The Dead Slam: A Tale of Benevolent Assasination (16 page)

Boyne didn’t care for Tessyier, but he was impressed with the boy’s passion. “A noble enterprise, indeed,” he said. “But I see where you’d run into a few snags. Why’d you quit?”

“He didn’t need me. The Massive is producing the desired result.”

“Is he happy with the result?”

“Yes, but
result
might not be the word for it. Look! Life is already a game. I know that. You know that. He doesn’t have to make a game out of it, he just has to make new rules. Whoever makes the rules, controls the game.”

Boyne smiled ear to ear. That was the takeaway. “Yes, indeedy do, my boy. Whoever makes the rules, controls the game.”

C
amille tossed and turned
, then gave up and got out of bed in the dark. She had slept a few fitful hours, but every time she tried to relax, the love letters called her to the piles of documents she should be reading. She dragged herself into the kitchen and stood for several minutes staring at the cupboard, but a jolt of coffee didn’t appeal to her. She drifted into her office. It was entirely hers now.

The Aaron Tuke letter sat atop the pile on the big leather blotter, a colorful Venetian glass paperweight pressing it into the stack. Camille stretched as tall as she could, then gave in to her curiosity and picked up the lovely letter and studied its penmanship. She set it aside and shuffled through the remaining letters, hoping to find another one in Aaron Tuke’s hand. A cluster of indiscernible letters in decorated scripts flipped by. She could make out salutations, dates, signatures and some addresses, but they might as well have been addressed to Jupiter.

She shoved that pile to the side then riffled through the next pile, a catchall of miscellaneous documents. She lifted them to take a better look and a page folded in three fell from the stack.

Camille unfolded it:

N
ovember 14
, 1671

B
eloved Husband
,

I
live
and breathe the memory of your touch. The knowledge certain of our reunion in Pennsylvania, of which your description paints the picture of paradise, green and free, sustains me. I had a dream of our future last night, but all I can remember of it was my mother’s spring onion soup. We were eating her magnificent soup! So silly, but I prayed you would delight in the memory of that soup.

My mother fussed over her beds of spring onions the whole year round. That is what we called them, spring onions, although some say ‘green onions’. They are savory and tender and sweetest in spring, long before summer’s heat. It was the flavor of those new shoots we craved. A craving not unlike that which torments me in your absence.

Camille felt a familiar knot rising in her throat . . .
‘love’s gift.’

Mother dwelled upon each speck of dirt and seed she planted. And she knew well how to stagger her planting so as to have ripe ones as early as possible, and a more important stand late in the season that she would nurture until perfect.

As a churlish young girl of grim temperament, I scorned her scratching in the dirt, and hated her fanciful justifications for doing so. ‘The onions are sending me a message from the future,’ she would say.

But what wisdom is wasted upon youth and vanity, for the true object of her labor was to teach me to listen for the voice. Especially the voice of the future. That is the voice of God. Truth wasted, certainly, on a girl newly awakened to the full constellation of man’s treachery — the bane of all women. Mother’s naiveté grated my bones. Why had she not spent her time correcting these iniquities, but rather squandering it on onions?

My revelation came in late Autumn when only a few yellowed leaves remained. This is when she would pull up the last of her onions. Those destined for our annual fête supreme. A caldron of onion soup, redolent with the gentle breath of herbs and petals from the woodland, thick with savory little — messages from the future.

One taste and all argument, no matter how sensible, vanished. The test of my mother’s wisdom proved her wise indeed. And we would find ourselves in the presence of that voice from the future, who speaks not with words but with gifts we can take into ourselves with the senses he gave us for the very job.

In the presence of the truth, there is nothing to say. How silly indeed. Oh, that I could only dwell in those memories. For I hesitate to speak of present events, as I know not what news reaches you. Owing to the fact that there is no effect you can have upon them, I endeavor to lighten your burden and offer that there is further promise for our prosperity, although it comes with caution.

All my prayers are pinned to the younger Mr. Penn as his troubles have multiplied tenfold. In order to keep Pennsylvania from his low and carnal enemies at court, he has chosen rather what some fear a death sentence in Debtor’s Prison. Never a better man has stood before a tyrant and caused them such pain as our gallant Mr. Penn. They have no shield to fend off his reason and principle. I pray for him daily.

With Queen Anne upon the throne, our grant from Mr. Penn of those lands along the western reaches of the fortieth parallel is now recognized, and I am loath to spend one more night away from it and you, my love.

I agree it is a great expanse for a single grant, even if much of it is awash in streams and marshlands, and crowned with a great but impractical mountain. I have heard you, dear husband, rave of the merits of what most would consider an impediment of rock. In days past you would not have thought twice of so inhospitable a place for us to prosper. But the dogma of the past is inadequate to our tempestuous present. The occasion is piled high with difficulty, and we must rise with it. As our circumstance is new, so we must think anew, act anew.

Fare thee well . . . my life, my love. As I concur in our salutation, saying with my lips your words — I will see you soon, my beloved — upon the Twin Spires.

U
ntil Love’s Last Breath
,

Camillia Tuke

De Rotte

C
amille leapt to her feet
, half-blinded by tears, stumbled to the computer, pulled up a map of Pennsylvania and began zooming and scanning until she found the fortieth parallel. She traced it until her finger fell directly upon the mountain where her father had been found.

“Oh, my God!”

B
oyne was
glad they’d made it to the Monongahela Wharf without incident. Soon he could drop the tiresome pretense of being interested in Tessyier’s nonsense.

Tessyier was still going on about something, but no one was listening and he hadn’t noticed. “Does that make sense? A transcapitalist . . . with his money?” He realized they’d arrived at the wharf. Excellent! He could drop the tiresome pretense of respecting these ignorant dolts.

“I agree, lad,” said Boyne. “Your logic is unassailable. But it’s better to spend like there's no tomorrow, than to spend tonight like there's no money!”

The troop howled.

“Don’t be obtuse,” scowled Tessyier. The laughter died abruptly.

Boyne bristled. “Obtuse am I now? Well, I’ll tell you straight, humans are locusts not honey bees. We feast upon the work of others. We win because others lose.”

Tessyier gathered his belongings, and said scornfully, “The bees will prevail. In the end. And you know it.”

The transporter lurched to a stop, and there sat his small tugboat awaiting him. He smiled cynically at the name painted on her bow.

Deliverance
.

M
ax
, Otis and MacIan sat in three dilapidated recliners, long tubes pinned to their veins. The needles didn’t bother Max as much as the smell. He kept wrinkling his nose. “I hate that smell,” he said.

Otis snorted in a sample. “What smell? Which smell?”

“Alcohol,” said Max. “The smell of alcohol. It’s all over this place.”

“Only antiseptic they got, I guess.” Otis panned his nose around the room, sniff sniff, until their nurse walked in. He gave Max a wink, aimed his nose at her, and spoke out of the side of his mouth. “Look around you, young man. A few old men, some boys, and lots and lots of women. Same as Bedford. But here it sticks out like a broken pecker at a fuck-fest.”

Max was taken aback, but had to laugh. People didn’t talk like that in Lily. He looked at MacIan, whose eyes were slammed shut. He was amazed to discover that rhino-tough MacIan was squeamish about needles. And! It was obvious that honorable Otis didn’t see anything wrong with a fuck-fest.

“You know that injured lady?” asked Otis.

“All my life. She’s the Pastor’s wife. A teacher in my village.”

“Good teacher?”

“Really good. History, geography, reading, you name it. She told the best stories.”

Otis noted that each time the nurse Cromwell came around, she tended to Max first. She smiled at Max, but treated him and MacIan like lepers.

“You take the pledge?” Otis asked.

“You kiddin’? My dad would kill me.”

“That’s good. Why a young man pledge to pray seven times a day, when there’s six women for every man? That’s foolish. If I was still frisky, I’d take that pledge of seven. Oh yeah! In my time I could do seven per day, every day. Eight or nine on Sunday. Praise the Lord.”

Nurse Cromwell cast a rueful eye at Otis, which only seemed to encourage him. He started snapping his fingers, singing, “No more work for me. Women and religion is all I neeeee . . . Um humm, hum hum hum.” He laughed until a coughing spell stopped him. Otis carried a party with him everywhere he went and was, as a result, always in a good mood.

The nurse circled their chairs. “Couple minutes,” she said. A plastic name-tag dangled from her lapel: Elz Cromwell, RN.

“Glad to hear that,” said Otis. “Elz?”

She lifted Max’s blood-bag. “It’s modern for Elizabeth.” She glowered at the chauvinistic Otis, then put her hand on young Max’s shoulder. “You selling this?”

Max turned to Otis, who answered for him, “This a trade. Payment for a friend.”

“Oh,” she said, hopefully. “Is this the only thing you have to trade?” Otis checked his blood-bag and thought he was done, too. But Nurse Elz only had eyes for Max. “Over here,” she said. “I have some liquids for you. You have to rehydrate.” She led Max away, to Otis’ consternation. MacIan hadn’t opened his eyes and wasn’t about to.

Nurse Elz ushered Max to a collection of paper cups filled with various liquids and handed him one the color of burnt sweet potatoes. He downed it and shuddered. “Our homemade version of orange juice. Ever seen an orange?” she said, as though she might have one in her pocket.

Max shook his head. “I’ve heard of them.”

“They say they’re growing oranges somewhere around here.” She handed him a different drink, but it tasted just as bad. “Come.” She nudged him toward a scale. “Step up.” Max got on. She slid the balance weight. “Two hundred twenty pounds. You haven’t gone without. Have you?”

“My father’s the principal provider for our village. No one goes without. We’ve achieved sufficient abundance.”

“I’ll bet he is, and I’ll bet you have,” said Nurse Elz as she lifted a flat metal arm and sat it on Max’s head. “Six feet two and one half inches. Blond hair, blue eyes. You’re in good health, I assume?”

“Perfect.”

“I can see that,” said Nurse Elz. “Ya know, I want to introduce you to someone. You’ll want to meet her.” She took Max’s arm and steered him out the door.

Otis slapped MacIan’s shoulder. He unclenched one eye and saw Otis pointing to Max just as the doors swung closed. They did a worried double take, but were both pinned to their blood-bags, and Max was gone.

* * *

E
fryn Boyne
and his special guest, Brian Tessyier, climbed out of the transporter and gazed at the moonlit Monongahela. A wintry haze drifted over it and crept up the old wharf in wispy tendrils. A brief warming trend had set adrift a surge of ice floes that passed at a jogger’s pace. It was enchanting, but the damp chill cut like broken glass.

“And here we are,” said Boyne, slapping Tessyier on the back with everyone chiming their fare-thee-wells.

“Some peculiar notions you’re up to,” said the Driver. “But worth a mull. Worth a mull!”

Tessyier clambered over the steel gangplank clutching his metallic briefcase, wheeled suitcase clacking in tow, and onto the small river tug. Boyne and his troop assembled on the wharf, where one of them aimed a camera at Tessyier. The tugboat’s pilot cast off the mooring line and they drifted into the current. Tessyier came to the rail and smiled, but his remorse was evident. A cloud of diesel smoke belched from the smokestack and water boiled up between the tug and the wharf.

Boyne cupped his hands around his mouth, and yelled, “My name is Efryn Boyne!”

Tessyier stared ponderously across the widening stretch of frothing black water.

Boyne held up something that looked like a garage door opener. “Efryn Boyne. Ya bloviating clot.”

The troop taunted, “Bloviator! Hey Bloviator!”

Tessyier suddenly recognized the name and started pawing his chest for the handcuff key necklace. The briefcase slipped and yanked his wrist toward the deck. He recovered, found the necklace and tried to rip it from his neck, but it sliced his throat wide open as the piano wire noose slid tighter, blood pumping through his collar.

Boyne pointed the remote at Tessyier and smiled. “Oh! We’re all tellin’ the truth now! Aye?”

“One second, Captain!” shouted the Driver. “Number Three, let’s go!”

Number Three stepped forward, aiming the camera at Tessyier, a half step back, a little to the left, and shouted, “Rolling!”

Tessyier crashed around the deck, briefcase shackled to his lacerated wrist, flailing wildly, blood spurting from his neck. He tried with both feet to strip the briefcase from his wrist, nearly ripping his hand off, then suddenly collapsed in a defeated lump. Slowly, his free hand probed for the rail and he calmly pulled himself up.

“Could there possibly be anything you forgot to say?” chided Boyne. “I can’t imagine it.”

To everyone’s shock, Tessyier leapt over the rail and into the river.

Number Three groaned, “Ez’s adlibbin’ it now.”

“Not very convincing, iz’ee?” said the Driver.

Tessyier disappeared beneath the water, bobbed to the surface, and sank again. Boyne pursed his lips, and said, “Game, set, match.” He pushed the button. The briefcase detonated. A huge explosion, muted by several feet of water, pushed the tug out into the river on its wake. A fine spray filled the frosty dampness, then blew downriver.

A glorious silence ensued.

“Oy, Captain?” asked Number Five, a pugnacious little knob. “Wha’ about all dat pelf?”

“It costs good money to send a great and tragic message, my son.”

Everyone agreed.

“But! Me mum didn’t raise no gacks.” He pulled from his inside coat pocket a neatly folded glassine envelope and dangled it from one corner. It unraveled to reveal Tessyier’s twelve little bars of gold. “Thumb on the scale, bucko. Thumb on the scale.”

Everyone raised a thumb and the Driver tipped his hat. “Mum’d be proud, sir.”

Boyne pointed at the boat, as the pilot gunned the engines. “Where’s he going?”

Bullets ricocheted off the heavy steel pilothouse, but the windows splintered, raining shards of plate glass onto the pilot. He dove to the floor, grabbed the bottom of the wheel and searched for the throttle with the other hand. The powerful tugboat, unburdened by its intended load, raced into the mist.

“Ez’s on the rabbit, Captain,” shouted the Driver.

Boyne raised his hand. “That’ll do. A little drama to substantiate his story. And what a story he has to tell. He’s our witness. No witness, no message.” He waved the troop back to the transporter.

“You think Tuke is out to sea?” asked Number Three. “Like the Bloviator said?”

“If he is, we got him. But I don’t see it. He’d never paint himself into a corner. But if he is where the Bloviator said, we win. If he’s not, well, we’ve done some of our best work here tonight. The message will prevail. It will be remembered.”

“And what of our Judas?” asked Number Five. “Is he morty morty morty?”

“Well. If the bomb didn’t kill him outright, I pray he makes the best of the opportunity.”

“Opportunity?” the troop sang.

Boyne made a graceful half-turn and began walking backwards, arms outstretched to the mighty Mon. “He could be the first man to swim from here to New Orleans — with one arm.”

“Call Guinness,” howled the Driver.

Boyne removed his luxurious hat and placed it over his heart. “He will feature prominently in our toasts tonight.”

The transporter sped away into the crystalline city with a chorus trailing after, “. . . Slongeha!”

* * *

M
ax felt
a little skittish being off with a strange woman, Nurse Elizabeth Cromwell, in a strange place, all by himself.

“How’d you like to make some money? Real money?” she asked. “Serious trade? Whatever you want. Pays any way you want.”

Max had read his mother’s vast collection of 1930s detective novels several times and loved to talk to himself in colloquial Noir. “Is this where the rube falls for the jape?”

“No. It’s not.” Nurse Cromwell was also an avid reader. “Look. You’re a prize specimen, and you don’t have anything to lose.”

“Ya never know.”

Nurse Cromwell pointed to his bandaged arm. “Blood is the last thing a rich man will sell.”

Max folded.

Nurse Cromwell took his arm. “I have a friend who . . .” A burst of laughter echoed down the hall! A woman in her early twenties was skipping toward them, waving jubilantly, satiny black hair dancing around her shoulders. She wore a tailored black velvet jacket over an opaque purple body suit, interrupted by a bright yellow velour mini skirt and electric-blue heels.

Nurse Cromwell rolled a what-do-ya-think look at Max. “My friend.”

The friend tossed an arm around Nurse Cromwell, two air-kisses, then turned to Max and drank him in — every last drop. “Ohhhh,” she purred. “Just as you said, Elz. Good lookin’ out.”

Max had never seen such a pretty woman. Miss Camille was pretty and smart and all, but this creature was something else. She put one hand on his shoulder, the other on his chest, then slid them both down his arm and took his hand. She studied it, weighed it, smiled approvingly, and shook it with both of hers.

“I’m Priyanka,” she said, mouth delicately agape. “What a find.”

Max started to speak, but couldn’t. She was so perky and fresh he thought he heard her giggle, but realized it was him.

“Max,” said Priyanka, as if she already knew him. “We have to talk.”

He gave her his undivided attention. She was dark and smooth and sweet as a chin-dripping mango. Her hair was the blackest thing he’d ever seen and flowed like liquid silk. Her features were strong, symmetrical, and perfectly proportioned. Dark amber eyes sparkled at him as she ran a delicate finger across her forehead to toss an unruly tress snared in her perfectly arched eyebrows.

“Uh huh,” he said dreamily.

“What brings you to town, Max?”

“Some trouble back in Lily.”

“Lily?”

“That’s where I’m from. A woman got shot. We brought her here.”

Priyanka’s smile got even brighter. “And! He’s a hero.”

“No. No. No. I’m here with Trooper MacIan and Otis. Some guys shot Gina. My old teacher. They were looking for . . .”

The blood bank door banged open and out trod Trooper MacIan holding the entire blood-bag rig in his outstretched hand like Frankenstein. “What the hell?”

Priyanka gasped. “A duet?!”