She’s not part of this.”

  Willi smiled and inclined his head toward Barent. “How touching. I suggest that we allow Tony to trade places with his secretary if her pawn position becomes . . . ah . . . threatened. Is that agreeable to you, Herr Barent?”

  “Yes, yes, yes,” said Barent. “They can exchange places when and if Harod wishes, as long as it does not disrupt the flow of the game. Let’s get on with it. We still need to set our kings in place.” Barent looked at the remaining clusters of aides and security people.

  “Nein,” called the Oberst, standing and walking onto the board. “We are the kings, Herr Barent.”

  “What are you talking about, Willi?” the billionaire asked tiredly.

  The Oberst opened his hands and smiled. “It is an important game,” he said. “We must show our friends and colleagues that we support their efforts.” He took his place two squares to the right of Jensen Luhar. “Besides, Herr Barent,” he added, “the king cannot be captured.”

  Barent shook his head but stood and walked to the Q3 position next to the Reverend Jimmy Wayne Sutter.

  Sutter turned vacant eyes toward Barent and said loudly, “ ‘And God said unto Noah, The end of all flesh is come before me; for the earth is filled with violence through them; and, behold, I will destroy them with the earth . . .’ ”

  “Oh, shut the fuck up, you old queer,” called Tony Harod. “Silence!” bellowed Barent.