Carrion Comfort

  He had meant it as a cliché, a joke, but Natalie rounded on him and snapped, “Look, I know what I’m doing here. What are you doing here, smartass?”

  As if noticing her tension, Jackson only grinned slowly and said in a calm voice, “Soul Brickyard doesn’t take kindly to these folks coming in and messing over brothers and sisters on our own turf, babe. Got to be an accounting sometime.”

  Natalie made a fist. “This isn’t just anyone,” she said. “These people are mean.”

  Jackson closed his hand around her fist and squeezed softly. “Listen, babe, only three types of people in this world: mean motherfuckers, mean black motherfuckers, and mean white motherfuckers. Mean white motherfuckers’re the worst because they’ve been at it the longest.” He looked at the pilot, “No offense meant, man.”

  “No offense taken,” said Meeks. He shifted the cigar and stabbed at the windscreen with a blunt finger. “That could be one of our lights on the horizon there.”

  Meeks checked his airspeed indicator. “Twenty minutes,” he said. “Maybe twenty-five.”

  Natalie freed her hand and felt in her purse to find the .32 Colt. It seemed smaller and less substantial each time she touched it.

  Meeks adjusted the throttle and the Cessna gradually began to lose altitude.

  Saul forced himself to pay attention to the game through a haze of pain and fatigue. He was most afraid that he would fall unconscious or— through his inattention— force Willi to use his powers on him prematurely. Either event would trigger Saul’s dream state, and the rapid eye movement would trigger much more.

  More than anything else at that moment, Saul wanted to lie down and sleep a long, dreamless sleep. For almost six months he had not slept without dreaming the same recurrent, preprogrammed dreams, and it seemed to Saul that if death were only dreamless sleep it might be welcomed as a friend.

  But not quite yet.

  After the death of Luhar and the loss of the only friendly piece within five squares, the Oberst—Saul refused to grant him a promotion in his mind— had taken advantage of his forty-second move to step forward another tile, moving the white king to rook five. The Oberst looked very calm for being the only white piece on the right side of the board; two squares from Swanson, three from Sutter, and two from Barent himself.

  Saul was the only white piece who might come to the old German’s aid and he forced himself to concentrate. If Barent’s next move set up the sacrifice of the Oberst’s bishop, Saul, he would rush the Nazi now. It was almost twenty feet to the Oberst. Saul’s only hope would be if Barent’s presence blocked the line of fire for some of the security people. There still remained the problem of Tom Reynolds, ostensibly a white pawn, standing on the black square three feet from Saul. Even if none of Barent’s people reacted, the Oberst would use Reynolds to run him down.

  Barent’s forty-second moved him to his king bishop’s four, still one empty tile away from the Oberst and adjoining Sutter’s square.

  “Bishop to king three,” announced the Oberst and Saul shook himself out of his fugue state and moved quickly, before the Oberst prompted him.

  Even after he had moved it was hard for him to fully visualize the clusters of tired bodies in a strategic sense. He closed his eyes and imagined the chessboard as Barent moved to K5 and stepped into the square next to him:

  If the Oberst did not order Saul to move immediately, Barent would take him on the next move. Saul kept his eyes closed, forcing himself not to run, remembering the night in Chelmno barracks when he had been ready to fight and die rather than be taken into the darkness.

  “Bishop to bishop two,” commanded the Oberst.

  Saul stepped back and to his right, a tile and a diagonal step away from Barent.

  The billionaire paused to consider his move. He glanced at the Oberst and smiled. “Is it true, Herr General,” he asked, “that you were with Hitler at the end?”

  Saul stared. It was an incredible breach of chess etiquette to speak to one’s opponent in the middle of a game.

  The Oberst did not seem to mind. “Ja, I was in the Führerbunker during those last days, Herr Barent. What of it?”

  “Nothing,” mused Barent. “I was just wondering if your flair for Götterdämmerung stemmed from those formative years.”

  The Oberst chuckled. “The Führer was a cheap poseur,” he said. “On April twenty-second . . . I remember it was two days after his birthday . . . the Führer decided to leave for the south to take command of Schoerner and Kesselring’s army groups before Berlin fell. I persuaded him to stay. The next day I flew out of the city in a light plane, using as a runway an avenue that ran through the shattered Tiergarten. Move, Herr Barent.”

  Barent waited another forty-five seconds and stepped back diagonally to his own bishop’s fourth square. Once again he stood near Sutter. “King to bishop four.”

  “Bishop to rook four,” snapped the Oberst.

  Saul walked diagonally across two black squares to stand behind the Oberst. The wound on Saul’s leg opened up as he limped the short distance and he stood pressing the fabric of the coverall against the gash when he stopped. He was so close to the Oberst that he could smell him, a mixture of age, cologne, and halitosis as sweet and acrid as he imagined the first and final scent of Zyklon-B.

  “James?” said Barent, and Jimmy Wayne Sutter came out of his reverie and stepped forward one square to stand next to Barent in the fourth file of the king’s rank.

  The Oberst glanced at Saul and motioned abruptly toward the empty square between Barent and himself. Saul stepped into it.

  “Bishop to knight five,” the Oberst announced to the silent house. Saul faced forward, looking at the impassive face of the agent named Swanson two squares ahead, but feeling the presence of Barent two feet to his left and of the Oberst an equal distance to his right. Saul imagined that one would feel like this if he was thrust into a small hole between two angry cobras.

  The proximity to the Oberst urged Saul to act now. All he had to do was turn and . . .

  No. The time was not right.

  Saul sneaked a glance to his left. Barent seemed almost disinterested, staring toward the cluster of four forgotten pawns at the far left of the board. He patted Sutter on his broad back and murmured. “Pawn to king five.” The airwaves minister stepped forward into the white space.

  Saul immediately saw the threat that Sutter posed to the Oberst. A “passed pawn” allowed to advance to the eighth rank could assume the powers of any piece.

  But Sutter was only on the fifth rank. As a bishop, Saul controlled the diagonal which included the sixth rank square. It seemed probable at that moment that he— Saul—would be called upon to “capture” Sutter. As much as Saul detested the loathsome hypocrite, he resolved at that instant that he would never allow himself to be used by the Oberst in that way again. A command to kill Sutter would mean that Saul had to turn on the Oberst whether there was a chance at success or not.

  Saul closed his eyes and almost slipped into dream sleep. He slammed awake, squeezing his injured left hand to let the pain revive him. His right arm tingled from the shoulder down, the fingers of his right hand barely responding when he tried to move them.

  Saul wondered where Natalie was. Why the hell hadn’t she forced the old woman to act? Miss Sewell stood far away in the third row of the queen rook’s rank, an abandoned statuette, gaze lost in the shadowed rafters of the Grand Hall.

  “Bishop to king three,” said the Oberst.

  Forcing air into his lungs, Saul staggered back to his earlier position and blocked Sutter’s advance. He could not harm the man as long as the black pawn stayed on a white tile. Sutter could not hurt him as long as they faced each other this way.

  “King moves to bishop three,” said Barent, stepping backward one square. Swanson stood behind him to his left.

  “White king to knight four,” intoned the Oberst. He moved a step closer to Sutter and Saul.

  “And the black king does not flinch,” Baren
t called almost playfully. “King to K-4.” He stepped ahead and diagonally to stand just behind Sutter. The pieces were closing to do battle.

  From two feet away, Saul stared directly into the Reverend Jimmy Wayne Sutter’s green eyes. There was no panic there, only a great questioning, an overwhelming desire to understand what was going on.

  Saul sensed that the game was entering its final moments. “King to knight five,” the Oberst announced, moving to the black square on the same row as Barent.

  Barent paused, looked around, and stepped a tile to his right, away from the Oberst. “Herr General, would you like to break for refreshments? It is after two-thirty in the morning. We could resume in thirty minutes, after we have a bite to eat.”

  “No!” snapped the Oberst. “It is, I believe, the fiftieth move.” He took a step toward Barent and moved into the white square touching Sutter’s.

  The minister did not turn or look over his left shoulder. “King to bishop five,” said the Oberst.

  Barent swiveled away from the Oberst’s glare. “Pawn to rook four, please,” he called. “Miz Fuller, do you mind?”

  A shudder ran through the woman in the distant rook’s rank and her head swiveled like a rusty weathervane. “Yes?”

  “Move forward a square, please,” said Barent. There was a faint edge of anxiety in his voice.

  “Of course, sir,” said Miss Sewell and started to step forward. She paused. “Mr. Barent, this does not pose a risk to my young lady, does it, sir?”

  “Of course not, ma’am.” Barent smiled.

  Miss Sewell walked forward in her bare feet and stopped a foot from Tony Harod.

  “Thank you, Miz Fuller,” called Barent.

  The Oberst folded his arms. “Bishop to bishop two.”

  Saul moved back and to his right a square. He did not understand the move.

  Barent smiled broadly. “Pawn to knight four,” he said immediately. The agent named Swanson blinked and moved forward briskly two squares— it was his first move, the only time a pawn could move two squares forward— to stand in the same rank as the Oberst.

  The Oberst sighed and turned to meet the diversion. “You are growing desperate, Herr Barent,” he said and stared at Swanson. The agent made no move to flee or respond. Someone’s mental grip— Barent’s or the Oberst’s— allowed him not the slightest flicker of volition. Nor was the Oberst’s capture as dramatic as Barent’s had been; one second Swanson was standing at parade rest, and the next he was dead, sprawled across the line where black and white square joined. “King takes pawn,” said the Oberst.

  Barent moved a step closer to Harod. “Black king to bishop five,” he said.

  “Yes,” said the Oberst. He stepped onto the black square adjoining Jimmy Wayne Sutter’s box. “White king to white bishop five.” Saul realized that the Oberst was closing in on Sutter while Barent sealed Harod’s fate.

  “King to knight five,” said Barent and stepped into the square next to Harod.

  Saul watched as Tony Harod realized that he was Barent’s next victim. The sallow-faced producer licked his lips and glanced over his shoulder as if he might sprint into the shadows. Barent’s security men moved closer.

  Saul returned his attention to Jimmy Wayne Sutter. The evangelist had only seconds to live; it was inconceivable that the Oberst’s next move was anything but a capture of the hapless pawn.

  “King takes pawn,” confirmed Willi von Borchert, stepping forward into Sutter’s white square.

  “One second!” cried Sutter. “Just one. I have something to tell the Jew!” Willi shook his head in disgust, but Barent said, “Give him a second, Herr General.”

  “Quickly,” snapped the Oberst, obviously eager to end the game. Sutter reached for his pocket handkerchief, could not find it, and wiped the sweat from his upper lip with the back of his hand. He looked directly at Saul and his voice was low and firm rather than the modulated roar he used for television audiences.

  “From the Book of Wisdom,” he said. “Third Chapter:

  ‘But the souls of the virtuous are in the hands of God,

  no torment shall ever touch them.

  In the eyes of the unwise they did appear to die,

  their going looked like a disaster,

  their leaving us, like annihilation;

  but they are in peace.

  If they experience punishment as men see it,

  their hope was rich with immortality;

  slight was their affliction,

  great will their blessing be.

  God has put them to the test

  and proved them worthy to be with Him;

  He has tested them like gold in a furnace,

  and accepted them as a holocaust.

  When the time comes for His visitation they will shine out;

  as sparks run through the stubble so will they.

  They who trust in Him will understand the truth,

  those who are faithful will live with Him in love;

  for grace and mercy await those He has chosen.’”

  “Is that all, Brother James?” asked the Oberst in a slightly amused voice.

  “Yes,” said Sutter. “King takes pawn,” repeated the Oberst. “Herr Barent, I am tired. Have your people take care of this.”

  At Barent’s nod, a security guard came out of the shadows, set an Uzi to the base of Sutter’s skull, and shot him once in the head.

  “Your move,” the Oberst said to Barent as they removed the corpse.

  Saul and the Oberst stood alone on the right center of the board Barent waited in his cluster of pawns, stared at Tony Harod, looked back at the Oberst, and asked, “Would you accept a draw if it is only a draw? I will negotiate an expanded competition with you.”

  “Nein,” said Willi. “Play.”

  C. Arnold Barent took a step and reached a hand toward Tony Harod’s shoulder.

  “No! Wait just a minute, just a fucking second?” screamed Harod. He had backed away as far as he could without leaving the white square. Two security guards moved to either side to have a clear line of fire.

  “It’s late, Tony,” said Barent. “Be a good boy.”

  “Auf Wiedersehen, Tony,” said Willi. “Wait!” cried Harod. “You said I could trade. You promised!” Harod’s voice had risen to a petulant whine.

  “What are you talking about?” said Barent, annoyed.

  Harod’s mouth hung open as he gasped for air. He pointed at Willi. “You promised. You said I could trade places with her . . .” Harod jerked his head in the direction of Maria Chen without taking his eyes off Barent’s extended hand. “Mr. Barent heard you. He said it was all right.”

  Willi’s expression changed from one of irritation to mild amusement. “He is right, Herr Barent. We agreed that he could trade.”

  Barent was angry. “Nonsense. He was talking about trading with the girl if she were threatened. This is absurd.”

  “You said!” whined Harod. He rubbed his hands together and extended them toward the Oberst as if praying for intercession. “Willi, tell him. You both promised I could switch if I wanted to. Tell him, Willi. Please. Tell him.”

  The Oberst shrugged. “It is up to you, Herr Barent.”

  Barent sighed and glanced at his watch. “We will let the lady decide. Ms. Chen?”

  Maria Chen was looking intently at Tony Harod. Saul could not read the expression in her dark eyes.

  Harod fidgeted, looked in her direction, jerked his head away.

  “Ms. Chen?” said Barent.

  “Yes,” whispered Maria Chen.

  “What? I couldn’t hear you.”

  “Yes,” said Maria Chen.

  Harod sagged.

  “It seems a waste,” mused the Oberst. “Your position is safe, fräulein. However the game ends, your pawn is secure. It seems a shame to exchange places with this worthless piece of dogshit.”

  Maria Chen did not answer. Head high, not looking at Harod as they exchanged places, she walked to his dark square. Her
high heels echoed on the tile. When she turned, Maria Chen smiled at Miss Sewell and turned her face toward Harod. “I am ready,” she said. Harod did not look at her.

  C. Arnold Barent sighed and stroked her raven hair with a light touch of his fingers. “You are very beautiful,” he said. He stepped onto her square. “King takes pawn.”

  Maria Chen’s neck arched back and her mouth opened impossibly wide. Dry, rattling sounds emerged as she tried unsuccessfully to draw a breath. She fell backward, fingers raking at the flesh of her own throat. The terrible sounds and thrashing continued for almost a full minute.

  As they removed the body, Saul tried to analyze what Barent and the Oberst were doing. He decided that they were not manifesting some new dimension of their ability, but merely using their existing power in a brutal demonstration of force as they seized control of the person’s voluntary and autonomous nervous systems and overrode basic biological programming. It was visibly tiring for the two of them, but the pro cess must be the same: sudden appearance of the theta rhythm in the victim followed by onset of artificial REM state and loss of control. Saul was willing to bet his life on it.

  “King to queen five,” said the Oberst and advanced toward Barent. “King to knight four,” replied Barent, moving diagonally one black tile. Saul tried to see a way Barent could salvage the situation. He could see none. Miss Sewell— Barent’s black pawn on the rook’s file— could be advanced but had no chance of being passed to the eighth rank as long as the Oberst controlled a bishop. Harod’s pawn was blocked by Tom Reynolds and was useless.

  Saul peered nearsightedly at Harod twenty feet away. He was looking at the floor, apparently oblivious to the game rapidly drawing to a close around him.

  The Oberst had full use of Saul— his bishop— and could close in on the black king at will. Saul could see no way out for Barent.

  “King to queen six,” said the Oberst, stepping onto a black square in the same rank as Reynolds. One black tile separated Willi and Barent on the diagonal. The Oberst was playing with the billionaire.

  Barent grinned and lifted three fingers in a mock salute. “I resign, Herr General.”