Mike Nelson's Death Rat! (18 page)

Once all screaming had ceased and an inventory of wounds had been taken (total: one large bump on Bromstad's head, two slight hand marks on each of Bromstad's and Ülo's cheeks), the now carless party trooped back to the road under the leadership of Jørgen.

“We are lucky to have had the Volvo,” Jørgen said somberly. “The Swedes aren't much as a people, but they understand the value of side-impact beams.”

“Ja,”
the remaining Danes agreed.

“Now what?” asked Bromstad in an accusatory tone suggesting that he'd forgotten that the crash was largely his fault.

Jørgen turned toward Bromstad, apparently intent on killing him with his eyes. “You, Mr. Bromstad,” he said icily, “are going back to your home immediately, where you can do damage only to yourself. We are going on to Holey to reconnoiter and continue our surveillance of Mr. Ryback.”

“What! How? The car's a wreck, isn't it?” Bromstad whined.

“You are correct. The Volvo is not operational. Per is bringing
another unit to us, but you shall be returning home by found transportation.”

“I don't get to go with you anymore?”

“You will have no more opportunities to kill us, no.”

Several minutes later Bromstad was standing on the shoulder of the southbound lane on a bright, moonlit night, gazing toward the north with a sad, dazed look, like a man who has just lost his dog and is standing at his mailbox with the hope that his dog manages to drive itself back home. The Danes stood across the two lanes from him looking purposeful. The casual spectator, however, would have had no easy time discerning just what that purpose might be, as there was really nothing within a fifty-mile radius of the men that seemed to require having any purpose applied to it.

After a five-minute wait, headlights approached from the north, and Bromstad tentatively put out a thumb and pointed it roughly in the direction of St. Paul. The car, a white Saturn, whizzed by without slowing, although it did sound its horn, seemingly as a taunt to the hitchhiking author. Bromstad blinked heavily to remove road grit from his eyes. He then rubbed them like a tired toddler and yelled testily across the road, “Are you sure I can't go with you?”

“No,” Jørgen said firmly.

“Why?” whined Bromstad. “It wasn't my fault you crashed.”

“Ah, but it was,” said Jørgen.

“Ülo did it.”

“That is not true,” Ülo yelled. Then he turned to Jørgen and repeated it in a quieter but firmer manner. “That is not true.”

“I know, Ülo. Mr. Bromstad,” Jørgen began, “like so many
Americans, is unable to admit when he—and he alone—is the cause of a single-vehicle crash.”

“What?” said Bromstad, who really hadn't heard Jørgen's accusation.

“Just keep watching the road, you great oaf,” Jørgen said irritably.

“Did you call me an elf?” an incredulous Bromstad asked.

“No. Can you not—” Jørgen began, but before he could explain to Bromstad that he'd referred to him not as a kind of pixie but as a fool, headlights in the distance cut him short. A dun-colored 1979 Chevrolet Impala roared past, then screeched to a halt several hundred yards down the road before backing up at high speed and stopping in front of Bromstad. The window rolled down, and he peered tentatively in, as though he were expecting it to be piloted by a bear. Instead he saw that it was driven by a young man of eighteen or so with patchy, unlaundered facial hair. Next to him sat a woman with no facial hair that he could immediately make out, although she did have bounteous hair on her head, mostly blond until it got within an inch of her scalp, where it turned dark brown.

“Climb in,” said the man.

Bromstad stood up, looked over the road to the small knot of Danish men, and heaved a questioning shrug. “Should I get in?” he shouted.

“Yes,” they replied in unison.

Bromstad attempted to open the door, but it wouldn't budge.

“Sorry, man. Door's busted. Gotta climb through the window.”

T
he staff of the Bugling Moose had never received an order for meringue larger than an amount that would fit atop a slice of already prepared lemon meringue pie. In fact, meringue had never been ordered separately from a pie, and certainly never in as great a quantity as fifty gallons. Their pies, when they had them, came from Wouton Bakery in nearby Eagle's Nest, so they had never even attempted to make meringue, chiffon, or any other whipped-egg-white-based confection. Patty Perpich, the owner of the Bugling Moose, tried to explain this fact to Gary.

“We don't do meringue,” she said. “We could make you an omelette.”

“No. I don't think that'll work. King Leo was very specific about the meringue,” Gary explained, scanning a sheet of paper he held in his hands.

“What does he need fifty gallons of it for?”

“Says it's good for his skin or something,” Gary said sheepishly.

“Wow. Even so, you'd think he'd gain an awful lot of weight from it,” said Patty.

“Oh, no. He doesn't eat it. I guess he bathes in it or something.”

“Well, I don't know what to tell you. We might get some pies in on Monday. If there are any lemon meringues in the batch, I could scrape the tops off and have those sent to him. But I don't want to overpromise, 'cause we don't get meringue pies very often. And of course I'd have to charge for the whole pie.”

“Well, let's just forget it. I'll have to explain it to King Leo,” he said, then sighed.

The Funkabus had disgorged its passengers the night before, and the crew of eight had rented out four units, the band decorating all of them to King Leo's taste immediately, accomplished by the use of liberal applications of draped silks and paper lampshade covers. In King Leo's unit, velvet upholstered pillows were also heavily utilized until the cabin's backwoods feel was almost completely obfuscated and replaced by a look not dissimilar to the set of Rudolph Valentino's tent in
The Sheik.

Because of limited available space, Jack shared a cabin with Billy Moonbeam and Wigs Jackson (which turned out to be to his distinct advantage, because in his haste to pack he'd forgotten his dop kit, and Wigs had brought along toiletries in ridiculous abundance and lent all of them to Jack with extreme, almost excessive, largesse). King Leo took Cabin 7, known as the Snowshoe Lodge. (The titular snowshoes were now covered in pink and yellow silks.)

The morning after they arrived, Jack awoke, and though it appeared that they couldn't have been forced to care, made an excuse to Wigs and Billy (“I'm going to see if I can spot a loon”). He was sneaking his way over to Ponty's cabin when a voice from above made his spine stiffen and his arms shoot out at his sides.

“Jack, Jack, Jack, Jack,” said the voice.

Jack scanned the sky around him and saw King Leo perched on the low branch of a medium-size white pine, his back resting against a branch above it. Jack made a conscious effort to quiet his aroused nervous system before speaking.

“King Leo,” Jack observed.

“It's nice up here,” he said.

“I'll bet,” said Jack. “Um . . . whatcha doin' up there?”

“I couldn't do my meringue bath this morning, so I came up here for a little peace and reflection. Communing with whatever I could find.”

Jack's concentration was so absorbed with slowing his breathing that he let King Leo's sentence slip by him without even attempting to comprehend it.

“Uh-huh.”

“We belong here, Jack. Are you feeling it?”

“Sort of.”

“Just a moment ago, as I sat here in this tree listening to the birds, watching the hamsters scamper across the damp forest floor, I felt a profound sense of peace. And apprehension, too.”

Jack put his hands in his pockets and looked down while trying to find the handle on what King Leo had just said. Though he recognized immediately some deep problems with it—among them, how one could simultaneously feel a sense of profound peace and apprehension (and because they were standing among sparse trees, he might also have quibbled about the term “damp forest floor”)—he asked for clarification on one particular point.

“Hamsters?”

“Yes. They have been very active this morning. Putting on quite a show for me,” King Leo said with a bucolic smile.

“There are hamsters running around in the woods?”

“Oh, yes. If you wait with me, you'll probably see one come out of that little stand of brush over there,” said King Leo, pointing.

Though Jack felt he'd be wise to let it pass, he pressed on out of morbid curiosity.

“What do they look like?”

“You've never seen a hamster? Ooohhh, Jack, Jack, Jack, this place is going to be good for you,” King Leo said with tender condescension. “Hamsters look like smaller squirrels, only with playful little stripes on their backs and little white spots,” he said, as though he were passing on a treasured family secret.

Jack blinked at him. “King Leo? Those are squirrels. Ground squirrels. I don't think we have hamsters here in Minnesota.”

“Jack, you been in the city way, way, way too long.” He dismounted the tree limb nimbly. “Walk with me, Jack. Let us talk of many things.” Jack looked about nervously as King Leo threw an arm over his shoulder. They walked with apparent aimlessness for several yards. Finally King Leo spoke. “Jack,” he said. Jack had not yet become inured to King Leo's habit of prefacing innocuous statements by saying his name in a prepostorously weighty manner.

“Yes, I'm here,” Jack replied solemnly.

“Did you sleep well?” King Leo asked.

“Okay. Billy Moonbeam snores.”

“Should I fire him? I will if you want me to.”

“No. No. It's fine, really.”

“Jack?”

Jack decided not to respond this time in order to find out if answering King Leo was a requirement for hearing what was coming next. He waited some fifteen seconds. Finally King Leo spoke.

“Take me to the spot where it happened, Jack. Take me to the mine.”

“What?” he said, his voice breaking slightly. “Now?”

“I think we should see it together, you and I.”

Jack wondered why King Leo persisted in thinking there existed a “you and I” made up of he and him. He thought quickly, intending to add another person to the formula.

“You know, there's a guy I want you to meet. He's a local, and the real expert on the mine.”

Before King Leo could object, Jack walked deliberately for several hundred feet, approached Cabin 2, and knocked loudly on the door. While they waited, King Leo leveled a reasonable question: “He lives here at the Bugling Moose?”

In his haste Jack hadn't thought of this, or much of anything, really. He realized how threadbare was the fabric of their lie that it could be so easily shredded by King Leo. But he did not intend to give in.

“His place is being bug-bombed.”

King Leo's curiosity seemed sated for the moment, though Jack knew that his response naturally led to more questions about how he could have such up-to-date intelligence concerning the pest-extermination practices of the residents of Holey. Before that line of questioning could be pursued, however, Ponty appeared, to Jack's eye looking a touch riled, like a raccoon roused from a hollow log.

“Ja—”

“Hello,
Earl,
” Jack said pointedly.

Ponty looked over Jack's shoulder and, seeing King Leo, felt for his top lip.

“Hello,” said Ponty as Earl. Though his Earl voice was indistinguishable in tone from his regular voice, it was obvious he was trying to add something Earl-ish by the way his body moved differently from the effort of it.

“Earl, I'd like you to meet King Leo. King Leo this is Earl.
Earl . . . Topperson.” Jack used his eyes to apologize to Ponty for the poor choice of a last name. “Earl is staying here while his house is being bug-bombed.”

“Hello, hello, hello, Earl Topperson. You can call me King Leo, or you can call me the Sovereign Ruler of Groove, Milord Nasty Pants, the Magistrate of Penetrate, the Pharaoh of Funk, Maharaja of the Mojo, Caesar the Pleaser, Benevolent Despot of the Lower Places, the Commander in Chief in the Overstuffed Briefs, or the Exchequer of Milk Chocolate Soul.”

Ponty was staring wide-eyed at King Leo when he finished. Jack rushed to fill the horrified silence that ensued.

“Or, as he said, you can call him King Leo, Earl,” Jack said nervously.

“Muh . . . muh . . . Milord Nasty Pants?” Ponty asked weakly. Clearly, of all the pseudonyms, he was most traumatized by this one.

“Yes, yes, yes. Or Sheik Shake and Bake, or the Mogul of Rock 'n' Roll-gul, or the Crowned Head of the Squeakin' Bed. Wooo!” King Leo added enthusiastically.

“Or King Leo,” Jack added.

“Milord Nasty—” Ponty began, but he was cut off by Jack.

“He wants to see the mine, Earl. And I know that as a
local
expert on it,
you'd want to be the one to take us there.”

Ponty shook his head like a boxer shaking off a well-done uppercut.

“I was just going to take a nap. I've been doing quite a bit of turkey hunting this week. And, you know, if you want to catch a turkey off guard, you gotta get up pretty early.”

Jack gripped Ponty deliberately by the front of his new flannel shirt. “Earl. Earl. Friend Earl. So happy you've been having
fun turkey hunting, but”—and here he nearly picked up Ponty—
“he wants to see the mine.”

If King Leo was bothered or embarrassed at all by Jack's sudden forcefulness with this kindly-looking resident of Holey, he didn't show it. While Jack was lightly roughing up Ponty, King Leo was lifting his tangerine-colored sleeveless turtleneck, absentmindedly touching the taut muscles of his abdomen and humming a tune, as though scenes such as these were something he had become accustomed to seeing.

Ponty responded to Jack's persuasion. “Ouch. Okay. Okay. Watch the shirt. Let me just get ready, and we'll go see the mine.”

“Good,” said Jack, and he honored Ponty's request concerning his shirt.

“All right, then.”

“Yes, all right.”

“I'll just be a second,” said Ponty, brushing at his chest as though Jack had grasped him with soiled hands.

“Take your time.”

“King Leo, you'll excuse me?” Ponty asked regally.

“Oh, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes.”

“Hang on, then,” Ponty said to Jack.

“I'll be right here.”

“I'd ask you in, but—”

“Would you please just get going?” Jack demanded.

Ponty slunk quickly back inside, and Jack heard faint noises of Ponty-style bustling—in Jack's opinion a staggeringly inefficient state for him to be in, what with its needless redundancy of action and frequent incidences of glass breakage. Jack, remembering himself, checked in with King Leo, who seemed quite undisturbed by recent events, as he was currently dispensing
some sort of cream or unguent from a small white tube into a mound on the fingertips of his left hand. He deftly replaced the cap, put the tube back into a tiny over-the-shoulder bag (Jack presumed it was not to be taken as a purse, despite having all the traditional earmarks of one), and, after rubbing it between his hands, smoothed the emollient into his close-cropped hair. To Jack's questioning look he replied, “Flaxseed sculpting gel. You need some?” he offered.

Jack refused graciously, withholding his own strong opinions concerning the rubbing of flaxseed derivatives into one's scalp.

“It'll keep that flaking down,” King Leo said.

His dudgeon still near the surface, Jack considered and rejected the idea of grabbing the front of King Leo's sweater and giving him a few shakes. A second scheme involving flinging him to the ground by his purse was also set aside for the moment as Jack's better man prevailed. Both schemes, however, were reconsidered briefly when King Leo then produced what Jack at first assumed to be a lip balm of some sort, but King Leo corrected him by identifying it as “peach glaze lip essence.” Again Jack conquered his baser instincts.

When Ponty reappeared a moment later, Jack couldn't help but notice that his top lip—moments ago free of any facial hair—was now thoroughly covered by a thick layer of mustache. He leaned toward Ponty in disbelief, blinking as though perhaps the newly acquired cookie duster was just a spot on Jack's contact lens. King Leo stopped the process of recapping his peach glaze lip essence to stare at “Earl” for a second. Ponty, a man sensitized over the years to the disbelieving stares of others, looked from one staring man to the other.

“What?” he asked.

King Leo said nothing but simply cocked his head to the side in a questioning manner before shaking it off. “Nothing, nothing, nothing at all, Mr. Earl. Lead on to that magic place.”

“Well, I don't how much magic is there. It's all boarded up. Pretty junky-looking. And the mine itself is actually on a guy's property, so we'll have to check with him first.”

“Oh, it'll work out. I know it. Big things are gonna happen there, Mr. Earl. Big things.”

“What kinds of things, do you think?” Ponty asked as they walked.

“Gonna be a revival.”

“Yeah, Jack mentioned that. A revival of what, exactly?”

“Oh, my, my, my, Mr. Earl. I'll tell you what. What it will be is a revival of the one Funka-Lovely-Creative-Spirit-Being that all people used to share. The same one that was at work when your Mr. Lynch was rescued from the beast in that mine. We've lost that in our time, and we need to get it back. But we're gonna do it. Me and Jack—with your help. We're gonna get it back.”

“Well, okay. We can take my Tempo.”

King Leo insisted on taking the backseat, despite objections from Jack. This turned out badly for King Leo. For when Ponty shifted his weight in his seat and pushed back, the improperly repaired seat collapsed yet again and reclined, Ponty ending up in King Leo's lap.