At the top of the slope there was an overhang porch of stone, and a warm orange light glowed behind the glass positioned in the thick oak door. Before Richard could touch the buzzer, the door opened, and there stood Margo. She had on the dress she had worn earlier. Her hair was pinned up now. She looked at him with those dying cat eyes. The wind and the sea howled behind him.
"Thanks," she said.
Richard stepped past her, inside, dripping water.
The house was tall as a cathedral, furnished in thick wood, leather furniture, and the heads of animals, the bodies of fish. They were everywhere. It looked like a taxidermist’s shop.
Margo closed the door against the rain and wind. She said, "He’s waiting for you."
"I should hope so," Richard said.
He dripped on the floor as he walked. She took him into a large, lushly furnished bedroom. She went into an adjacent bathroom and came out with a beach towel and a pair of blue workout pants and kicking shoes. "He wants you to wear these. He wants to see you right away, unless you feel you need to rest first."
"I came here to do it," Richard said. "So, the sooner the better." He took the towel and dried, removed his clothes, except for the jock, and, paying Margo no mind, dried again. He put on the pants and shoes.
Margo led him to a gymnasium. It was a wonderful and roomy gym with one wall made of thick glass overlooking rocks and sea; the windows he had seen from the trail. There was little light in there, just illumination from glow strips around the wall. HugoPeak sat on a stool looking out one of the windows. He was dressed in red workout pants and kicking shoes. His back, turned to Richard, held shadows in the valley of its muscles.
"He’s waiting," Margo said, and faded back into the shadows and leaned against the wall.
Richard turned and looked at her, a shape in the darkness. He said, "I just want you to know, I’m not doing this for you. I’m doing this for me."
"And for the money?" she said.
"That’s icing. I get it, that’s good. I’ll even take you with me, get you away from here, you want to go. But I won’t argue with you to go."
"You win, I might go. But ten thousand dollars isn’t a lot of money. Not considering the way I can live now."
"You’re right. Keep that in mind. Keep in mind that the ten thousand isn’t yours. None of it is. I said I’d take you with me, but that means as far as the island, after that, you’re on your own. I don’t owe you anything."
"I can make a man happy."
"I got to be happy somewhere else besides below the belt."
"It’s not fair. You win, I go with you, I don’t get any of your money, and I don’t get Hugo’s."
"Then you better root for Hugo."
Richard left Margo in the shadows, went over and stood near Peak, and looked out the glass. The sea foamed high and dark with whitecaps against the rocks. Richard saw that the dock he had walked along was gone. The sea had picked it up and carried it away. Or most of it. A few boards were broken and twisted on the shore, lodged between rocks. The great windows vibrated slightly.
"There’s going to be a hurricane," Peak said, not looking at Richard. "I believe that’s appropriate."
"I want you to write the ten-thousand-dollar check now," Richard said. "Let Margo hold it. I lose, she can tear it up. I win, we’ll see someone gets us off the island. Jones isn’t coming back, so it’ll have to be someone else."
"I’ll write the check," Peak said, still looking out the window, "but you won’t need to worry about getting off the island. This is your last stop, Mr. Young. You see that prominent rock closest to the house, on the left side of the trail."
"Yeah. What about it?"
Peak sat silent for a long time. Not answering. "Did you know, in the Orient, some places like Thailand, India, they have death matches? I studied there. I studied Thai boxing and Bando when I was stationed there in the army. I’ve fought some tough matches. People brought here from Thailand, champion Thai boxers. They came here to win money, and they went home hurt. Some of them crippled. I never killed anyone though. I’ve never fought anyone that’s killed anyone. You’ll be the first. You know I intend for this one to go all the way?"
"What’s that got to do with the rock?" Richard said.
"Oh, my mind wandered. At the base of it, Hero is buried. He was my dog. A German shepherd. He understood me. That’s something I miss, Mr. Young. Being understood."
"You’re certainly breaking my heart."
"I think maybe, since you came here, on some level, you understand me. That’s something worth having. Knowing a worthy opponent understands you. There aren’t many like you and me left."
"Whatever you say."
"Death, it’s nothing. You know what Hemingway said about death, don’t you? He called it a gift."
"Yeah, well, I haven’t noticed it being such a popular present. Shall we do it, or what? You were so all-fired wanting to do it, so let’s do it."
"Warm up, and we shall. While you start, I’ll get a check."
Richard began to stretch and Peak came back with the check. He showed it to Richard. Richard said, "How do I know it’s good?"
"You don’t. But you don’t really care. This isn’t about money, is it?"
"Give it to Margo to hold."
Peak did that, then he began to stretch. Fifteen minutes later, Peak said, "It’s time."
They met in the center of the gym, began to move in a circular fashion, each looking for an opening. Peak stuck out a couple of jabs, and Richard moved his head away from them. He gave Peak a couple with the same results. Then they went together.
Peak threw hard Thai round kicks to the outside of Richard’s right thigh, tried to spring off those for higher kicks to the neck, but Richard faded away from those. Thai boxers were famous for breaking the neck, Richard knew that. He was amazed at how hard the kicks were thrown. They were simple and looked almost stiff, but even though he managed to lift his leg to get some give in the strike, they still hurt.
Richard tried a couple of side kicks, and both times Peak blocked them by kneeing Richard’s shin as the kicks came in, and the second time Peak blocked, he advanced and swung an elbow and hit Richard on the jaw. It was an elbow strike like the one Richard had used when he killed Martinez. It hit pretty hard, and Richard felt it all the way down to his heels. When he moved back to regroup, he looked at Peak and saw that he was grinning.
Then they really went to it. Richard threw a front kick to get in close, nothing great, just a front kick, more of a forward stomp to the groin, really, and this brought him into Peak’s kill zone, and he tried a series of hand attacks, from backfist to the head, reverse punch to the solar plexus, an uppercut up under Peak’s arm, solid to the ribs. It was like hitting a hot water heater.
Peak hit him with another elbow shot, jumped, grabbed Richard’s hair, jerked his head down, brought his knee up fast and high. Richard turned his head and the knee hit him hard on the shoulder and the pain went all the way down Richard’s arm, such pain that Richard couldn’t maintain a fist. His hand flew open like a greedy child reaching for candy.
Richard swung his other arm outside and back and broke the grab on his hair, but lost some hair in the process. He kicked Peak in the knee, a glancing blow, but it got him in to use a double swinging elbow on either side of Peak’s head, and for a moment, he thought he was in good, but Peak took the shots and did a jumping knee lift, hit Richard on the elbow, and drove him back with a series of fast round kicks and punches.
Richard felt blood gushing from his nose and over his lips and down his chin. He had to be careful not to slip in the blood when it got on the floor. Damn, the man could hit, and he was fast. Richard already felt tired, and he could tell his nose was broken. It was hot and throbbing. He had been a fool to do this. This wasn’t any match. There wasn’t going to be any bell. He had to finish this or be finished.
Richard kicked twice to Peak’s legs. Once off the front leg, followed with a kick off the rear leg.
Both landed, but Peak twisted so he took them on his shins. It was like kicking a tree. Richard began to see the outcome of this. He was going to manage to hit Peak a lot, but Peak was going to hit him a lot too, and in the long run, Peak would win because of the conditioning, because he could take full contact blows better to the body and the shins.
Richard faded back a bit, shook his injured arm. It felt a little better. He could make a solid fist again. The storm outside had gotten busy. The windows were starting to shake. The floor beneath them vibrated. Richard began to bob and weave. Peak held his hands up high, Thai boxer style, closed fists palm forward, set that way to throw devastating elbows.
Richard came in with a series of front kicks and punches, snapped his fingers to Peak’s eyes. Managed to flick them, make them water. That was his edge, a brief one, but he took it, and suddenly he was in with a grab to Peak’s ear. He got hold of it, jerked, heard it rip like rotten canvas. Blood flew all over Richard’s face.
Peak screamed and came in with a blitz of knees and elbows. Richard faded clockwise, away from the brunt of the attack. When Peak stopped, breathing hard, Richard opened his fist. He held Peak’s ear in his hand. He smiled at Peak. He put the ear between his teeth and held it there. He bobbed and weaved toward Peak. Richard understood something now. Thai boxers trained hard. They had hard bodies, and if you tried to work by their methods, fists and feet, and you weren’t in the same condition, they would wear you down, take you.
But that was the advantage that a system like karate had. He was trained to use his fingers, use specific points, not just areas you could slam with kicks and elbows. True, anywhere Peak kicked or hit him hurt, but no matter how tough Peak was, he had soft eyes, ears, and throat. The groin would normally be a soft target, but like himself, Richard figured he had on a cup. That wouldn’t make it so good to hit, and there was the fact a trained fighter could actually take a groin shot pretty well, and there was that rush of adrenaline a groin blow could give a foe, a few seconds of fired energy before the pain took over. It was like a shot of speed. Sometimes, that alone could whip you.
Okay, watch yourself–don’t get cocky. He can still take you out and finish you with one solid blow. Richard glanced toward Margo. She was just a shape in the shadows.
Richard spit the ear out and they came together again. A flurry. Richard didn’t have time to try anything sophisticated. He was too busy minimizing Peak’s attack. He tied Peak up, trapped his hands down, but Peak shot his head forward and caught Richard a meaty one in the upper lip. Richard’s lip exploded. Richard shifted, twisted his hip into Peak, turned and flipped him. Peak tumbled across the floor and came up on his feet.
And then Richard heard the great windows rattling like knucklebones in a plastic cup. He glanced out of the corner of his eye. The hurricane was raging. It was like the house was in a mixer. The glass cracked open in a couple of spots and rain blew in.
"None of that matters," Peak said. "This is the storm that matters." He moved toward Richard. The side of his head leaking blood, one of his eyes starting to close.
Richard thought, Okay, I do better when I don’t play his game. I’ll look as if I’m going to play his game, then I won’t. Then suddenly he remembered the ray. How it had leaped out of the water and flicked its tail. It was an image that came to him, and then he knew what to do. The ray’s tail reminded him of a flying reverse heel kick. In a real fight, the jump kick wasn’t something you actually used much. No matter what the movies showed, you tried to stay on the ground, and you kicked low, and Peak would know that. He would know it so strongly he might not expect what Richard could do.
Richard threw a low front kick off the front leg, followed with a jab as he closed, followed with a reverse punch, and then he threw his back leg forward, as if about to execute a leaping knee, but he used the knee to launch himself, twisted hard, took to the air, whipped his back leg around into a jump heel kick, whipped it hard and fast the way the ray had whipped its tail.
He caught Peak on the side of the head, above the temple, felt the bones in Peak’s skull give way to his heel. Peak fell sideways like a dipping second hand, hit the floor.
As Richard stepped in and kicked Peak with all he had in the throat, the windows blew in and shards of glass hit Richard, and a wall of water took the room and all its occupants, carried them through the other wall as if it were wet cardboard. Richard felt a blow to his head, a timber striking him, and then the water carried him away and everything was dark.
When Richard awoke he was in darkness, and he was choking to death. He was in the sea. Under it. He swam up, hard, but he couldn’t seem to make it. The water kept pushing him down. He continued kicking, fighting, and finally, when he thought his lungs would explode, he broke up and got a gulp of air and went under again. But not so far this time. A long, dark, beam of wood hit him in the head, and he got hold of it. It had been an overhead beam in the gym. It was thick, but it floated just fine. He realized the storm had struck and moved on, like a hit-and-run driver, leaving in its wake stormy seas, but an oddly clear sky lit up by a cool, full moon that looked like a smudgy spotlight.
Richard looked down the length of the beam and shuddered. The beam had broken off to a point down there, and the point was stuck through Margo’s chest, dead center, had her pinned like an insect to a mounting board. Her head was nodding to one side, and as the water jumped and the wind lashed, her head rolled on her neck as if on a ball bearing, rolled way too far and high to the left, then back to the right. It was like one of those bobbing, toy dog heads you see in the back of cars. Her tongue hung out of her mouth as if trying to lick the last drop of something sweet. Her hair was washed back from her bruised face. A shard of glass was punched deep into her cheek. Her arms washed back and forth and up and down, as if she might be frantically signaling.
The beam rolled and Richard rolled with it. When he came out of the water and got a grip on it again, Margo’s head was under the waves and her legs were sticking up, spread wide, bent at the knees, flopping, showing her panties to the moonlight.
Richard looked for the island, but didn’t see it. The waves were too high and choppy. Maybe the damn island was underwater. Maybe he was washed way away from it. He had probably gone down below and fought his way up a dozen times, but just didn’t remember. All reflex action. God, he hated the sea.
And then he saw Peak. Peak was clinging to a door. He was hanging on the door with one hand, gripping the doorknob. The door was tilted toward him, and Peak looked weak. His other arm hung by his side, floated and thrashed in the water, obviously broken. He didn’t see Richard. His back was to him. He was about ten feet away. Or he was every few seconds. Waves would wash him a little farther away, then bring him back.
Richard timed it. When the waves washed Peak away, Richard let go of the beam and swam toward him, then when the waves washed him back, Richard was there. He came up behind Peak, slipped an arm around Peak’s neck, and used his other to tighten the choke. It was the kind of choke that cut the blood off to the brain, didn’t affect the wind.
Peak tried to hang on to the door, but he let go to grab Richard’s arm. The waves took them under, but still Richard clung. They washed up into the moonlight and Richard rolled onto his back, keeping Peak on top of him. He held his head out of the water with effort. Peak’s hand fluttered weakly against Richard’s arm.
"You know what Hemingway said about death," Richard said. "That it’s a gift. Well, I give it to you."
In a moment, Peak’s hand no longer fluttered, and Richard let him go. Peak went directly beneath the waves and out of sight.
Richard swam, got on top of the door, clung to the knob, and bucked with the waves. He looked for the beam with Margo on it. He spotted it far out, on the rise of a wave, Margo’s legs dangling like a broken peace symbol. The beam rolled and Margo’s head came up, then it rolled again, went down into a valley of waves and out of sight. Nearby, Richard saw the check Peak had written ride up on a wavelike a litt
le flat fish, shine for a moment in the moonlight, then go down, and not come up.
Richard laughed. He no longer felt frightened of the sea, of anything. The waves rolled over him with great pressure, the door cracked and shifted, started to break up, then the knob came away in his hand.
THE MUMMY BUYER
Nayland Jones wondered, as he picked his way through the Cairo streets, if he was wearing the proper clothes for purchasing a mummy. He felt certain that he looked like an escapee from one of those sweat-and-gin movies that Sidney Greenstreet, Peter Lorre and Humphrey Bogart had appeared in so often. He was even wearing a pith helmet, the crowning touch to his uniform.
Through the Muski he strolled, long legs carrying him over streets mercilessly baked and cracked by the sun. Past peddlers, beggars and merchants.
One beggar squatted at the edge of the street, his back against a crumbly clay wall. As Nayland passed, the beggar plucked his milky dead eyeball from its socket, let it descend on well-worn tendons and dangle on his cheek. It looked like some sort of long-tentacled jellyfish reaching out and groping for the edge of a small, dark cavern, preparing to pull itself up into the black interior.