

zombie drug run

C. G. BANKS

ZOMBIE DRUG RUN

Published by C. G. Banks at Smashwords

Copyright © 2014 by C. G. Banks

All rights reserved. This includes the right to reproduce any portion of this book in any form.

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Prologue

Lester the pimp had just finished up pissing down his leg. The knife he had at his throat had caused him to do that. His two bitches weren't much good to him either, and he didn't know, maybe they'd pissed themselves too. Rags had been stuffed into their mouths, held in place by doubled lengths of piano wire. Shit like that had a way of taking the fight out of you.

His eyes grew wider still as the monster pushed forward. The monster with the thickly-cabled forearm choking him into the goddamn sheet rock. Suddenly he recalled the whispered prayers of his long-dead grandmother, drifting up now as if through the floor itself. And as he squirmed there, he suddenly did feel her very close, somehow unglued in Time, a ghost he would soon be joining.

He tried pushing away from the wall but the monster's breath stopped him. The blade eased deeper and he screamed. The monster said something he couldn't quite make out.

He suddenly knew there would be no help, here, ever.

He rolled his eyes back to the girls, pushed back behind the stained couch. A thin line of drool ran out between his teeth as the monster repeated what he must have said before.

"...you understand me?" the pimp heard, almost engulfed by the faint, trailing cacophony of sound that traced nothing but the edge of oblivion. He tried hard to focus.

"What?" he coughed.

"The girls, man. The girls, you fuck. They're not all I had in mind. I said, 'Do you fucking understand me?'" The monster's lips broke back over a clean, white fence of polished teeth.

Lester's eyes watered, everything in the room was floating around like the place was going to explode. Blood dripped from his chin. He began to cry.

"Oh that's good. I like that," the monster said.

Lester, recognizing the form of his death in the room, tried for a bargain, anything, teetering there on the very brink of dissolution. "Look, man! I doan give a shit about da bitches! Do wha'eva you want!" and on and on with the same old promises and silliness.

The monster's diamond eyes clouded over. The forearm dug deeper. When it leaned sensuously closer the pimp felt its hard dick close upon him but he was helpless. There was nowhere to go. "What's that?" the monster asked.

Only a superhuman effort allowed the pimp to spit out what he did. "The bitches, man, the fuckin bitches! Ya cun have 'em! Do wha'eva ya want! I never seen ya, any a this shit! My mutha's grave, man, fuck I swear...!" His legs gave out and the monster pressed into his chest again. More promises blubbered unintelligible until his voice rose to a shriek again as the blade went deeper.

"I've already got the whores, you stupid prick," the monster said. Then the blade rammed upward and as far as the pimp knew everything in the room blurred to a milky white. Lester's feet hammered at the littered floor and through his gold-capped, front teeth the monster could just make out the dull glint of the knife. It watched with almost childish curiosity as the pimp flailed away to nothing. Then it dropped the body to the floor and gave it one massive, final kick.

The monster backed away from the corpse. There was blood on the cuff of its sleeve. It turned and wiped it on the wall, near the wet spot where the pimp's sweating head had pressed moments before. Then it turned slowly, intimately aware of the effect it wished to inspire.

It moved languidly over to the other two. As always, it'd been careful to fulfill the preliminary, giving them each another handful of cash before beginning the real business.

It grabbed the edge of the couch and flung it away from the girls with as much forced rage as it could muster. Then it said, tenderly, menacingly, "Look at you." It shook its sleeves down so that they were no longer bunched about its forearms. "One moment, fine, the next..." It snapped its fingers. It laughed.

Sandy tried to squeeze behind Doris's big ass, but the larger whore had wedged as close to the wall as she could. The maniac had just deep-sixed Lester. It wasn't the first pimp she'd seen offed, but it was undoubtedly the worst...and the closest. She tried to keep her horrified eyes away from the corpse but a morbid, irrational urge bid her back.

Dead Lester lay crumpled and discarded like old clothes thrown down in a basement laundry. Blood streamed off his body in slow undulations, carrying bits of paper and cigarette butts with it. The black handle of the knife protruded stiffly out from his chin, causing his mouth to contort like some broken puppet's. His half-lidded eyes crossed toward his nose. Sandy suddenly felt a heavy, slumping weight fold onto her back, and she fought back with her elbow to get the other bitch off.

Her head was suddenly wrenched up, knee high to the monster. It smashed its foot into her nose, the reverberation banking off the walls of the shitty room. Oddly, she felt no fear now. The monster bent down low to throw the bigger whore away, grabbing them both by the hair and manhandling them like toys. It jerked Sandy around to face it but found her eyelids tightly shut. It licked a drop of blood from the pulp of her nose, ran its tongue across her forehead. "Open your eyes," it said softly. There was a studied passion in its tone.

She didn't respond.

It wrenched her head back again, and her muffled groan brought the smile back. She opened her eyes just slightly. Tried to make out the swimming image before her, and gradually became aware the monster was holding something up in front of her face. "How many?" she heard in her dream-world, time after repeating time. But it was so hard to tell; the fingers (it was definitely fingers, she saw that now) floated in a deep murk, were only cloudy shadows against a violent background of red. But the incessant question continued. She grunted once and the monster banged her head against the wall. Bursts of light went off in her mind. "Did that look like one to you!?" Twice more it smashed her head against the wall. She felt herself begin to lose consciousness and decided to bank a guess. Even at the dead-end of her unfortunate life, she still clung bitterly to the faint wisp of survival.

She grunted twice, as loud and as clear as she could with the bastard rag in her mouth. For just a second there was no response; she kept expecting to be slammed into the wall again. But nothing happened. The fingers waggled in front of her face. Yes, she thought. There were two.

"Good, fine," the monster growled. It brought the fingers back a little as if to give her a better view. She held on, squinting.

And with the same brutal force the monster had used to skewer Lester's brain, it jammed its hand forward in lightning quickness, the pointer and middle fingers pronged out. They punched into Sandy's eye sockets with a greasy pop, sending her body into an electric spasm. Then, slowly, it closed its grip, and stood, pulling her away from the other whore by her face. It dragged her across the room and tossed her onto the heap of Dead Lester. Then, wiping its gored fingers on the wall, it squatted to pull the knife from the cooling pimp.

When it turned around the bigger whore was starting to squirm a little. It smiled, glad all the excitement wasn't over. It paused to check the Rolex, pleasantly surprised to find it was only eight.

By the time the monster finished it was a quarter past midnight and the floor was so tacky with blood and gore every step was sticky. In the dark hallway of the deserted building, the monster changed into running shorts and a tee-shirt, packed the rest of its bloody clothes into the leather workout bag it'd left by the door hours earlier. It left the gaslight burning, hoping the whole fucking building would burn down.

The monster's name was Samuel Franklin. By the lucky hand of fortune (one that had regrettably missed the hapless corpses left behind) its father was a shipping magnate in New Orleans with all the power and influence that came with the title.

It whistled as it made its way back to the 280 Z.

Chapter 1: The Meeting

Frederick Paol pushed away from the bar and checked his watch. He was meeting the new guys in the Warehouse District and the information handed down was slight to say the least. Such was the business. He had the plane to move whatever needed to be moved and the balls to do it. Standing up, he felt the three whiskeys scratching at the back of his throat, but even so, it helped him feel more secure. Discomfort was like that. Never let yourself get too relaxed, that was the motto, brother.

He had a little less than an hour.

He shuffled out to the sidewalk, watching the traffic mash by on Magazine. Soiled newspapers lined the gutters, flyers on every street pole, people pressing themselves into every commercialized niche they could possibly squeeze themselves into. Not even four o'clock in the afternoon and already some bum had fashioned himself a rotten, cardboard pallet in the alcove of a deserted porn theater. Fucking loser. Better to let him rot where he lay.

Frederick made his way to the curb for a taxi. He was meticulous about his dress when conducting business; he'd seen tourists in their ridiculous, garish outfits stand with their dicks in their hands for hours waiting. He'd seen failing salesmen sweating in bars over botched assignments. The cab rolled over to the curb in about a minute.

It splashed a muddy spume across the sidewalk, narrowly missing a strolling couple nearby. Then it idled in a wet hunch near the Bus Stop, fuming noxiously while Frederick walked up. He grabbed the handle and opened the door.

"Where to, buddy?" the cabby said, all the while digging some grotesque chunk from between his teeth. Frederick grimaced and turned away, closing the door to stare out the window.

"Corner of St. Claude and Poland."

"The docks, eh?" Quizzical mouse-eyes peered back at him hungrily by way of the rear-view mirror. The smell of cigarettes, stale coffee, and body odor hung in the air like a load of clothes fermenting in grease. Frederick nodded and cracked the window.

The cabby pulled away from the curb. "Got business out at the docks, do ya?" he insisted.

Frederick gave the man a cold stare and cleared his throat. "Here's the deal, buddy. I need to be at a meeting very shortly and I don't have time to dick around with small talk. Do us both a favor and step on it, could you?" Then he turned back to the window. The cabby shut his mouth, although he did find a grating and ill-defined radio station that was almost as bad as his chatter. Frederick let it go, taking the lesser evil, continually watching the buildings that passed so he could center his thoughts on something besides this shit-crate.

When the cab exited St. Claude to Poland, Frederick leaned forward and touched the cabby on the shoulder. "This is far enough," he said. The cabby pulled over to the side of the road, fuming but thinking better of voicing any opinion. Even though they were still several blocks away from his destination Frederick could take no more; the smell inside was claustrophobically rank.

He flung the door wide and stepped out to the curb, digging in his back pocket for his wallet. He balled up a twenty and plunked it in through the open passenger window. The cabby grunted like a pig, throwing in some incoherent comment under his breath which Frederick also let slide as he waved the guy off and walked away, never looking back. The cab peeled out to the street and sped away.

He kicked along the dirty sidewalk, summing up the neighborhood right and left. Derelict buildings lined both sides of the road, but just ahead he could see block after block of warehouses. Trucks rumbling along the roads. Square miles of choked, confined space rich with rats and inventory, whether hospital beds or brown heroin wrapped neatly in vacuum-sealed packages. An immediate sharp burst from the whistle of a huge freighter somewhere close on the river. Then the ominous chop of a paddlewheel either docking or leaving the wharf.

Shortly ahead, he caught sight of the office-front sign. Franklin Warehouse. Lincoln had told him the old man owned a sizable chunk of the international shipping trade passing into and out of the Port of New Orleans, and as far as he knew, the old man was on the up-and-up. It was his two sons Frederick was meeting. Lincoln had also told him they diverted the old man's money not infrequently to charter private planes. And that's where Frederick came in.

This contact, Lincoln Thomas, was a Vietnam vet who'd been in and out of prison ever since the waning days of Nixon. Even so, Frederick had let him set up the meeting. The difference now was he hadn't been pinched in a while and times were tight. Somehow the old hippie knew these rich assholes. As ridiculous as it seemed, Lincoln had at least a passing knowledge of every scumbag and assorted deep-pocket this side of the Mississippi River.

Frederick had the 9mm stuffed snuggly at the base of his spine. He knew if the guys were professionals they'd find it, but he liked the insurance in case they weren't. This way, if they didn't let on they knew he was packing, he'd know they were a bunch of fucking amateurs (in which case he'd decline their business), and if they did, they'd also know he wasn't messing around. If it all went to hell he had a knife in his boot.

Frederick strolled into the parking lot. It was littered with trash from a recent festival and the northeast wind that trailed among the District's corridors. At a corner of the building he noticed an old black man with a gas-powered blower in his hands, hastening the trash into an adjacent vacant lot. He lifted his head and offered a small nod as Frederick came on.

Three cars were parked near the entrance. Two of them late model clunkers, but the one situated directly in front of the door was a sparkling, forest-green Lexus. The temporary tag was still taped to the back windshield. Frederick ambled slowly past, pausing only slightly to gaze inside. Sure enough, loaded. Fucking rich kids. The bastards had probably never worked an honest day in their lives, or needed to, but for some unknown reason, they chose to dabble in the drug trade. His background was somewhat different.

He'd returned from 'Nam with a monkey the size of Rhode Island on his back and a pilot's license in his pocket. The later was just fine, but the former had spurred a mindless robbery ten years ago that had served him up eight, piping hot years in Angola State Penitentiary. He had ceased fearing any retribution for evil deeds after this time in hell; those dark nights and brutal days were something that just never left. But since then no legitimate airline in the States would even consider giving him a job, so he'd been forced to take up other pursuits.

On the up side, however, he'd never taken another drug since. That is, if you didn't consider alcohol a drug. One had to make allowances.

He came to the door and pulled it open, noticing the distinct beep of the alarm system as he passed inside. He looked at the smiling girl behind the desk. Frederick didn't figure either of the clunkers outside was hers; she probably balled the guy who owned the Lexus. She looked it; she had the right mouth, and you could just get a hint of cocksucker in the way her eyes flashed. Right now she had the phone to her ear, but motioned that she'd be with him in a moment. He stood idle, sizing up the room, moved over and sat down in a plush leather chair which still smelled of the manufacturer. He placed his hands in his lap and watched her with a shadow of a grin on his face. She caught his attention again and in fine fashion made a face that silently affirmed the person on the other end was a jack-off she'd be glad to be rid of. Frederick wondered how many times she rolled her eyes like that in a day.

The walls of the office were crammed with black and white photographs of massive, sea-going vessels. Some showed strange men on expensive rigs holding up glittering speckled trout and amberjack. The more recent shots were in color, but in fewer numbers. Frederick guessed the novelty of such dominion had worn off sometime around the advent of colored film, and the subsequent memories had been washed over by the effervescent and cloying scent of money. He was still scanning the wall when the secretary addressed him.

"So how can I help you, sir?" she asked.

He looked across the room with the same grin, suitably expanded, already feeling his dick stirring from the sheer weight of her voice, and that was quite a trick.

"I believe you can," he replied. "I've got an appointment to see William Franklin, Jr. I'm a little early, I know, but if you would let him know I'm here."

"He's in the back," she said shuffling through a heap of papers on the desk as if something important might suddenly escape. She pulled something free, glanced at it, and then turned her attention back on him. "Mister Frederick Paol?" she questioned, crucifying the pronunciation horribly. He corrected her politely. "It's Pay-ole" he said before nodding. The girl blushed and assured him she was sorry. "He's meeting with Samuel and Tom right now, but he told me to send you in when you got here." She made a move to stand but Frederick stopped her.

"No, please. Don't bother. If you'll point me the way I'll do just fine." She smiled back before pointing to a beat-up shop door off to the left and down a short hall. Frederick could hear no sound of labor within. "Yes ma'am," he said with the greatest care. "You have a good day." He passed through the hall and pushed the door open. Walked into the dusky warehouse within, leaving her staring at his back as the door slowly closed.

It was a lot bigger inside than it looked from the street. Two five-ton ceiling cranes rested quietly overhead in their greasy tracks, and most of the floor space was packed with row upon row of heavy metal shelving, extending practically to the ceiling like monolithic steel trees. Cardboard containers of all sizes and shapes lined the expansive shelves, and Frederick wondered briefly at the cost of maintaining something like this.

Over to the right he saw a small office. A thin glow of light threw itself against the grimy window. The door was slightly ajar and he could hear voices inside. Frederick walked over and tapped lightly on the door jamb. The sound of voices ceased immediately. Then, after a beat: "Frederick Paol?" pronounced right.

"That is me," he replied, pushing the door open and stepping inside. There were three men, two of them impeccably dressed, the third enveloped in a pair of soiled workman's overalls. This one loomed in a reversed, broken-backed chair set slightly apart from the other two. The butt of a cigarette hung limply from his mouth. One of the nicely-dressed young men stood up and offered his hand. The overalled Bull stood up too and walked over. Frederick knew the routine. While he shook the nicely-dressed man's hand he held his left arm away from his body so the sweaty Bull wouldn't have trouble frisking him. Frederick felt the hand reach the small of his back, grimaced a little as his coat was whisked back and the 9mm extracted. He turned with to watch the lackey examine the gun.

The handshake ended. "Nice piece," Hand-Shake affirmed as he offered Frederick a seat next to the man who could only be his brother. Frederick grunted a languid assent as the Bull shot the magazine from the butt before handing the gun back. Frederick accepted it silently, studying the man's eyes. This was one you'd not want to turn your back on.

"Yes, it is," Frederick replied. The Bull turned around and made his slow way back to the chair. Frederick leaned forward, moving aside his coat as he slid the unloaded gun back to its former resting place. Hand-Shake sat down and lit a cigarette. He pulled deeply before letting go a violent stream of smoke.

"Frederick Paol," he said again, placing the freshly-lit cigarette in the ashtray before him. "My name is William Franklin, if you haven't already guessed, Bill to my friends." He smiled and pointed a ringed finger at the similarly dressed, silent man sitting across from him. "This is my brother, Samuel, and this," he said, gesturing toward the Bull with the work clothes "is Tom Fields. I hope he didn't offend you, but you know how things are. This Lincoln Thomas, Mr. Paol? He a close friend of yours?" He paused with the question hanging in the air.

"More an acquaintance than a friend, Mr. Franklin." Frederick looked at each of the men in turn. "I trust him to a certain degree."

"Yes, well I'm sure. Trust is a hard thing to come by these days."

"I very much agree."

"So then," William said, grabbing the cigarette back from the ashtray. Frederick took a moment to size up Samuel quickly, sitting like a shadow a few feet away. This is the truly dangerous one, he thought. William was too clean and the Bull too goddamned stupid despite his size, but this one... Frederick was glad he still had the stiletto in his boot; he could feel it resting reassuringly at his calf. Fucking amateur Bulldog asshole, he thought.

"So fellas, let's cut to the chase," he said, sitting forward and resting his elbows on the table. "I don't mean to be rude, but I'm a busy man. I'm sure you can understand." He heard the Bull blow between his teeth, but did not take his eyes from the brothers.

"Very well, Mr. Paol," William began. "No need to waste precious time. I've known your buddy for a while and on several occasions they've been rather productive." Frederick didn't have the slightest idea what the man was talking about. But that's not what he was interested in. There was also a subtle change in character now; the slick-suit manner now more machine-like now. Potentially lethal. The eyes sharpened on Frederick but he held the gaze. "He gets into trouble now and again, I'm sure you know that," William said as Frederick nodded. "And several times we've gone out of our way to help him." He noticed the look on Frederick's face and held out the hand with the cigarette. "I know this really doesn't have a damn thing to do with you, but I'm just giving you the word. How your name came down the pike to us." He crushed the half-burned cigarette out. "He says you do good work and I trust him."

Frederick leaned back in the chair. "As you said, trust is a hard thing to come by. I've been fucked over by it in the past."

William's face broke into a genuine smile. He pawed the table top softly. "You're absolutely right, Mr. Paol, but in this world who can truly know...you know?" He raised his eyebrows, enjoying his little pun. "Anyway, he says you have a plane and you're hell in the air. I've got a product I need moved. Could be you're the man I'm looking for."

"Could be. Where to?"

"Southeast of Bogota, in Colombia." William studied Frederick's face. "Any problem?"

"No." Brevity allowed his mind full rein. "So...?"

William examined his fingernails. "You want to know how much?"

"Yeah."

"Five kilos."

"Where's back?"

"New Orleans, of course."

"I don't guess Lincoln told you, but I fly out of Thibodaux. You'll have to handle it from there." Frederick dug in his coat pocket, producing his own pack of cigarettes. As he packed them the as-yet silent Samuel Franklin snapped open a Zippo and held the flame in front of Frederick's face. Frederick leaned forward when he got one set in his mouth, careful to maintain eye contact the whole way. Neither man blinked.

"That might cause an inconvenience, Mr. Paol."

"Sorry," he replied, pulling deep and waiting a moment before letting go. "But that's just the way things are. I fly my fields and everything begins and ends in the air." Having said his piece he went back to smoking.

William smiled again, eyeing the ashtray where the corpse of his cigarette lay. "Just like wearing the same jock-strap if you're winning ball games, I expect," he said.

Frederick allowed the slight mocking attitude, but his eyes hardened. "I suppose."

"Well...that's fine, but the price--"

Frederick cut in before he could continue. "The price stays the same," he said. The Bull's eyes widened, and Samuel's glinted darkly in the thin light streaming down from the naked 60 watt. "Quality, gentlemen," he continued. "I'm the best. Lincoln isn't lying. I'll get the stuff over here, but I'm just not driving around with it. I'll handle the hard part, the rest is in your court." He drew hard on the cigarette again. Looked at each of the men in turn, casting over the Bull quickly. It was clear who the real players were.

As if to clear the growing tension in the air, William said, "I did tell you that Lincoln says you're a man to be trusted?"

"You did, and he's half-right. We all know the rules of the game here, and I'm not gonna promise you something you know is bullshit. You don't know me from Adam." He paused to let this sink in. "I'm telling you I'll fly whatever you got right into your back yard, but you'll have to come and pick it up. Thibodaux's as far as I go.

"I've done all this before gentlemen. You consider yourselves professionals and I do too. You want it; I'll get it, but the price stays the same, and Thibodaux is end-game for me." He offered an obligatory smile before reaching over to crush out his butt in William's ashtray.

"You've got a lot of balls, Mr. Paol." This time the observation didn't come from William, and Frederick turned his attention to Samuel. The previously silent partner was now leaning in toward him. "You come in here and start blowing smoke about how things are gonna go." The Bull was more intense now; his breathing faster, it seemed he should have a spiked collar tight around his throat. Frederick began thinking again about the stiletto in his boot.

Across the table, William lounged comfortably in his chair, casting a somewhat morose stare at his brother. Frederick brought his leg back so his hand was closer to the blade, but he knew his chances were slim to none if everything went to hell.

Samuel continued, "You talk a lot of shit, but so far we don't know you from the fucking Wizard of Oz. Lincoln's been known to fuck up." He leaned even farther in to encroach on Frederick's space. His voice carried a strange inflection, one far different than Frederick had ever heard before. It breached a surprisingly odd and disjointed gap between violence, elegance, ruthlessness, and a certain twisted form of respect.

"So maybe you are our man," Samuel said, smiling now, sitting back. "Lincoln's never fucked us before, but like you were saying, who's to fucking trust? There's always a first time." He sized up Frederick as he stood, casting an eye towards the Bull. Immediately the dirty man's breathing slowed and he folded himself carefully back into the chair.

"You're not scared of much, are you?" Samuel asked with his right thumbnail pressed at his front teeth.

"Not usually, no," Frederick said.

"Not even three strangers in a small room in the back of a warehouse?" Samuel took his thumb away from his mouth and smiled.

"Not especially," Frederick replied. The muscles in his neck bunched into a tight knot.

The comment hung in the air. Each man looked around at the others until the silence was suddenly broken by Samuel's laughter. The sound had a damping effect that strangely smoothed all the uncomfortable wrinkles out of the room. Of course, the Bull still looked disturbed, but he didn't even fucking count.

"I'll say one thing. You are one ballsy motherfucker!" Samuel said and laughed long and hard. And with that the tension, or at least most of it, drained away. "Maybe you are the one we're looking for," he affirmed, looking toward his brother for the word. "What do you think?"

William looked at Frederick a long, hard moment before turning back to his brother. "We'll talk about this further," he said, letting the statement sink as he nodded very faintly at Frederick. "Now that we know a little about you, and the conditions you insist, I'm sure you'll give us a while to mull this thing over." It was very clearly not a question.

Frederick nodded, signifying he had no choice in the matter. But he did look back at Samuel. "I'm the man, all right." He stood up slowly, holding his hand out to the Bull for the 9mm clip. The Bull looked dourly at William who gave a brief tick of his chin. The Bull handed it over and Frederick stuffed it into his coat pocket.

"Thank you for your time, gentlemen," he said politely, turning toward the door. "I hope to be hearing from you soon."

"That's fine, Mr. Paol," William said.

But before he left the room Samuel spoke up again. "I know about the blade in the boot," he said.

As he stared into the darkness of the warehouse on the other side of the door, Frederick stopped short. "I knew you did," he said, though he hadn't, and left.

Chapter 2: Early Morning

Frederick woke up at six-thirty the following morning in Room 1734 of the downtown Sheraton on Canal Street. He'd stayed up drinking until three in the morning, trying to shake off the creeping malaise Samuel Franklin had brought on. He thought he'd conducted himself well enough to score the job, but the only bad thing was that bastard had seen him shake. Even if it was only a little, the fact remained, and that was too fucking much. The man was definitely psychotic; Frederick had seen his fair share of lunatics, but it was safe to say Samuel had all the fixings to be at the top of the list. And the bit about the blade, goddammit. Score Round One to the lunatic.

Frederick had had them pegged wrong. They weren't 'Daddy's boys' after all. Sure they were spoiled rich kids, but William appeared to be a savvy, secretive sort while his brother exuded the personality of a trained hit man beneath the touching facade of his $1,500 suit.

Frederick had tried to get in touch with Lincoln last night but no luck. It was just like that worthless fuck, when you really needed him you could never find him and when you didn't give a fuck there he was. The sonofabitch was about as stable as a pinball.

Frederick guessed he'd come back to the room alone, since he couldn't recall blowing his money on any barroom split-tail. Now it was a two-headed sword; he was pretty glad he'd not given some bimbo a chance to rob him blind, but he was also horny as hell, and fighting back a furious headache on top of it. He picked up the phone and dialed 0. A sweet, young voice answered on the second ring, delicately textured and inviting. "Room service," she whispered as if she were afraid of waking someone.

"Hello," he said, holding his head. "This is Room 1734. I need breakfast. How about a ham and egg omelet? Better make it three eggs, and a pot of coffee. Don't worry about the sweetener. And honey, see if you can't come by some aspirins too, okay?"

The voice remained passive and understanding. "Yes sir," (a clacking of a keyboard) "Mr. Paol. It'll be twenty minutes or so on the breakfast. Do you need the aspirins now or will it be enough to bring them up with your breakfast?"

Frederick scratched his head and closed his eyes. Choices, choices. "Just send 'em up with the breakfast, honey. I don't think I'll die in the meantime."

"I sure hope not, Mr. Paol. Hope your day gets better."

"It has to," he replied.

"Very well. If there's anything else we can do for you, please don't hesitate to call."

"I sure will, honey," he said. He hung up the phone and laid back on the pillows, two fingers pinching the bridge of his nose. He worked on controlled breathing and clearing his mind and began to feel slightly better.

The room service was punctual and after breakfast and four aspirins he was on the road to humanity. He was even able to smoke a cigarette without gagging, and after he jumped in the shower, scrubbed his body and steamed a copious amount of alcohol free through his pores, he honestly didn't feel that bad.

He dressed casually: jeans, pullover, loafers. The shoes were a little worn but a better, more comfortable pair could not be found. He checked the battery on his cell. He hoped to hear from the Weird Brothers before too long because there was another little bit of business he needed to tend to. Her name was Missy Stewart and she was something else. He figured to hang around New Orleans until two or so and if nothing by then, fuck 'em.

He thought about sitting around the hotel room for the wait. Then he finally drew the blinds and looked outside. The sun was high and proud. Thin strands of clouds traced like veins across the sky which was crystalline and pink.

It made him think of pussy.

He laughed into the emptiness of the room. Maybe it'd been the voice of the chick at the front desk. The minute he'd heard her his mind went to the gutter. He grinned at his reflection in the bathroom mirror and slicked his hair back from his forehead. The pricks had better hurry and call if that was their intention. He didn't give a flying fuck what time it was.

At ten-forty his phone rang. He set the coffee he was drinking down and answered it. "Hello?" he heard. Frederick wasn't sure which brother it was, but he was positive it was one or the other.

"It's me," he said.

"We'd like to talk again, Frederick, but not today. Tomorrow night's better. You know Copeland's on Jefferson?"

"Yeah, I know the place just fine. What time we talking?"

"Let's make it 10:30," the voice said. "Place stays open late and there won't be so many people."

"Okay, tomorrow it is."

"Right," he heard before the connection broke.

He grabbed the USA Today before draining the coffee and dropped a five next to the salt shaker. Time to move, he thought. There was a woman out there with an itch he needed to scratch.

Chapter 3: The Woman

Frederick pulled up to Missy's apartment complex at 9:35 that evening. He'd been in Baton Rouge since two, making the rounds of several bars he frequented when he came in. When he'd telephoned her office from the gas station on Highland Road, the bitch on the other end made it painfully clear that Missy was out of pocket. Meeting my ass, Frederick thought, silently grinding his teeth. He'd talked to the little cunt several times before and she'd always been the same, regardless of the fact that he mentioned her shitty attitude to Missy every time it happened. Frederick didn't know what had pulled her chain, but aside from the heightened blood pressure, it was really no big deal. To kill the afternoon he'd eaten at College Station, and then popped by the Gold Club to get his motor primed. The drinks were weak but the girls were hot so he hung around. When he left the titty club, he headed for The Chimes at the gates of LSU, and the rest of the daylight hours slipped away.

Being self-employed had its perks.

He parked his car next to hers. He had an overnight bag stashed in the trunk but thought it better to test the water first. She was a real handful at times, a quick trigger when she got set on past transgressions.

He noticed her kitchen light glowing through the slightly-parted shades. Good. He lit a cigarette walking up, paused with his ear to the door before knocking. Through the cheap, press-wood door he heard the television. He already knew she dated some sort of traveling salesman, but she, obviously, wasn't satisfied to let her box cool down with daddy gone. And that's where Frederick came in. The other guy's name was Sam or Sampson, and occasionally she acted like she feared the two men meeting. As it stood, Frederick could care less.

Not many men scared him. He'd killed a few who thought they could.

He knocked and her familiar, husky voice drifted through the cheap door. "That you, Freddy?" He had texted ahead.

"The one and only," he said. He took a step back as she fumbled with the locks. Then the door opened and Frederick smiled.

"I got your message," she said. "Kinda expected you a little earlier."

He didn't say anything as he walked inside. He simply grabbed around her waist and squeezed her ass. She had a great body, perfect for just about everything he was interested in. "I got caught up," he said, bending in close.

"Drinking."

"Indeed." He stepped back and looked at her like a kid in trouble. "You don't look that happy to see me."

She looked off to a corner of the apartment, cursing lightly under her breath before she came back to him again. "I know Freddy. You just always do this, showing up like a tomcat. You know if--"

Frederick put his finger to her lips. "I don't want to hear it. You worried about something?" He nuzzled his cheek into her neck. "You don't think there's gonna be any trouble, do ya?"

She backed away and took a swipe at him. "You goddamn well know his name, Freddy. I really think you enjoy doing this to me."

"Well, you're not expecting him tonight, are you?" he asked coyly. "That would just about ruin everything..."

"You know the answer to that you bastard," she whispered, and then laughed softly.

Frederick nudged the door closed with his foot, locking it with one hand as he kept a firm grip on her ass with the other. "I really missed you, baby," he breathed in her ear, walking her farther into the room.

"I missed you too."

His hands slid up to her neck and pushed away at the robe. It fell down her arms, revealing her ample breasts. The nipples already hard and erect. A faint red glow illuminated her skin as Frederick licked the nape of her neck. He felt her breath quicken as the robe ended up in a pile on the floor. She was completely naked underneath.

He worked his way carefully down her body, liking as she grab his hair as he kissed around her belly button. Her thighs started vibrating slightly. He pulled her to the floor and when she was flat on her back he parted her legs very slowly and trailed his tongue along a fine line from one ankle to her pussy. He could smell the perfume. He figured he should have gone with his instinct and brought the overnight bag in with him. He could already tell he wouldn't be going anywhere tonight.

After a while he lifted his face to look at her. Her breasts were swollen and red now, her face crimson. The fine sheen of sweat on her body reflected beautifully in the thin light drifting in through the kitchen window. He stood up and began removing his own clothing as she began a slow exploration of her own body, her eyes closed, completely unselfconscious. Within moments he was naked above her. Her fingers now deep inside and thrusting as he bent back down, guiding her free hand to his dick which she jerked to her crotch. Frederick groaned when she put him inside.

They went at it like animals for a good long while and just before he was about to pop he pulled out, and as if on cue, she grabbed his cock with both hands and met him on the way up. He convulsed into her mouth while she kept the rhythm going with her hands. Then he collapsed over her shoulders and back while she sucked him dry.

"Are you staying?" she asked him a short while later. She had put on her robe but Frederick still lounged around the apartment in only his jeans and socks. His shirt was lying across a cactus by the door. He stared at the cigarette in his hand.

"You want me to?"

"You already know the answer to that, Freddy."

He grinned at her through the smoke. She stuck her tongue out and blew a strand of hair out of her eyes. He walked over and looked into her eyes, hard.

"Yeah, I think I will," he said. "I've got a bag in the car."

She slapped him lightly on the small of the back as he walked away. "You asshole," she said.

Frederick turned back to her after he opened the door and was backing outside. "But not just any asshole," he said, wagging a finger in her direction. "I'm your asshole." He listened to her laughter as he went out to the car. Opened the trunk and got his things out. On the way back he noticed the blinds were now shut and she'd turned off the light in the kitchen.

He went inside, shut the door and locked it. Then he watched her silently as he walked across the living room and set the bag down near the hallway to her bedroom. There was a fierce intensity in her eyes. The thing that kept him coming back. God knows she didn't have much else to offer.

She crushed out her cigarette as he eyed her from across the room, and swiveled her chair around to face him. She'd pulled the robe far back on her shoulders and her legs were spread. She slid forward in the chair, her eyes locking him in place.

"Why don't you come over here and eat this pussy?" she said. He didn't have to be asked twice.

He was a light sleeper. Vietnam had done it to him; the nights he laid there in the jungle being eaten alive by mosquitoes the size of humming birds and Christ only knows what else; the nights when the moon plastered everything with a ghost-light and every breaking twig or rutting grunt caused the skin to gooseflesh.

The only ones who forgot were the ones beyond remembering: the insane and the dead. It was not a proud fraternity, but it was greatly and everlastingly stocked.

Now, far from dreams, he could hear Missy breathing lightly next to him, her shallow motion comforting and rhythmic. He blinked his eyes in the darkness, trying to identify the cause of his sudden wakefulness. There it was again, a faint noise, perched on the very edge of sound. "Shit," he muttered, sitting up quickly. He already had the sheets back and was placing his feet on the floor when the bedroom door burst open.

This guy was much bigger than he'd imagined. Bigger and wilder, his eyes two pits of hate burning in the holes of his face. Frederick heard a startled, sleepy gasp escape Missy, but by that time he was all the way up, glad now he'd slept in his underwear. Surprise had frozen the newcomer in the doorway, his mouth a gaping O as he surveyed the room.

The familiar, bitter taste of adrenaline poured into Frederick's mouth. Beside the bed, he crouched into a ready position. He felt sure there would be little, if any, talking.

"YOU FUCKING BITCH!!" the man bellowed. "I'LL FUCKING KILL BOTH OF YOU!"

And with that the wild man flung himself at Frederick. The first punch was completely ridiculous, going harmlessly over Frederick's head as he ducked and cocked back his own right arm. He hammered his own punch straight up with every bit of strength he could muster and felt the big man's legs buckle. He grabbed hold of the big man's coat with his left hand, pounding punches into the surprisingly soft stomach with his right. Even so, the guy stayed up.

He even charged in closer and lifted Frederick off the ground. Smashed up Missy's dressing table as he slammed Frederick into the wall. Hard. But Frederick managed to slide out of the bigger man's grasp. Jack-hammered a fist into the big man's nuts, another to that soft stomach, and the salesman fell back with a groan.

Frederick was on him like a dog on a pork chop. He rained two more quick jabs into the grimacing, surprised face, relishing the sight of the salesman's lips splitting away from his teeth. His nose was bleeding, squashed flat against his left cheek; he wouldn't be so pretty anymore. Frederick grabbed the big man and flung him across the bed, narrowly missing Missy who was involved in all manner of acrobatics in her attempt to vacate the room. The big man's leg caught underneath a chair by the closet, the force erupting it in a twisted tangle of cheap bamboo. The salesman tried to get back to his feet but Frederick was on him again, landing a solid kick to the man's chin. The salesman's head flew back and punched a hole in the sheet rock, and with that everything suddenly got still. He slowly shrank into a puddle on the floor amid a swirl of wall board dust.

Frederick heard Missy fumbling around in the living room. From the hysteria punctuating every word, she was obviously on the phone with the police. Frederick quickly gathered up his clothing, flinging some into his overnight bag while wrestling into a shirt and pants. He looked around for his shoes, found them kicked underneath the bed and jammed his feet inside. Gave the unconscious and bloody man one more good jolt to the ribs for emphasis.

He had to get the hell out; there was no time to straighten this situation out now.

In the garish light draining out of the kitchen, Missy looked like an apparition from a horror movie. Shaking uncontrollably as she babbled into the phone, and when Frederick walked into the room she shrank back near the dishwasher. Actually held out her hand as if to ward him off. How about this shit, he thought. Her hair was a twisted mess and her eyes were wide, owl-like. There were nasty smears where her mascara had trailed down from her eyes into the corners of her mouth. "Please," she whispered, and Frederick couldn't tell if the plea was meant for him or the heat on the other end of the line.

There would be no talking right now, maybe never. Thank Christ he'd given her a false last name. He couldn't afford to hang around. Even if he was just defending himself, the liberties he'd taken would probably end him in the clink. And an overnight stay in jail was out of the question. He had the meeting tomorrow.

"Fuck it," he said. Time to get the hell out of Dodge. He moved quickly to the door and wrenched it open, looked outside. Not a soul. Luckily the only working light in the parking lot was far off in the back corner near the tennis courts.

He stepped outside, wondering how much noise the neighbors had heard, or were still hearing. Missy was sure getting wound up. He hurried over to his car, jammed the key in the lock and opened the door. Within seconds he was peeling out of the parking space in Reverse. Noticed that now the neighbor's lights were beginning to come on.

He roared across the parking lot, narrowly missing a Yield sign that was bent out too close to the road. Spun out onto Jefferson Highway and headed underneath the overpass at almost seventy miles an hour. Within minutes he was on the I-10 loop curving back toward New Orleans.

Chapter 4:The Word On The Street

Frederick spent most of the next afternoon driving around through Algiers on the West Bank. His old pal, Lincoln, had several haunts in the area, and even though they all proved fruitless, he did run into a mutual acquaintance in a rotten dive called the Tattoo Stand. It was situated off the West Bank Expressway, less than a half mile from the Harvey Tunnel.

As he pulled into the pot-holed parking lot, Frederick laughed bitterly, the way he did every time he came here. The only tattoos here were a wild collage of graffiti that covered every square inch of the ramshackle building. Everything from muscle-bound gladiators glaring and gesturing at thinly-dressed damsels on horses, to demonic skulls pouring gouts of brightly-tinted blood and other foulness; crosses outlined in brilliant orange and gold, suspicious tapered cigarettes, and omens of destruction; a montage fashioned by the fancy of illicit drugs, alcohol, and the occasional cartoon genius.

But this was no place for kids. The men inside were reserved during the daylight hours and made it clear who was welcome and who was not. Frederick came as he infrequently pleased, a friend of a friend; Lincoln's influence stretched farther than his damaged imagination realized. Vietnam, prison, perversion, and drugs had refused to relinquish their hold on the man, but many patrons here had served one or more of these same savage sentences, and tried not to notice the doom in Lincoln's bloodshot eyes. They seemed content to let him while away what was left of his life trying not to care too much about anything.

In actuality, Frederick had not seen the man in close to four months. The two usually handled their business over the phone, with Frederick straining to hear details amid the assortment of loud, barroom music and curses. Surprisingly, Lincoln's mind was still sharp when it came to deals and leads. But this time word on the street was not quite enough. These Franklin brothers were just a little too fucking strange, and since he was meeting them again tonight, Frederick thought it wise to hustle up as much information as possible.

In his head, questions refused to die. The last thing he needed was bad karma before a run. He opened the car door and stepped out onto the sun-blasted pavement. Tossed his cigarette into a mud puddle, watched disinterestedly as it fizzled and sank. He checked the bikes at the entrance, squinting into the sunlight he made out an emblem on one of the gas tanks: a clinched fist with a dilated eyeball in the center. A spot of blood dripping from the corner.

Jimmy Kennedy. Maybe he'd know where the hell Lincoln was. He walked up to the door, grasped the handle, and pulled it back. Stood motionless for a moment just inside the doorway, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the gloom. Several shadows lurked around the pool tables set far off in the back corner, the overhead, swinging lamp providing the only semblance of light inside. As usual, Steppenwolf screamed into the room from ancient, frayed JBL speakers. He noticed the shadows pause in their game to inspect the newcomer.

He walked across the peeling tile floor, his boots scraping against the grit. The perpetual bartender, Dugout, sat motionless in his spot by the taps, his long hair braided like an Indian's and curled over his left shoulder. An incredible, mat-thick beard obscured his face, and his arms were black with Indian-ink tattoos amid a monkey-like profusion of hair. Frederick pulled a stool from a nearby table and sat down at the bar.

"How ya doin, Freddy?" the grizzled biker behind the bar said. He reached for two glasses and put them underneath the tap. He pulled down on the lever. "Beer?" he asked.

"Yeah. You been all right?"

"Sure enough," Dugout answered, sliding a beer over while he rubbed his other hand along a deeply-grooved scar on his face that ran away in his beard. "Same shit as usual. Been awhile since I seen you."

Frederick drained the mug in one and pushed it back. "Yeah, I been on the run. Goddamn cops and women..."

"Fucking A," the biker murmured.

Frederick cocked a thumb over his shoulder. "Jimmy over there?"

"Yeah."

"Just the man I need to see." Frederick stood up and dug his wallet out of his jeans. Pulled out a ten and laid in on the counter. "Thanks, bro." He grabbed the other pint Dugout pushed his way.

"You got it," he heard as he turned around.

Frederick cruised over to the pool tables, angling over toward one of the rickety wooden tables with about twelve bottles piled in the ashes. Jimmy noticed him coming on, hurried the shot and just missed the nine in the corner pocket. Scratched. "Muthafucka!" the biker said, slamming the edge of the table with his cue, flipping off Frederick as he turned to the approaching man. "Every time you show up it's no fuckin good," he said. Smiled. "How you doin you sonofabitch?" Frederick shook his head in feigned sorrow and they embraced briefly, stiffly.

"I need to talk to you in private," Frederick said.

Jimmy motioned toward a table away from the action. They moved over and sat down in the primeval light. "What you got?" Jimmy asked.

"Lincoln. You seen him?"

A wry smile flickered across Jimmy's face. "Lincoln? What kinda shit's he kicked loose?"

Frederick leaned closer. "A couple of brothers that run some action. I've been tryin but he ain't answering his phone. Usually I'd say it was no big deal, but these motherfuckers are whacked."

Jimmy laughed. "Lincoln knows how to pick his friends, don't he?"

"We both know it." A minute of silence passed between them, a moment in which they drank their beers and listened to the excitement of an unusual shot that had happened to fall. Then Frederick tried again. "So you seen him?"

"Man, last time I seen that fucker must've been two, three months back. Told me he was clearin out for a while. Said something about Natchez but you know how that fucker is..."

"Shit," Frederick said and pulled on his beer.

"So who are these dudes? Maybe I've heard a little something."

"William and Samuel Franklin. Across the river. Old man owns a commercial shipping business in the Warehouse District."

Jimmy's whistle was long and low. "Jesus Christ," he said. He squinted in the darkness and shook his head slowly. "Bad motherfuckers. One of 'ems supposed to be a freak."

"A freak?" Frederick said, scratching at his temple.

"Yeah..." and Jimmy trailed off before fixing a steel gaze on Frederick. "Lincoln turned you on to those two?" The silence was answer enough. Jimmy whistled again. "Maybe he's more fucked up than I thought." He drank his beer and looked over Frederick's shoulder toward the pool table.

"So you know 'em?" Frederick said.

"Not personally, but I've heard shit. About the freak, mostly. Don't know which one he is," Jimmy said.

"Samuel..." Frederick said, more to himself than Jimmy.

"What's that?"

"Samuel. The one that doesn't talk much. He's got a weird look in his eyes; hard to put the finger on what I'm talking about, though."

"What I heard," Jimmy said, nodding his head. "Better watch those," he finished.

"What do you mean, 'a freak'?"

"The one you're talking about, the one with the eyes. Word got it he was put away for butcherin up some people years back." Jimmy leaned forward in conspiracy. "Hear he used to run girls in the Quarter but the old man and the heat finally persuaded him otherwise. Only not before they found a pimp and a coupla whores diced and sliced in a deserted building down by the wharfs. Fucking blood everywhere. You never heard any o' this?" He raised an eyebrow at a now very intense Frederick Paol.

"Nothing."

"Yeah, well, supposedly that shit happened in the late 70s, what I hear. Only thing it never hit the papers. The old man had the Quarter precinct in his back pocket, the story goes, and since the hits were trash it didn't turn over in the news." He noticed Frederick's skepticism and leveled a finger in his direction. "Don't look at me like that. You wanted to know so I'm tellin you. That's what I heard. Fuckin Lincoln oughta know."

"He should?"

"Yeah the motherfucker should."

"How'd the finger get pointed at Samuel?"

"Stories in the neighborhood. It goes he got packed away to Jackson years once before the whore trouble. Heard he was into animal mutilations and shit. Lately their names been popping up a few times." He paused to take a sip. "Like right now..." as he finished both the beer and the statement.

"How you figure Lincoln knows 'em?"

Jimmy laughed and slapped the surface of the table. "Shit, Freddy. Think about it. The guy's a dirtbag and a beast. How would he not know em?"

Frederick wrinkled his face. "Yeah, seems like it. I'm meeting them tonight," he added, nodding his head.

Jimmy shrugged. "I don't know, Freddy. Lincoln told you the deal was up-and-up?"

"Yeah. Told me about it two weeks ago. Called me up out of the fucking blue asking if I'd be interested."

"And are you?" The question hung in the air like bait.

"You know me, Jimmy. Always a sucker."

"Then you got to go with it, my man. Lincoln never fucked me over before. I been in a few tight spots, sure, but I knew that going in. You know how it is." A moment of silence followed.

Frederick took out his pack of Marlboros, lit one with an eye cocked at Jimmy. "Ain't it the goddamn truth," he said.

The moon was high and bright above the clouds which cast ominous shadows around the city by the time Frederick drove down South Carrolton, leaving the CBD behind. At a red light he checked his watch and wheeled it right, down Jefferson Avenue. It was a nice street for houses but it was hell on cars with all the jagged craters and manhole covers breaching street level. He swerved deftly down the split avenue, glancing up at the haunting lights seeping out of the many upper-storied rooms. Live oaks crowded the boulevard, creating a ghostly ambiance.

He slowed down a block from the pink neon Copeland's sign, blinking its constant welcome. It was nice inside, very cordial, dimly lit; Frederick had been there once before with some friends from Houston.

He turned into the neighborhood on the right, spying a parking space in front of the Bus Stop. It was closer than the parking lot, which had appeared full as he passed. Typical. He parked and got out, walked over to the front door where a very pretty girl holding a menu greeted him with a hospitality that somehow achieved a quaint artistic overtone. "Good evening," she crooned. "Table for one?"

"Not tonight, honey. I'm meeting some people." He told her who.

A smile came suddenly to her face, and Frederick felt her sizing him up. An envious want crept at the corners of her mouth as she led him to the booth near a crystalline fish tank.

William turned his way as they approached, but Samuel, seated across the table from his brother, hardly affected a movement as the waitress ushered Frederick into place. "Mr. Franklin?" she asked sweetly. "This man is a guest of yours?" Frederick could tell she felt good in this important role, so he stood off her left shoulder, giving her the chance she seemed such in need of.

"Yes, dear. He is." William waved his hand between Frederick and Michelle. "Frederick Paol...Michelle," he said as Frederick stepped around.

"We've met," Frederick said and sat down. Looked up at her standing there with nothing more to do. He could tell she didn't want to leave, but she grudgingly nodded and backed away. Samuel stared straight ahead, as if absorbed in something stuck inside the mirror on the wall.

William checked his watch and smiled. "Punctual," he said.

"I try to be." Frederick offered a nod at Samuel, surprised to find the man looking at him now, having taken his eyes off the mirror. He even extended a faint tip of his glass. Frederick turned his attention back to William. "So what's the story, gentlemen?" he said.

William melted back into the soft leather booth, his eyes fixed on the same mirror Samuel had been looking into. He fretted with his hair for a moment, seemed satisfied, then gravitated back to Frederick. "You in or out?"

"I told you I'm the man for the job. Make it 60K and we got a deal." He fished in his breast pocket for a cigarette. Found it. Put it to his lips and bit the tip, noticing Samuel placing his Zippo on the table in front of him. The man was looking right at him but made no move to offer it. Frederick removed his own from the half-empty pack. Lit it. Watched the Zippo lying there on the table.

"Is there a problem?" he said.

"Money, money, money," William replied. "A bottom-line man. Direct." He laughed and reached across the table. Clapped his brother on the arm.

Frederick smoked in the silence that surrounded them for a few moments. The waitress, somebody else this time, returned with a bottle of wine and three glasses. She set them down and did her best to disappear.

William watched past Frederick's shoulder as the young woman walked off. "One hot bitch," he muttered. Frederick nodded. Chanced a look over at Samuel. He was also looking but when he felt Frederick's stare he diverted his eyes to the empty glass before him.

William said something else but Frederick wasn't listening just then. Jimmy's story was playing back through his mind. He reached over and grabbed the wine bottle, poured himself a healthy dose before setting it down again in front of Samuel. The other man nodded and Frederick filled him up too. William smiled and made a grab for the wine himself.

"So, Mr. Paol, are you hungry?" he asked.

"No. Not this time of night. Thanks anyway." He took another belt of wine. "Cheers." They drank and Frederick gave them thirty more seconds. "So we gonna do business, gentlemen?"

William spun his glass in the wet circle it left on the table. "Sure like to get to the point, don't you, Mr. Paol?" he said.

"I guess it comes outta being punctual."

William leaned forward and his eyes were hard as coffin nails. "You got your goddamn deal," he said. "But only because Lincoln recommended you."

"Where is he?" Frederick asked.

William held up his hands. "How the hell would I know? He's your buddy. As it stands he's just a business acquaintance of ours. He said we can rely on your services, but as for his private affairs, we have no interest." He paused. "I'm sure you understand?"

Frederick smiled thinly. Leaned forward. "I got you and I don't really care either. Just making conversation. Wonderful, gentleman. I know you won't be displeased. Just let me know the particulars and in the meanwhile, I'll get the plane ready and get my man."

"Your man?"

"Yeah, I don't fly alone. There's a guy I know. He flies with me."

"Then I'll go too," Samuel said abruptly

Frederick was taken completely off guard. "What?"

"You said you need a hand, and I'm telling you I'll go. It's a thing of trust, right? We trust you, you trust us." He smiled and spread his hands out in the air like a magic trick. Frederick turned back to William who'd inexplicably clammed up now, as if surprised himself at the words he'd just heard coming out of his brother's mouth.

Frederick's eyes played back and forth between the two. He picked up his glass and finished off the wine. Even driving home later that night, he hadn't the slightest idea why he'd done what he'd done. "You want to come along," he said, staring straight into Samuel's eyes, "then come on."

Seemingly easy smiles traded around the table. William began filling up the three empty glasses again as Frederick sat, pissed, and tried to reason with this insanity. Fuck Jimmy, he thought bitterly.

Chapter 5: The Talk With Lincoln

In bed the next morning, Frederick's disquiet afforded him no peace. He tried to remember when he'd arrived in Thibodaux but it was all a blur. He did know the sun hadn't been up, but as far as the rest...it was all shaky. His stomach growled. He tried to roll over and will himself back to sleep but the ceaseless gears ground on and on.

He had a week.

One week to get the plane ready; one week to attempt to figure out just what the hell he'd gotten himself into. He was taking the freak with him. That was the hay-maker, boy, that above everything else because he still didn't know exactly why he'd gone for it. It just seemed impossibly stupid, amateur.

He rolled over onto his back and opened his eyes. Watched the slow-moving fan going nowhere. Glad now he'd draped the blinds in the room with the heavy, black blanket he'd found in the closet.

Still, there was another element in his mind (a strange, lethal agent that hunkered down in the deepest corner), that welcomed Samuel's presence on the trip. Did he have a death wish?

He squirmed under the sheets, his skin now surprisingly clammy. He didn't know whether to get up or throw up. For some unknown reason he'd agreed to something he'd never even considered before. What a fuck deal.

In the shadows of his mind he tried to find reason. Something back there in his mind seemed intent on fucking things up. Look at his life, what a joke. Pillar to post, job to job. Vietnam never far back in his thoughts.

He remembered the job he'd had after Angola. Of course, he'd looked all over for work but nobody wanted anything to do with a fresh ex-con. No one had been concerned that he'd been a vet, was still haunted by the things that pursued him night after night. Nobody gave a fuck that memories could lead a man to the gates of madness again and again. Nobody cared.

Finally he'd gone to a man who'd known his parents for years, a last-ditch effort. And the man had given him a job, assembling incinerators. Huge industrial incinerators.

He'd taken it although he'd never been good with heights. And though it sounded ironic, it wasn't, at least to him. In a plane you were encapsulated, set apart from the elements. There was a firm floor underfoot even if it sometimes pitched and rolled. It tricked the mind just enough.

However, working steel with a crane, a boom poised above your head as a three-hundred pound 'head-ache ball' swayed gently overhead, well, that my friend, was a completely different story. He could still remember the freezing mornings (in his memories it was always cold), pulling up to the site; staring at the skeleton of I-beams stretching fifty or sixty feet into the sky, and knowing that today would be the day you hung by your ass and fingernails up there. And not just for a moment, no sir, that would take all the fun out of it. A full day's work waited up there amid the swinging boom and tautly-pulled cable. Reaching and pulling, bolting and cutting.

For some inexplicable reason he'd always sought out these unnerving tasks. When he'd noticed a few gray hairs in his beard early on he'd not been surprised. The faster one lived, the faster one died.

"Goddammit!" Frederick said.

He finally sat up in bed, threw the covers back in exasperation. Reached over and switched on the table lamp, squinting in the half-light at the clock by the bedside. 11:44. He hadn't been down long. The black sheet around the window was fully edged by sunlight. He swung his feet around to the cold floor.

His pants were folded on the chair, his wallet still tucked inside. That's where his phone was. Frederick got up and dialed Lincoln's number.

On the sixteenth ring it was answered by a familiar voice. "Who the fuck is it?" this voice asked.

Frederick breathed a deep sigh and feel back on the bed with the phone to his ear. "It's Freddy, you fucker. Where are you?"

He heard a disgruntled fumbling on the other end, then a length of steady silence, and finally, what sounded like gargling. He waited patiently.

Then, "Freddy? That you?"

Frederick rolled his eyes. "It's me," he said.

There was another long pause. Frederick could practically hear the cogs and gears turning. "What the fuck are you doin wakin me up?"

"Fuck you," Frederick said. "I've been trying to get ahold of you for the past week. You don't answer your goddamn phone anymore?"

"I doan do a muthafuckin thing I don't wanna," the junkie replied. "You're lucky I'm talkin to your sorry ass right now...waking me up like this, you muthafucka."

"Well, I gotta talk to you."

"'Bout what?"

"These fucking Franklin brothers."

"Okay. What?"

Frederick held the phone away from his ear and shook his head. Put the phone back. "Nothing good. What's the deal?"

"Shit, you met 'em. They're a creepy, fuckin bunch but they got money. What about it?"

"It's just really one of them--"

"Samuel?" Lincoln said immediately.

"You bet. I talked to Jimmy and--"

"Jimmy?" Lincoln said mystified, incredulous. "Jesus Christ! Why'd you go to that idiot?"

"Because he was the only one I could fucking find," Frederick said, placing particular emphasis on the last three words. "Right after I met with them and their personal fucking pit-bull. Jimmy was the only one I could run down..." and he trailed off, waiting for Lincoln to say something. He didn't. "What's this about the whores?"

"Whores?"

"The fucking hookers and the pimp, man. Jimmy said Samuel'd been sent away back when as a mental defective. Iced a coupla whores and their pimp. You ain't ever heard this?"

"I think maybe you oughta forget the whole fuckin thing, is what I think." Then a pause and another sound like strangled gargling. "But you're in, ain't ya?" he said.

"Uh huh."

"Okay, so I don't get it? I known ya a long time and ain't never heard ya like this. Maybe I shouldn'a told you anything but I thought you could handle these goons. They scarin you or something?"

"Fuck you. I just want the story. I'm taking Samuel with me on the fucking run."

"What! You pullin my dick?"

"No chance. I'm telling you straight up. I took the job and Samuel's in."

The laugh was much smaller this time, less amusing. "My God, Freddy. You got those two keepin you up at night and you let the head fuckin goon sign on anyway..." He whistled. "I never understand what makes you tick, son."

"So what's the story?" he pressed.

"Word is he likes to cut people, women mostly. I guess that's a point in your favor."

"So far, that's nothing Jimmy hasn't already told me," Frederick replied.

"Yeah, that Jimmy's a smart sonofabitch. Bet he told you 'bout the animals too."

"Yeah."

"Well that ain't all. Supposedly the ole man's got a pole up his ass about something too. Cut up his wife's face when the Franklins, your Franklins, were kids. Jimmy din't mention that did 'e?"

"No. But neither did you."

"Hey, what am I? Your fucking mother? Story has it William wasn't around at the time, out with a nanny or whatever it is those rich-bitches keep around. But ole Sam was. From what I've heard the ole man has a mean streak from here ta fucking Chicago. Sliced her up good, but don't nobody know why. It don't matter now 'cause she's been AWOL for years."

"Jackson?"

"Nah, Pineville. The nut house near Alexandria."

"Jimmy didn't--"

"Fuck Jimmy. You called me, din't you?"

"So Samuel saw his dad carving on his mother..."

"Supposedly. A real fucked up crew, pad'na. Jackson's probably where Sam did his stint. I doubt they'd send 'em both to the same fuckin place."

"So...we got a cutter."

"Look Freddy. All this shit's just word on the street. But here it is on the whores and the pimp. Two mutilated hookers and a dead guy." Frederick heard him snorting and coughing. When he continued his voice was darker. "The rest of this shit's probably more legend than truth. I wouldn't even be tellin you now, but you went ahead and booked passage with the sonofabitch. I swear ta' God." He paused for a moment, as if gathering his scattered thoughts. "Stories say he cut the pimp's head off, got the brain out some way, stuffed it full a rags and piano wire for some goddamn reason. The whores were worse. And here I am listening to a song and dance about you asking him to come along? Christ, things can't get any more fucking crazy."

"Yeah, can you believe it?" Neither said anything else for a moment, but then Frederick said, "But they seem to think real high of you, motherfucker." Lincoln grunted noncommittally on the other end. Frederick grit his teeth, said, "You know I won't pull out, don't you?"

"Yeah. I known you too long. I also know you're crazier than that sonofabitch ever thought about being."

"Let's hope so," Frederick said and hung up.

Chapter 6: Getting Ready

The airstrip was a half-mile stretch of razed grass in the sugar cane fields outside Thibodaux. A small shack sat at the end closest to the highway, full on with a radio tower and wind sock that blew in the breeze. Frederick jointly owned the strip with another Army buddy who flew crop-dusters over a fifty mile radius. In all, there were three light planes in the long, metal hangar: two old Piper Cubs, one yellow and the other a fading red Jelly used for dusting; and then there was Frederick's Piper Cherokee, a plane in a lot better shape, and used almost exclusively for a completely different purpose. Paperwork stated all equipment was owned by Dusters, Inc.

Frederick pulled into the parking lot next to the control shack. Inside they had rudimentary equipment, weather shit, FAA regulations stuff, the usual. And St. Martien, a smelly old shit who watched the property and mowed the grass, could usually be found inside. He was actually the reason for the tower. Fucking ham radio freak. Duster's Inc. had bought the forty-foot antenna a year ago, planting it just outside the building to stand like a barren, metallic pine tree.

Sure enough, the old Cajun's ancient Ford rusted like a ship wreaked hull beside the clapboard structure. As he opened the car door, Frederick saw the screen door of the shack swinging in the breeze. St. Martien was never the type to be bothered by mosquitoes. Frederick wouldn't have been surprised to find he ate the motherfuckers, as skinny as he was.

He got out and walked over, peering around the door jamb. St. Martien had his head turned to see who'd driven up, grinning around a hideously billowing King Edward cigar with his ever-present earphones clamped vice-like around his head. "Hi'ya, Freddy," he spat around the cigar, billowing a cloud of pestilence into the air. Frederick acknowledged him with a curt wave as he made his way to the right side of the building. The hangar was only a short distance away, and he closed his ears to the Cajun's drivel as he walked toward it.

One of the three sliding bay doors lay open. Glancing up at the sky, Frederick saw clouds piling in from the south, pushed together by the massive air streams pouring in from the Gulf. There was a deep blue tint hanging at the bottom of all the incoming, a deeper grey above.

He paused to listen for the buzz of a Cub but heard only the wind through the break bordering both sides of the runway. He fished in his pocket and withdrew a cluster of keys. Until a few years back he hadn't needed a lock, but right after he got the Piper some asshole had walked up in the middle of the night and relieved Frederick of close to $2,400 worth of electrical equipment and a brand new trim tab. After that, a fight in a bar and the fucking lock.

He huffed against the sliding metal door with a smile on his face. Nothing on the airstrip had been fucked with since. What's a night in jail to make a point? The door got looser near the end of its track and he pushed it away with a grunt, banging it against the rubber stop. He turned to look at the plane. The single-engine, four-passenger Cherokee hunkered brilliantly in the fine, dusty shadows inside the hangar. The only smudge on her delicate lines and red capped nose was a light dusting which was impossible to keep off any object kept in here.

He walked up to her, as always, trailing his finger along the leading edge of the right wing, appreciating the frightening gleam reflecting off the propeller when he pulled the string for the overhead light. On a table against the far wall was a perfectly lined order of every stage and phase of Craftsman necessaries. Every tester and wrench, every Torx-head screwdriver and universal elbow was fixed in regimented fashion along the length of the heavy cedar work table. The Cherokee was his baby and he pampered her like a millionaire attending his only child.

Inside, the seats were immaculate and red, mirroring the nose and the fuselage stripe. The body and wings were bone white, save for a red slash on the fin. It'd been almost two weeks since he'd taken her out and his impatience grew just staring at her. He kicked one of the tires, and walked back to the entranceway. The sun broke suddenly from behind a cloud bank, splashing the area with bright heat. He made a play of tapping on the window before he rounded the corner, even though he was pretty sure St. Martien wouldn't hear it for the racket inside his head. The Cajun would not expect him back so soon and that was just fine. He pulled back the screen door and kicked the dust off his boots before coming inside, not that it made much difference. St. Martien was hardly as fastidious as Frederick. His value to both Frederick and Jelly lay in the fact that it was an odd day when the old man didn't haunt the shack and airstrip like some lonesome ghost on an eternal hunt. Poetically it was fitting and sad; realistically, it kept people from ripping them off. St. Martien was like a guard dog with a passion for the ham radio; only difference was he paid for his own food.

"How you doing today, Mart?" Frederick asked, pausing to strike a match alongside the door frame. The man had caught sight of his shadow as it raked across the table before him and even now was wrestling free of his earphones.

"Damn fine, Freddy," he finally managed. "You'd never believe it but I actually had mainland China for a while today. Fuckin amazin with the atmospheric pressure the way it's been lately." Frederick raised his eyes in pretended interest.

"Oh?" he said, blowing out a razor-thin trail of smoke. "I didn't know they had that over there...hams I mean."

"Oh, hell yeah! You'd be surprised--"

"You don't even speak Chinese, St. Martien. How the hell do you communicate with anybody over there?"

"Codes, frequencies, Freddy. You should see some of the new patches I've got." He'd shaken the headphones down around his neck, but his curly hair still bore the reminder; his ears were beet red. "You ought to come in here sometimes and watch how it's done...you'd never want to leave." He gestured expansively across the desk, piled high with books and other manuals that Frederick hadn't the slightest interest in. "Even last night I--"

Frederick held out his hand to interrupt him before he got up a head of steam. When he got going it was like a freight train headed downhill. "Hold up, Mart. Where's Jelly? Ms. Blue (he'd never figured out why Jelly'd named a yellow Piper that, but what the hell) is gone. He take it out or was it one of the boys?"

St. Martien jabbed the cigar back to its relegated corner in his rubbery mouth before replying, and then it was only as he turned back to his set. "Yeah, it was Jelly. Early this morning. Said he had some fields to work near Chackbay. He ought to be back afore long." He situated the headphones on his skull again, concentrating too hard on such a trivial task, insulating himself from having to speak to Frederick any more. It didn't matter; with St. Martien it was either ham-radio or one of his assorted aches and pains. Neither was of any interest to Frederick and he knew the old man knew it too. His wife probably felt the same way, so Frederick could understand why neither wanted to spend much time around the other: too much competition.

"Going to gas up the plane," he muttered as he turned to leave. They'd managed to get Exxon to install a pump and a thousand gallon, fiberglass tank near the hangar for a huge initial fee, but the gas came cheaper because of it. Frederick knew the old man didn't hear a word he'd said because he'd already began tapping out a stream of patterned beeps from his console.

Chapter 7: Samuel

The warehouse was dark now. William had left a half hour before but Samuel still sat virtually motionless in the small, dirty office. He picked at his eyebrows absently and watched the smoke make a lazy trail from the tip of his cigarette to the congealed nicotine haze which clouded the naked bulb.

He was having one of his days.

His left eye had been twitching maddeningly since early morning, forcing him to wear dark sunglasses for most of the afternoon, and subsequently he'd spent the majority of the day outside on the deck of a sea-going freighter that had pulled in late the previous night. He'd taken mild satisfaction from the unease he'd borne with him on deck, random sideways glances that always turned away when he looked their way.

William had ended up coming dockside for a while and Samuel had been ill at ease with him so close by. William had a knack for sensing the Dark Slope, and he always kept a wary eye out, being well versed in the troubles Samuel'd had over the years.

When William had gone back inside, Samuel breathed easier, although the twitching in his eye was bastardly worse and the sun beat down coal-hot on the back of his neck. He'd wanted to rip the eye out by its root and his fingernails were bitten to the quick.

The nightmares last night had brought on the whole business.

His mind burned with the Sickness. He feigned no ignorance because the madness was always poised on the doorstep. The damnable thing was he couldn't pinpoint what brought it on. Some days were okay (the days when he remained quiet and seemingly reflective: an active will to remain so, nothing more), but other times the tension built in slow progressive waves, menacing him from the shadows.

He remembered the time in the institution. The walls, the antiseptic cleanliness, the anvil hanging just above his head.

William was always too goddamn near, he was always watching. And it was not that Samuel was afraid of his brother, not by any means. But he did feel the intimate bond his brother had with his soul. He always knew when time was getting tight. Lucky for him he didn't know how many times Samuel had sat alone, sweating in the gloom, a bottle of whiskey on the floor as he fought to hold back the rage.

It was impossible to ever clear the asylum. Even though the things that had put him there never left his mind, he knew the institution had turned out to be the necessary prerequisite to his legacy. He'd never asked anyone how long he'd been there, not even William. Alone in the sterile whiteness of the rooms, surrounded by endless miles of Mississippi forests, time had dwindled to thin threads, barely perceptible after a while. And it was there, lolling in time, that he'd had the opportunity to focus on his inhumanity. When he had, in fact, found himself.

He was acutely aware that the act with the whores had been the final straw (the past acts with the animals, and the even darker things not known by anyone else hardly seemed to count anymore), but it didn't seem important. Those things had simply been an initiation, a rite of passage.

After he'd been at the institution for a couple of weeks he began examining himself. Mentally far away from the reach of the psychologists' probes and the other know-nothing doctors, he'd built himself a wall against them. He hid the animal that'd come into being, full-fleshed the night of the massacre. He instinctively knew if he let them have a peek at the monstrosity within him he would never be free again. And that would be unconscionable.

He remembered the nights staring unblinking through the thick bars and plated glass, stabbing at the stars with his mind, attempting to pierce the vast emptiness of space. He'd felt unworldly then, trapped by the chemical compounds and double helixes in his body, repulsed by this double prison. The silence of the ward had only approximated the stillness and cold infinity of these silent regions of space, and it was only then that he'd truly discovered his alienation. Not only one of thought, but of being. He knew he was alone; the impulses that punched ragged holes in his psyche were far distant and unfathomably old. He'd known then that only if his cover were sufficiently maintained would he ever walk the grass outside the confines of the institution. The facade would have to be carefully constructed, piece by agonizing piece, and only after painstaking trial had it finally worked.

However, he could feel the persona beginning to crack.

He looked down and saw the dead cigarette in his hand. He threw the butt away and fished in his coat pocket for the rest of the pack. Found it, extracted the second to last cigarette, and lit it as he walked to the office doorway.

He glanced up at the ceiling, at the fiberglass panels that let the light in during the day. Now they glowed with a preternatural gloom. A tomb-like quiet stopped up every crack.

He closed his eyes and breathed in hard, training his ears to focus on the sound he made in the darkness. Momentarily it helped to slow the maddening twitch, but just as suddenly he heard a skittering on the floor, so vague at first he wasn't sure it was real. His eyes flashed like a cat's as he stood stock-still in the doorway, his teeth clenched together and the skin of his face drum-tight.

He could feel it, slinking around out there in the darkness. Thinking it was safe.

He dropped the cigarette to the floor and a shower of sparks melted into the dusty floor. His breath came fast and sharp. He rubbed his neck and his hand came away slicked with perspiration. His other hand grabbed the jamb for support.

There...right there!

His eyes panned left. A gash of light lay across the floor, and as he watched a gigantic rat moved along the boundary between shelves.

The instant Samuel saw its eyes he charged forward, his attack so inexplicably sudden that the rat hadn't any time to make a move before the first kick from the nicely polished Clarks broke every rib on its right side. Samuel was on it before it stopped skidding along the floor, and he stomped it until it was such a mess that he slipped in the blood and went down hard on his side. He beat what remained with the palms of his hands, yelling, thrashing. By the time he ran out of gas his breath came in sobs, sweat dripping from his face into the blood.

Minutes later, he stretched out in the mess in the warehouse darkness. Found some rat hair stuck to his hands and wiped them absently on the front of his suit. Breathed in the smell of blood.

But nothing happened.

He didn't know how much time passed when he finally got to his knees, steadying himself mentally as he stood up all the way. Time had frozen on him again. After a while, he gradually came back to his senses and tore away what was left of the suit: shirt, shoes, pants, socks, underwear, everything. Looked around. Shook his head.

He rushed back to the office and turned on the hot water in the basin at the back near the toilet. The night was far from over. He scrubbed himself with soap until he stood dripping and flushed in front of the sink. Then, strangely composed, he grabbed the bucket and mop near the shower stall, and fished out the cleaning agents.

He spent the next two hours methodically erasing every drop of blood the rat had shed, working naked in the tomb-like darkness of the warehouse.

Chapter 8: Plans and Preparation

At the sharp stroke of midnight Frederick was still sitting in the shack at the airstrip. Alone. He'd managed to run St. Martien out several hours earlier, although to do so he'd had to endure a ridiculous mini-lecture on hamming devices which he couldn't have given two shits about.

There was a mass of maps spread out in front of him along the desk, many of them old and marked up in a network of black and red ink. It was a sort of time line. He remembered every one he'd made on them over the years, every trip he'd flown. They were etched in his memory. Why right there, that long unerring line that trailed out of Thibodaux and angled just east of Panama; that one was hard to forget. He grunted to himself, thinking back in the cheap glow of the forty watt bulb.

He hadn't carried alcohol with him since. The pick-up had gone fine. That hadn't been the problem, but looking back he thought maybe the ease had made him sloppy.

He still didn't really remember what the woman looked like. He'd been swimming through shots of tequila at a local dive instead of getting his shit together and high-tailing it out of there. The whore had managed to steal every bit of money he'd had in his wallet (including the fucking wallet), gotten him very nearly arrested by the local goon-squad, and to top things off, had dropped a barrel full of crabs on him that had damn near eaten him alive. From then on the natives had been off limits.

Shit. And then he saw it: the new line. The one he'd penciled in just today.

He'd made another call to William late in the afternoon, getting the assurance that a quarter of his pay would be in hand before leaving the ground. William hadn't mentioned anything about Samuel during the first part of the conversation and Frederick had half-expected the odd request had been swept away, forgotten. William verified the date, asked a few other horseshit questions. Frederick nodded through the phone and said fine and dandy as long as the money was in his hand.

"No problem," William said. "Samuel will come over to square everything."

"He will? When?" he said, gritting his teeth, clenching his fist. "He still in this?"

"Of course," William replied. "He doesn't joke around."

Frederick said he'd be at the airstrip around eight tomorrow night, gave William directions. "He's coming alone," William said carefully. "I've got business out of town, so he'll handle this alone." He paused as if half-expecting some argument. Frederick offered none.

"Fine, tomorrow then."

"Right," he said and hung up.

Hours later he poured over the maps and the checklist on the desk beside him. Several early notations had been scratched out after he'd gone earlier and given the Cherokee the once-over. It was as clean as a scroll from heaven. The only thing he'd have to take care of tomorrow was recharging the magnetos since he'd noticed when he'd taken her up yesterday that the instrument panel displays were a bit dim.

He checked his watch, rubbed his eyes. Almost one o'clock in the morning. Through the crack in the screen door he could hear the grating hum of the cicadas. He reached for his glass and drained the remaining whiskey. Then, grunting, he stood up and switched off the light. Then he turned to leave, pushing the door open to the outside and the countless shadows of flies dive-bombing the halogen bulb over the wind sock.

He locked the screen, pulled the heavier wooden door that usually lay useless against the side of the building closed. Locked it. Suddenly noticed how tired he was as he crossed over to his four-wheel drive. Time to turn in.

He'd need a good head tomorrow, Samuel was coming.

With the light off in the basement, it seemed the vacuum of space glided in with more ease. Samuel had painted the walls black months before. It was the quietest time of the night, tomb-hour, he called it. And in this darkness Samuel raised the glass of ice water to his lips. It had sat undisturbed for the better part of an hour as he bent to his ritual: ultimate silence coupled with the dark, a feeling of death and control.

The only article in the tiled room, save for the thick shutters on the windows both inside and out, was a towel. He sat on it cross-legged, bare-assed in this room for hours. It was his place of choice. Although the walls leaked occasionally and the seeping water was always cold (even in summer), oozing through the cracked and blackened mortar, squeezing through the cracks, he sat and relished the advance of Time.

Its persistence fascinated him.

He'd come for solace after the episode in the warehouse. He'd known that morning, drinking his first cup of coffee, that he'd be in for the running, but he always regretted when things spun out of control. He shook his head and placed the glass back on the concrete floor.

"You're losing it," he whispered into the darkness, the words floating out like a spell until the darkness and moisture sucked them away to the depths of the cracked walls.

William had called sometime earlier in the evening; the message had been on his answering machine when he checked it, but he had felt no urge to return the call. Talking to anyone, especially William, now, was not a wise choice. He needed to get his shit together first; he could not go around pounding rats into bloody pulps and expect William would miss the signs. Getting caught now would only bring about more questions, ultimatums, and eventually unwanted sojourns locked in manacled silence. He could not go that route again.

He pulled himself to his feet with his eyes closed, feeling the primordial slicked sheet of sweat rolling down his back. The night was again in full control, beckoning from the murky distance, and this brought a smile to his previously stone-cast face. Eventually, as he concentrated, the tension drained away, dissipating like heat melting off the face of a steaming lake. He instinctively turned toward the door, near the ancient washer and drier (seldom used and rusting in the corner), and stood up. Made his way over. He grabbed the knob and closed his eyes so the light wouldn't blind him.

He opened it by degrees, standing naked in the doorway. Wiped the sweat from his face and tossed the towel into a hamper by the stairs. Then he slowly opened his eyes. There.

He walked across the cold floor, a few scant steps to the stairway. His clothes were in a neat pile at the foot of the riser, folded and resting on the surface of a grocery sack. The whole floor was dimpled with sweat, and he left a trial of shining footprints behind as he slowly dressed there in the dim light coming down from the top of the stairs.

When he finished dressing he took several deep breaths and prepared himself for upstairs: a place where symbols and vestiges of propriety and correctness mocked him from every corner, adorning the bookshelves, sprinkling every room with a normality that in no way inhabited the close confines of the basement. Mere window-dressing really.

Even now he wished the session was not over. The tenuous peace he found at times like these touched him only within the confines of that dripping room. He wondered if the nightmares would return with all their horrible freight. Creatures bearing his face, or at the least, his features. Things that lurched and stumbled along blind, damned to walk his nightly landscape.

His face grew more rigid as he climbed the stairwell, and he tried to ignore the fact his hands were shaking as he grasped the railing. Finally the cold doorknob at the top of the stairs. He turned it with a single, sharp click.

He passed through the kitchen and saw it was almost five in the morning. The night had raced by and he had to make an appearance at the warehouse today to keep William cooled. His heart beat faster as he imagined himself closing his hands around his brother's throat. The rush to stare him in the eyes as he died. But of course that would not do.

Standing at the sink, he contemplated sleep, but vetoed the idea when he felt the clamminess descend like thick fat on his body. So he passed into the living room and channel-surfed the cable channels until his mind ran into a blur, and it became fashionably early enough in the morning to give William a call.

The sky transformed itself into an angry red ocean as Frederick sat in the lawn chair beside the open screen door, training his eyes on the tree line at the far end of the airstrip. The day had been unseasonably hot, the sun slashing the cloudbanks to shreds, leaving the coming night as the only hope for relief. He took a sip of whiskey and grimaced. Checked his watch: 7:24 p.m. Shifted in the chair, running the legs back slightly in the dust so he could get a clearer view up the road. He thought he heard a car approaching and he was right.

Pulling in amid the dust and pot-holes that made the driveway near the highway a fool's errand was a long, black Lincoln Town Car, and even though it wasn't a newer model it was surprisingly well maintained. Frederick tossed back the rest of the whiskey and coaxed a smile to his face as the car got closer. He made out Samuel's face through the windshield, as usual, granite, uninflected. Frederick motioned for him to pull into a spot next to the four-wheel drive.

As he got up and walked past the shack, Frederick set the glass on the windowsill. Samuel killed the engine and opened the Lincoln's door. A nicely-polished set of high-dollar shoes emerged and set themselves down in the dirt. And as he got out Frederick could see he was dressed to the nines, all except for an old and battered suitcase that he carried carelessly in his left hand as he slammed the car door shut.

Surprisingly, he spoke first. "William told you I'd be on time, didn't he?" A small, strange smile played across his face then slid away with the same, slow momentum with which it had come. Frederick nodded and ran his tongue along his teeth.

"That's what he said," he admitted. "No problems finding it?"

Samuel shook his head and patted the briefcase. "Got a little something here I'm sure you're interested in..."

Frederick took it from him and motioned with his hand for Samuel to follow back inside the shack. As he walked he felt the man close behind and mentally stifled a chill that coursed up his spine. He pointed to one of the two chairs in the small office and sat down in the other. Samuel did likewise. "Everything good?" Frederick said.

"The money's there if that's what you mean," Samuel replied. He leaned forward and Frederick opened the suitcase and looked inside. Smiled at the neat rows of wrapped hundreds from the bottom up. Then he closed the suitcase and pushed it off to the side, hidden from anyone coming in through the doorway. "You want to take a look at the Piper?" he said.

Samuel nodded. "You going to count that?" he asked.

"Later."

"A trusting man," Samuel said in a sing-song voice, so that Frederick turned around to look at him. Samuel smiled and kept on going, "What the world needs now..." but to no obvious effect as Frederick walked ahead of him to the hangar.

"But I will check it later," he tossed over his shoulder as he unlocked the bay door. Shortly afterward, the inspection finished, both men sat outside the shack, diligently hammering away at a fifth of Jack Daniel's. Amazingly, the whiskey did a bang-up job of defusing the tension between them. Strangely enough, Samuel had become oddly amiable. It was just what Frederick had been hoping for. Because he was nowhere near as drunk as he let on.

They both stared out into the darkness, down the hollow runway. The moon was bright enough to cast shadows a good distance. Somewhere out there something howled. Frederick poured what was left in the bottle and slung it with surprising accuracy at the fifty-five gallon drum out near the ham-radio tower. The tip of the neck caught on the rim, shattering the bottle and spraying tiny shards of glass around the area. "Ahh, what the shit," he said slowly, raising his arms above his head in a massive stretch. Samuel wiped his hand across his sweating face and nodded.

"So how many of these runs you made?" the man said suddenly, causing Frederick to look over at him. Samuel shifted in the flimsy chair, struggling momentarily to keep the spindly thing from going over. It was clear he was trying to hide how drunk he was.

"A good many," he replied looking back at the rusting drum. There was a hunched shadow sniffing around the corner of the hangar, you could just see it in the light. Frederick leaned over, sifting through the dirt until he had several rocks in hand.

"Ever been busted?" Samuel said.

"Not yet," Frederick replied and lofted the handful of rocks in the rat's general direction. There came a clanging of rock against metal and a form shambled around the corner and out of sight.

"What the fuck!?" Samuel exclaimed. Frederick dusted off his hands on his pants leg.

"Fucking rat looked like. Maybe a 'coon. Fuckers are all over the place."

"Ohh, okay..." Samuel said, although he still looked with wide-eyes toward the hangar's darkened corner. He pressed his fingers firmly into his lips, all the while nodding to himself. "A rat," he repeated in a hushed whisper, seemingly unable to take his eyes away. For the first time, Frederick saw an impression of fear crawling into the usually tightened mask of skin and bone. It was pleasing to watch.

He kicked at a rock near his foot as the silence persisted, processing his thoughts, and the sound finally brought Samuel around. His eyes cleared visibly, even in the shallow light, but Frederick couldn't be sure why or how. The alcohol or something else?

Samuel stood up abruptly and handed his empty glass to Frederick. He checked his luminous Rolex, strangely now, hardly swaying at all. "I better get out of here. I've got a lot to do tomorrow."

"Okay."

"So we on for Wednesday?"

"Yeah. You still in?"

"You're goddamn right," William answered.

"Alright, then. I'll get in touch with you early in the week at the warehouse."

"Do that. Anything else you're going to need?"

Frederick paused, shook his head. "Can't think of anything. If I do, I'll let you know."

"I'm sure you will," Samuel said, his voice riding a line now. Turning away toward the car. "Watch the sky..." he muttered, almost offhand, as if he were saying it to himself. Then nothing but a wagging of his head as he made his way deeper into the gloom. Frederick watched him make his way to the car. Maybe the motherfucker would drive off the road and kill himself tonight. There was always that.

"Yeah," he said, as the big man opened the door and slipped inside the car. "Watch the sky." He watched the big sedan swing around and bounce its way up to the highway. When it was gone he stood up and retrieved the money from inside the building. Locked it up and walked over to his own vehicle. It was only when he got there that he noticed he still had Samuel's glass in hand and flung it over his shoulder.

Chapter 9: Wednesday

When the alarm clock went off at 5:30 he groaned and slammed his hand down on the cause of the clamor. He rubbed his hand over the stubble on his chin, tasting the filmed death curled at the back of his throat. He pried open one eye to make sure he'd not misread the time. Sure enough. His heart had him up to a pant.

It was then he noticed his left arm was tingling.

He turned that way, his eyes going weird at the shock of auburn hair spilling across his shoulder. A form played out its design underneath the sheets but the face was hidden. The only thing truly appalling was the very unfeminine snoring. "My God," he whispered, trying to make disjointed pieces come together.

He managed to wiggled his arm out from underneath the snoring somebody without waking her, although she did grumble something unintelligible as she rolled away. Her hair parted momentarily and her somber, sleeping face was pretty enough. But he hadn't the slightest idea who she was or how she'd come to be here.

But an even biggest question, the really burning question, was why the hell had he set the alarm clock for 5:30 in the fucking morning? He almost groaned again, but stopped, not wishing to wake the girl. Right now he could barely handle his own company. He kneaded his forehead with what felt to be disembodied fingers.

And goddammit, today was the day...or rather, tonight, to be more precise. He looked around the room to make sure it was his. At least the familiar shadows were in their right places.

He sat up slowly, got his legs out in front of him, and staggered off to the bathroom. The image that greeted him in the mirror left him wondering whether to laugh or cry, but he felt either emotion would be far too physically taxing at the moment. He stood there swaying for several minutes, trying to get his senses together, and only when his head threatened to explode did he find the strength to rifle through the medicine cabinet above the sink. He swallowed five Tylenol with enough water to float a ship and slowly made his way back to the bedroom as spots danced before his eyes.

He pulled the covers back before he got in bed, checking to see what he had. The young, naked woman was very thin, her skin flawless. You'd probably think she was cute even if you caught her farting. Which went even further from explaining how the hell she was here now.

What little he did remember was grainy, out of focus like a low-budget movie, and he wondered if his four-wheel drive was still intact. Or even outside. The way he felt the fucker might be on the moon. He neither felt like nor had the balls to go check it out. He shook his head and crawled back under the sheets. Backed the alarm clock off until 10:00 and then moved into a spoon position against the girl. In her sleep she mumbled a name (not his) and ground her rump hard against his cock.

Within minutes, and through a hazy confusion, he entered her from behind. She suddenly sucked in her breath as he went but remained, for the most part, unopposed. And with that being the case, he pushed her over on her belly and slowly moved in and out, pressing lightly against the small of her back with one hand while he steadied himself with the other. The grayness passed as he neared orgasm and just before he came he pulled out and rode his dick up through the groove of her ass. He came weakly and the nausea immediately came rushing back. He cursed himself as he faded off to sleep again, thinking just briefly on the fact that she hadn't even awakened during the whole thing. "Maybe you're losing your touch old boy," he said as he faded off to dreamless sleep.

It wasn't the clock but the sound of a hysterical, female that ripped him awake the next time. He came up to consciousness lost in some shimmering void, and when he broke through to reality the voice was not his own. "--got to wake-up, goddammit! Oh come on, Michael, you Gotta get your ass Up! John's gonna be Off his shift Anytime now and I Gotta Get The Fuck Outta Here! You Gotta bring me back! Come on, You sonofabitch!"

He slowly cranked his eyes open to stare at the face so close to his own. Michael? Again, he had no idea. "Well, hello, Sunshine," he said. She tore away and started throwing her clothes on. She appeared to have some everywhere. Frederick smiled as he watched her run around. He could see the dry, flaky spot at the small of her back which she obviously didn't know was there.

Then she turned suddenly, hair flying up and around. Her eyes wide with fright, real terror. "Why Didn't you wake Me up!? You said You would!" she yelled. At least now the alarm clock made a little more sense. "I tole You I hada be home early, and You tole me It Ain't No Problem!"

"Hey, hey, hey!" he exclaimed. Her erratic actions were clouding his slow-moving mind. "I don't know what the hell you're talking about!" He sat up in bed, scratching at his hair. At least the Tylenol seemed to be helping.

Now he just needed to get rid of her.

And, thankfully, from the looks of it, that wasn't going to be so hard. He glanced over to the nightstand. The clock read 8:17. She was going to cut him short a couple of hours but if it meant getting rid of this screaming menace he'd take the deprivation.

He peeled himself out of bed, searched around the room for his own pants. Spied them crumpled by the bureau. He stood up, pointed at her. "Susan," he said. "Right?"

Her look could have killed millions. "Michelle," she spat. "Ya know, you really seemed like a nice guy last night, drunk but nice. When I tole ya I needed to be home by 7:30 you said It Ain't No Problem!"

He grabbed his pants angrily from the spot on the floor. "Listen, Michelle," he said, placing careful emphasis on her name this time. "I don't remember what the fuck I told you last night."

"But you did, you fucker. You lousy fucker," she whispered as he open a drawer and fishing out a clean T-shirt. He put it on, looked up, saw she was about to cry. "Listen," she begged. "I really gotta get the hell outta here. My boyfriend is gonna be home in less than an hour, and he probably called already..."

"Okay, okay, Michelle. I get it." She was already fully dressed as Frederick walked over and slid his feet into the sandals at the foot of the bed.

Twenty minutes later he was pulling up to a tiny off-shoot, low-rent, trailer park on the edge of Thibodaux. She made him stop where the asphalt gave itself up to gravel and fumbled with the door latch. Finally got it opened. As she stepped out of the four-wheel drive to the gravel he couldn't resist one last jab. "Hey Michelle," he said. She turned to him with a hurried, exasperated look on her face.

"What?"

"You shouldn't go picking up bad ole men in bars if you've already got one at the house." He basked in the hate that slammed across her face and laughed aloud when she slammed the door and hurried away. He noticed she'd forgotten her shoes, she'd had them in her hand but must have put them down; there they were on the passenger floorboard.

He drove off, leaving the girl to whatever fate awaited her.

By 7 o'clock he'd sobered up entirely. Attempted to piece together fragments of the night but nothing really held together. He seemed to recall going to Rafferty's at the Holiday Inn for a late supper, but after that there was only the echoes of loud music, and somehow, somewhere, the girl. Whatever else she'd been talking about was Greek to him.

He just hoped he didn't have the fucking clap.

He checked his watch. Paul should be here soon; he was going along, and if Samuel didn't like it, fuck him. Now more than ever, he needed someone to watch his back. The kid was coming and he didn't give a shit what Samuel thought.

"Speak of the devil," he said, hearing the sound of rubber crawling across gravel. He walked over to the window and parted the blinds, watched as the Camaro swung into the drive. The boy pulled up next to Frederick's four-wheel drive and rocked to a stop. Frederick pulled the blinds up, and then the window. He yelled out, "You ready?" to the young, physically imposing man. A wild grin beamed off his rugged face and he slammed the door shut.

"Fuckin A!" Paul yelled back, hurrying around to the trunk. He fished out a couple of duffel bags and brought them around to the yard where Frederick met him. "I started thinkin you'd never call again," he said, extending his hand. Frederick caught it and pumped it meaningfully.

"Well, that's the way this shit goes."

"Ain't it the fuckin truth," Paul said. Looked around. "So where's the rich guy?"

"He'll be here. You're early. Why don't you pack your gear in the Cherokee. She's all ready. And the rich guy, Samuel Franklin's his name. He ought to be here soon. He made a real point of letting me know how punctual he is. We'll give him another twenty minutes."

"He know about me?"

"Fuck him. It's my show."

"So what's the story."

"Jelly didn't tell you...?"

"Just bare bones, snow in Colombia, he said. You know Jelly don't like to fool around with any a this shit."

"Didn't know he had that much brains."

They both laughed.

"It should go smoothly," Frederick said. "Five kilos on a private strip outside Bogota. According to the buyers and what I could get out of the Franklins, the place is supposed to be airtight. But you can never tell. Fucking third-world countries, you've got to be ready for anything. Regardless, we oughta be back in a couple days."

Paul hoisted the bags over his shoulder and ambled past Frederick. "I'll stash this shit. Be back in a minute."

"Take your time," Frederick said. "We're not in any rush...yet." And he watched Paul's back as he walked into the gathering shadows.

The big Lincoln slid in on the mark. Paul was still fiddling around in the hangar while Frederick sat in the lawn chair, delivering the final drag to his cigarette. He flipped it away and walked over to the car as the door opened. This time a scuffed pair of work boots appeared, followed by Samuel in a short-sleeved T-shirt with Jimi Hendrix emblazoned across the front. Blue jeans worn pale from many trips through the drier completed his attire. "Evening," Frederick said.

"Yeah," Samuel answered, seemingly disinterested. He leaned back into the car and reached below the steering wheel, popped the latch for the trunk. The two men walked around and Frederick saw two duffel bags stuffed back there.

"Need a hand?" he said.

"Sure."

Frederick grabbed the closest and Samuel hefted the other. Just like two old buddies getting ready for a fishing trip, Frederick thought. What a crock. Nothing could be further from the truth. "Who's the other car?" Samuel asked.

"My man Paul."

Samuel stopped short. "I thought I was coming because you needed somebody. What's all this?" Anger edged into his voice but Frederick was on it like a guard dog on a pork chop.

"Now hold on just a goddamn minute," he said. "This ain't a we situation. It's my fucking plane and I'm in charge from this fucking moment on. I don't take orders from anybody about what I do on my own goddamn plane. You're along for the ride, and if you don't like the way I do it, you're not. Paul's my man and he's coming." He paused only for a moment. "Because I damn well say so." Frederick braced himself for the confrontation. There'd been too many nights lately, worrying for unknown reasons about this man, and he'd decided earlier in the day that all that shit stopped today.

Mute amazement rained down on Samuel's face. For the first time he was not only silent, but dumbfounded; he'd surely not expected this from a man who'd appeared so leery, but at least, level-headed up right up until now. The monster began to swell inside but Samuel bit it back. He would not be played with, not by any man, but there were also times for discretion and this was one of them.

"Hey now," he said in a controlled voice. "No need to get your fucking ass in a bind. You said you needed a man, and I thought I was it."

"I said one of my men." Frederick swallowed hard, trying to regain his composure.

"He the only one?" Samuel said, looking toward the hangar.

"Yeah. I trust him."

Samuel smiled back at him and shuffled past in the hangar's direction. Evidently he was still going.

"Go ahead and pull the Lincoln around back," Frederick said. Samuel turned around slowly, his face dead of expression now. "We're not gonna be gone long but a strange car could call attention. Park it behind the hangar, near the John Deer. Nobody's going to fuck with it."

Samuel dug in his pants pocket with the same dull expression and tossed the keys through the darkness. They landed a few feet away from Frederick's boots and skidded to a stop. "You're the boss," he said before turning back, hitching the pack up higher as he continued towards the hangar.

The night turned out to be perfect for illegal flying. The moon threw crystal-sharp glimmering sparks across the vast Gulf, all of which darted quickly away before the human eye could set on any one, and the thick clouds hovering low to the horizon, draped themselves like an angelic host amid a backdrop of heat-filled emptiness. Frederick kept the sound system low and the only outside noise came from the muffled rush of wind against metal and the dull, droning hum of the twin engines.

He flew with the tenderness of touch that came with complete intimacy, anticipating every dip and rise of random wind shears and other unpredictable gusts with uncanny accuracy which seemed to hinge on precognition. Paul rode shotgun, gazing out the side window as Samuel reduced himself to a ghostly presence in the row seat behind them. No one spoke for the better part of the first hour. Then Frederick broke the monotony.

"I've flown over Bogota several times in the past and it's rough terrain," he said. "This strip is supposed to be lighted up or we've got to hunt it down in the dark?"

In the faint glow from the console he felt Samuel's shadow encroach on him from the back seat. He heard the man fidgeting in his pockets, and moments later he was handed a small scrap of paper over his shoulder. He held it up to the cabin light. The scrap bore a frequency on the FM band and one word: Santiago.

"There's the deal," Samuel explained from behind him. "When we get within two hundred miles, tune to that band and radio ahead. There'll be someone expecting our signal tonight. The strip's about halfway between Bogota and Tadosito, but you already know that..."

"Right. I do know that much." Frederick could almost feel the other man smiling back there in the dark.

Chapter 10: The Pick-Up

Not long afterward the murky shadow of the Colombian Gulf coast came into view. It seemed to ooze out of the silent water, manifesting itself in ragged and mysterious coastline jungles. Frederick knew to stay far clear of the commercial flying lanes, keeping the Cherokee skipping along the surface of the waves to remain invisible to radar. However, almost every elected official and police captain was on the take, and the large private armies of the drug dealers were a formidable force for any straight politician. But, luckily, it didn't make good business sense to shoot money out of the sky on dark nights.

Frederick banked the Cherokee, skirting along the northwestern seaboard, hopefully staying deaf to any stray beach patrols. He adjusted direction according to the printed instructions on the laminated map, and at the proper time swung left, vaulting higher into the Colombian jungle. Somewhere down there in the darkness lay an imaginary line separating Venezuela from Colombia, sprawling across the fetid jungle floor. Maybe it was crazy, but it always seemed to Frederick the air smelled different here, thicker perhaps, as the cabin pressure adjusted and filtered the ancient, foreign climate through modern technology.

A pencil-thin line of deeper darkness cut a jagged tear through the dense jungle below, and this satisfied Frederick that they were where they were supposed to be. That rip in the landscape below would be the Magdalena River and the next three hundred miles they would follow it like a road. He decided to wait at least another half hour before announcing their arrival.

Paul, never taking his eyes from the side window, hummed along with what was playing as Samuel hunkered deep and silent in the back. The moon etched a fine sliver of blood in the sky, the Big Dipper prominent while lesser stars unconsciously winked in their own vast depths of space.

Not long afterward, Frederick switched off the music and tuned to the hailing frequency. Crackling noises from the speakers rebounded through the cockpit. He kept it short and sweet. "This is Flyer seeking Santiago," he said. Then again.

"Santiago," a voice, in English though thick with Colombian accent, confirmed.

"Flyer confirming transmission; entering your airspace within the next fifteen minutes. Awaiting response."

"Received. Light's on." A click sounded as the other party signed off.

They flew on, scanning the jungle floor for the telling glow of the airfield, and moments later the ebony jungle below was suddenly cut by a thin strip of light, just off to their left. Frederick adjusted and prepared for a hurried approach while Paul nervously drummed his fingers on the armrest. Frederick felt the familiar beat of his heart tuning up, the adrenaline flowing in earnest now. No matter how many times he did it, the tension was a mainstay.

He cut an initial half-circle around the lighted perimeter, skirting the uppermost trees by less than thirty feet. "Looks pretty empty down there," Paul said, peering out his window which offered a drastic, angled view of the ground. Frederick arrowed out again in preparation for the final approach, backing the speed off by degrees and dropping below the tree level for touch down. He buzzed a seemingly deserted cabin set just off to the right and less than a hundred feet from the airstrip's extent, and eased the controls forward. The wheels bumped lightly on the ground and he throttled back, aware of the familiar backward protest as the engines reversed. The jungle loomed ominous and overpowering on both sides as they bounced and eventually rolled three quarters of the way down the strip. They came to a sudden halt and Frederick steered the Cherokee around, pleased that the strip was wide enough to make the turn. Most weren't. He jigged the throttle forward a hair above idling speed, nudging the plane into a slow crawl.

The lights lining the strip dimmed dramatically as they proceeded and Frederick felt Samuel leaning forward in his seat, just over his shoulder again. A Jeep appeared, outlined in their headlights. Several men were inside. "This should be Manuelo," Samuel mumbled.

"Better fucking be..." Frederick replied, more to himself than anyone else. He stopped the plane and killed the power, the sound ceasing like a summer thunderstorm passing. Too late for anything else now, he thought. This is it. The Jeep pulled up alongside. While Frederick busied himself with the instruments, Paul wordlessly went about the task of unbolting the sealed doors. After a glance at Frederick and an affirmative nod, he pushed them open.

Three men were in the Jeep; one, the driver sat passively staring at the plane as the other two bailed out and walked toward them. "Samuel Franklin?" the taller of the two said. He was a whip-thin shade of a man with thick, coarse hair braided and draped over his left shoulder; a huge goatee covering the lower half of his face, and the accent heavy Colombian. Paul stepped to the side as Samuel pushed forward.

"Manuelo?" he asked, filling the doorway.

"Ola, Ola!" the man shouted enthusiastically. "You like the strip, yes? Slick as a new babies' ass, yes?" A broad smile broke through his beard. At least his English was clear enough.

"You have to ask the pilot," Samuel replied, motioning inside with a jerk of his thumb. He climbed down the three short steps and waited. Frederick unbuckled and came down the stairs to stand within feet of him. "Yeah, it's nice enough," he said to the two men. Paul faded into the background to let the businessmen break the ice.

Manuelo sauntered over to the Cherokee while the other, shorter man stood off to the side. From his look, Frederick figured he didn't understand English. The driver scarcely cast a glance in their direction, as if too involved in whatever lay in the iridescent gloom past the limits of the dimmed spotlights for anything else to command his attention. Manuelo pointed a finger at Frederick. "You must be Paol," he said, hitting the pronunciation perfectly. He offered his hand in greeting. They shook.

"You got it," he said.

"It is good that the flight was safe," Manuelo said as he let go of Frederick's hand and presented it to Samuel. Regardless, the air remained thick with tension. It was like this most times, at least at first. Sometimes all the time. "Talkative bunch, no?" Manuelo said and laughed. The handshake broke off and Manuelo thumbed his fist in the others' direction. "This is Roberto," he said pointing to the one standing close by. "Unfortunately he speaks no English, as well as my driver, David. So, you see, you are stuck with my hospitality." He smiled again, broadly and Frederick began to inadvertently relax. His heart had stopped trip-hammering. At least for the moment.

Samuel cut directly to the chase. "So where's the stuff?"

Manuelo dismissed Roberto with a wave and stepped closer. He rocked back on his heels and leaned heavily against the Cherokee's wing, placing his hands nonchalantly in the pockets of his loose-fitting cammos. "I got word from my operative not twenty minutes after you radioed. They have a problem with their whirly-bird but your supplies will be ready first thing in the morning. At the latest, you leave tomorrow before dark."

Samuel looked over at Frederick and shrugged.

"It's what you expected, no?" Manuelo asked.

Frederick looked from Samuel to Manuelo and nodded stiffly. "Okay by me. Five keys?"

"Or more...you're the boss," the drug dealer said and the magnificent smile crawled again through the mustache and beard.

"Then we're good."

"Fine, fine!" Manuelo exclaimed, walking around to the Jeep's passenger side and jumping in. "Follow me to the shed." The driver dropped the Jeep into gear as Roberto climbed into his spot in the back. "Follow us. It is not far to walk," he said as the Jeep spun around to head the other way.

"Well..." Frederick said, watching them pull off and start rolling into the gloom. "You heard what the man said." Samuel stared silently after the Jeep. "Leave the gear in the plane," Frederick said to Paul, and then leaned closer hoping Samuel wouldn't hear. "Bring your 9mm," he said. "Be ready for anything." Paul gave a minute nod and minutes later they began following the slowly bumping taillights toward the shack.

Inside they found an arsenal. Machine guns (both M-1s and M-16s) lined a whole wall while underneath boxes had been stacked by the dozens which were full of ammunition and K-rations. A large, American-made Kenmore refrigerator purred stoically in one corner near a desk piled high with flight maps and dog-eared smut magazines. "There is plenty of meat in the refrigerator; American beer, too," Manuelo offered his guests as they pushed inside. "Do you have a tent in the plane?"

"Yes."

"Good, but it really doesn't matter. One is just underneath the desk." He gestured toward the wall of artillery. "Feel free to bring one or two of these with you tonight while you sleep. You can never tell when something nasty will come out of the jungle." His face twisted into a grimace. The three Americans said nothing.

Manuelo pulled back his sleeve to check his watch. The luminous dial shone dimly in the room's half-light. "Roberto and I will be back here early tomorrow." He noticed the look on Frederick's face and held his hands up. "Friends," he said, his eyes sparkling. "There will be no surprises. I believe Samuel can speak for our honor, and here we leave you well equipped with such munitions. I have a wife and children several miles away and I see no reason to hug the ground tonight." He looked closely at Samuel. "You know my work and my word, Samuel. The goods will be here tomorrow and you'll be off and on your way. I am a man of good faith."

"I don't believe in faith," Samuel replied.

Unruffled, Manuelo rubbed his hands together as if fighting off a chill. "But oh, my friend, faith is a wonderful thing. Where would the world be without it? Where would business be? Trust makes the world go round. You have the weapons and could leave in the night like a bird." He made a little fluttering motion with his hand.

"You already know we're not going anywhere," Samuel said.

"And you are correct, no?" Manuelo agreed. "Because we are businessman. Not suit and tie, but businessmen just the same. You will be here in the morning and so will I. One band of pirates to another, no?" He laughed again. "And so, my friends, we're off. Soon to return." Roberto grunted, as if this cue signaled the end of the meeting, and walked outside to where the driver waited. Manuelo edged past Paul and stood in the gravel entranceway. He walked over to the Jeep and waved once. Touched the driver on the shoulder and soon they were lost in the deep darkness.

Frederick turned to Samuel. "How well you know that guy?"

"We've done business before. Never any trouble."

The silence stretched out.

Frederick waved at Paul who stood a few feet away. "Why don't you go back to the plane and get the tent. Samuel and I'll tote the rest of this shit over to the campsite."

"Where?"

"Hell, does it matter? Wherever. How 'bout off the runway a hundred yards or so from the shack. We'll take an AK and a M-16 in case of trouble." He looked over at Samuel. "Fucking guy's a real people pleaser, ain't he?"

Samuel shrugged. "He's as honest as any other back-stabbing fuck around here."

"Whatever you say."

A wood knot exploded in the center of the campfire, showering out little fists of light. The flame was low and each man mused his own possible futures in the dancing shapes. "Here," Paul said, nudging Frederick on his shoulder. Frederick grabbed hold of the whiskey bottle. Paul was fucked up, weaving back and forth a little in his chair. There wasn't much left and with the next gulp it was history.

"The old man's fucking crazy," Samuel muttered quietly, though he didn't appear to be addressing anyone in particular.

Frederick shot a look over at Paul but saw he was off in his own world. Samuel continued to stare drunkenly into the flames. "It's the moon that makes us all crazy," he said a little louder. He turned to look at Frederick with a sudden awareness in his eyes.

"What the fuck are you talking about?" Frederick asked. Samuel said nothing and looked off, stared out into the night sky. "It's just clouds and stars out there, man." Frederick tried to follow his line of reasoning.

"I was there the night he cut her," Samuel continued, nodding to himself as if finding the answer to a question that had vexed him, biting his lip as he considered. "Started with her tits. I heard all the yelling. I was peeking around the bedroom door."

"What the fuck are you talking about?" Frederick said again, though he figured he already knew. Lincoln's story was fresh in his mind. Paul was dead drunk and sailing along.

"Nobody told you about me?" Samuel asked, his eyes shining in the campfire light.

"What about?"

"That I'm crazy, man. Been to the fucking nut house."

Frederick eyed him closely, all the while fishing in his shirt pocket for a cigarette. "I'm just here on business, not to start up a relationship."

"Yeah, you're probably right." Samuel paused, fingering his chin. "But what did you hear?"

Frederick lit his cigarette and inhaled deeply. "Not much," he lied. "Something about a hospital, but it's not my problem and I don't intend to make it one."

Samuel looked back into the fire. "He really slashed her face up good, too," he continued. "There was even blood on the fucking curtains, I'll never forget. I thought he might've smelled me in the room once, but he didn't; or if he did, he never let on. Or, of course, maybe I was supposed to see?" He grunted and rubbed at his face. "Never was the same after that. She was the first and I'm the second. Ain't no stopping this shit."

Frederick kept watching him, saying nothing. It was as if Samuel didn't know he was there.

"And Dad had the telescope, but he didn't use it. It just sat there in the room. But after Mom... well, I started looking out there," he gestured vaguely to the sky. "It was the first time I got a hint of the vacuum, first time I recognized the place she'd been making for me all along...

He laughed and kicked at a patch of ground.

"I had to kill the hookers and that pimp. I had to have the blood on my hands because that's the price. And they almost got me for good, but not quite. I still remember those nights in the nut house, listening to the creak of the ceiling, bearing up under all that tremendous weight. I heard 'em calling out my name at night sometimes, just whispering in the corridors or close behind the walls where the rats ran, and they'd be telling me that they were coming."

With goose bumps rising, Frederick whispered "Who?" so as not to break the trance-like revelation. The jungle suddenly seemed more oppressive. Even the sliver of moon seemed to sink lower. Frederick heard what must have been a monkey screaming in the distant reaches.

Samuel lowered his head and scratched furtively at the dirt beneath his boots with both heels. "Demons, man. Fucking demons. I could feel 'em scratching on my backbone some nights. But I managed to steer clear. I knew the doctors felt there was something there, but I didn't let on what. And I didn't tell 'em about the moon either, or the sky. When they came for our sessions. I didn't tell them about the voices." He got quiet.

Frederick said, "You hear em now?"

Samuel looked his way only briefly. "You hearing things too?"

"I don't think so, but maybe I don't know what I'm listening for."

Samuel laughed, and waved his finger knowingly at Frederick. "You do think I'm crazy, I can see it. But it doesn't matter. Don't mean shit. It's my legacy."

Frederick shrugged and looked back at the fire. Paul was now asleep, not privy to any of this. His head resting quietly on his chest. Samuel laid his head back and closed his eyes. "Freddy," he said. "It makes you crazy, man." He spat in the dirt, pointed up at the night sky. His face writhed with nervous twitches, dissolving eventually into a singular twisted smile.

Frederick followed his gaze reluctantly, the whole time not wanting to take his eyes off this maniac. He heard Paul groan in his sleep.

Samuel twisted his head and glared defiantly at Frederick. "They talk to me, goddammit. They all talk to me. She made 'em do it."

Frederick just sat there, mouth agape. And then, just as suddenly, Samuel was out. Frederick had never seen anybody go down that fast without getting a fist in the face or a bullet between the eyes, but there it was. His foot was practically in the bed of ashes surrounding the dwindling fire. And what the fuck had he been talking about?

Frederick looked over his shoulder into the borderland of suffocating jungle. Thick, gnarled vines hung from the trees like serpents and he could hear the wind drifting through the branches like a thousand ghosts getting on. He walked over to the tent and picked up the AK, the magazine protruding. Then he went over to nudge Paul with the tip of his boot but the younger man only snorted once and continued sleeping.

Frederick looked at the monster.

Peaceful as the dead now. His foot must have gotten hot because his leg was hitched up where he'd drawn back. He was still breathing fast and hard. Earlier, when Samuel had starting belting the whiskey back, Frederick had been surprised at the fury of his gulps, but he'd also been curious. Because as Samuel poured through the whiskey, that look had come back to his eyes, the one Frederick had only briefly glimpsed at the airstrip in Thibodaux. He'd said some weird shit about the moon or sky that night, too, hadn't he?

Oh, yes.

Frederick rifled his pockets for another cigarette. "My God," Frederick muttered. "What the hell was all that?" Samuel had admitted to the 'rumor' Jimmy and Lincoln had mentioned. Even the part about his mother. Christ, the guy was a basket case. He let this revelation sink in because now there was no doubt. He had a true psycho on board.

He wiped a hand across his lips. Everything about this job smelled of shit. He dragged deeply at what remained of the cigarette and flipped it into the flames. He would definitely welcome the break of dawn. Anything to get the show on the road and the hell back to Thibodaux.

He blew out his breath and cracked his knuckles. Ventured a look at the stars again, concern beading his brow at the heavy bank of clouds forming, as if by magic, overhead. In their impenetrable silence they continued piling on, rank upon rank, building forces as if for some surprise offensive. The moon infrequently beat down like a cat's cataract eye peering from a murky depth within the fragments of clouds. They rippled across its thin face like traces of mud swept by a tide.

Frederick got another weird sensation at the base of his spine and turned slowly to face the jungle. Its demarcation line was less than thirty yards away and the heavy branches shifted oddly in the ghostly light. He wondered morbidly how many sets of eyes were hiding in the darkness, watching him. He decided to keep the fire burning all night; fuck any stray patrols. He looked around until he found a suitable stick to stir the coals and knocked them around until they came back to life. Then he threw several more large pieces of wood and scraps of bark onto the pyre.

The tent was close by, a rugged four-man job, but tonight it looked like he was it. Even though the mosquito spray was still holding up okay the other two would regret staying out here in the morning. He walked over to the tent flap, ripped down the zipper and crawled inside. The whiskey began to relax him as he kicked off his boots. He left everything else on. His wristwatch read 3:44, and he rubbed his hands over his face, yawning broadly as he stretched out in the darkness. Within minutes he was asleep.

The unzipping of the tent flap woke him. He felt the slow, familiar throb far back in his hairline, and shielded his eyes from the light filtering in through the opening. Paul stuck his head through, his eyes squinting and wounded. Strands of grass clung in his hair. Maybe the chair had gone over in the night. "Freddy!" the younger guy almost shouted. "Why the hell'd you leave me out here all fucking night!" Frederick could see a vast array of welts across his face.

Frederick worked himself slowly into a sitting position. "Hold on buddy," he said menacingly, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. "Don't blame me. I tried to get you up last night but you wouldn't fucking budge, and I sure as hell wasn't going to carry you in here like a goddamn baby." He scooted over as Paul made his way inside; the kid really looked miserable.

"Yeah, yeah...okay. I'm sure you did. This whole thing's just got me edgy. I drank too much." He breathed out violently, flaring his nostrils. "Man, I'll be glad when this shit's over," he finished up. His mood was different from the other trips and that concerned Frederick. Because he took it as proof this wasn't his imagination; the events of the previous night were still too fresh, and up until now he'd thought the apprehension was just his own. But Paul's eyes told a different story.

"What do you mean?" he asked.

"I don't know," Paul said. "I just don't like this one." He looked down at the tent floor, trying to stifle a yawn while he wiped his face. He grimaced and looked back at Frederick. "I must've gotten pretty fucked up..."

"Indeed. You were snoring like a freight train when I turned in."

"Yeah. Goddamn bugs ate me alive." He reflected for a moment, as if debating whether or not to say anything else. "It's just that fucking guy, man. He gives me the creeps. I don't even know why, but it's something..." he said before trailing off.

Frederick sat there in silence. "Where is he?" he asked.

"Sleeping Beauty? Outside, sleepin like a bear and snorin like a motherfucker. I tell you..."

Frederick regarded him warily. He was almost positive Paul hadn't heard any of Samuel's drunken confession; he clearly remembered looking over at him several times and there'd been nothing doing. However, Paul was feeling the same thing Frederick had felt the first day at the warehouse. There was something inside Samuel Franklin. He heard Paul groan and came back from his thoughts.

"Look, I've got some aspirin in the First Aid pack in the Cherokee," Frederick said, fishing in his pants for the key to the cabin door. He flipped them over to Paul. "Go get a couple; bring me back some too."

Paul turned to leave, keys in hand, but paused at the tent flap. "All this shit and now the weather's going to hell too. Looks like a damn monsoon brewing out there. I swear I don't like this," he admitted again before leaving.

"I know the feeling," Frederick agreed.

They were just finishing the third pot of coffee when they heard the sound of an approaching vehicle. To be on the safe side, Frederick withdrew to the tent and waited inside, gripping the AK-47 rigidly in his hands. Samuel and Paul remained outside by the campfire, although they sat apart and weren't talking.

Peering through the flap, Frederick watched the same, scratched-up Jeep rumble up to their campsite with a very fresh and ever-smiling Manuelo behind the wheel. The driver from last night had been replaced but Roberto was still with them. The Jeep came to a jerking halt, and the engine pinged noisily as Manuelo jumped from his seat, practically danced over. "Amigos!" the man called joyously. "Good morning!" but when he got closer he lowered his voice. Mumbled something unintelligible and shot both hands to his waist as if infinitely concerned. "A fight with demons last night?" he asked.

Paul said something to the man that Frederick couldn't make out as he exited the tent, leaving the AK inside. When he got closer Manuelo clapped his hands together. "The poison whiskey!" he exclaimed, seemingly getting a real charge out of their misery. "Moderation is the key, my friends," he admonished, wagging his finger. "Myself, I gave it up when I caught a bullet in the back years ago. Never again, I told myself, never again." Roberto showed no concern whatsoever, ever stolid, seemingly unflappable. Samuel cooled quietly by the fire, stirring what remained of the coals with a stick.

"Everything on schedule?" Frederick asked, walking up to take a spot next to Paul.

"Of course, of course! I am a man of my word, Frederick. I talked to my man by short-wave and he said everything was a go." He stopped to check his watch, more to get away from the American's stare than to see what time it was, apparently. "He should be here within the hour. Two at the most. Have you had breakfast?"

Frederick studied his quiet party. "I don't think we're up to that right now," he replied.

Manuelo held his hands up. "Very well, quite understandable." Frederick said nothing.

"As you wish," the man went on, and this time his face actually darkened although Frederick pressed himself to believe it must have been nothing more than a random shadow. "But let's go ahead and get the business out of the way, yes?"

"The business?"

"Yes, the money."

Frederick walked up until he stood face to face with the tall, lanky Colombian. He felt Roberto's incumbent, looming shape near his back and hoped Paul had picked up on it. "I don't make trade-offs until I see what it is I'm buying," he said evenly.

Manuelo gave a flourish of his hand which backed Roberto off a step, although he still appeared the manifestation of a dog on a short leash. Frederick felt all this over his shoulder because he refused to take his eyes from Manuelo. He trusted Paul's judgment.

Manuelo became his former self, backing away in merriment. "Of course, of course, no worries." He looked at the sky and the conversation seemed to change directions although the suggestion was impossible to miss. "Looks to be trouble brewing..." he mumbled.

Frederick followed his eyes to the gathering clouds, stacking up in clustered blackness. "Appears so," he agreed. "That's why I'd like to be out of here as soon as possible."

At half past noon a dim whirring became audible somewhere above the tree line. Frederick's head had cleared to a more functional level, and even Samuel had chosen to join the other men as they quietly munched on sandwiches Manuelo had brought them from the shed. But he remained quiet and distant, furthering the pall that shrouded the moods of the others. It did nothing, however, to stymie the constant flow of drivel that spewed from the Columbian's mouth. Frederick had finally quit answering most of the man's irritating questions, had reduced himself now to simply nodding at appropriate places.

The whirring grew louder.

They moved away from the shade of the borderland to search the sky. Frederick felt for the stiff reassurance of the 9mm tucked safely in his flight jacket. He'd put it on because the wind had picked up, sending the grass rolling like waves. A tropical storm was brewing to the west and the winds were already up to forty-five miles an hour in the crudely-defined epicenter. Only time would tell what it would do.

Regardless, it had been a long time since Frederick witnessed a storm build this fast. When they'd left, less than twenty hours before, the storm had been nonexistent. He refused to be superstitious but bad omens were hard to ignore. It seemed with every moment things got worse, right down to the goddamned jabber-jawed rambling of the Colombian. By definition, drug dealers weren't this nice. He glanced over at Paul and saw his nervousness too.

It became hard to tell who checked their watch more.

"Here we are!" Manuelo suddenly barked, breaking Frederick from his thoughts. The Colombian was pointing into the sky and waving his hands at the approaching helicopter. Within minutes the small craft landed on the airstrip, and a group of men disembarked, none of them obviously armed, although Frederick knew they would be. He noticed Paul sticking close to him and gave the young man an angry stare. Fear had no place here. It sang of the grave. Paul backed off to hold his ground.

Samuel simply rubbed his face and watched silently as the group of men walked over.

Manuelo met them halfway, jabbering quickly in Spanish. There was an inordinate amount of head-nodding from one of the newcomers, obviously the one in charge, and with a quick flash of a hand he dispatched two men back to the helicopter. Moments later they appeared again, laden with one large duffel bag. They turned it over to Manuelo who walked back to the American group.

"Just as promised, no?" he said with a careful doggedness. "Hardly a minute wasted. Now let us finish the business..."

"I want to taste it," Frederick said.

A quick, merciless smile greeted him. Frederick didn't move a muscle as he held the man with his eyes. The background noises faded and the sun was momentarily lost behind a freight of clouds. "Of course, of course," Manuelo said with his characteristic flourish. He offered Frederick a knife he pulled from his pocket and Frederick took it.

They walked over to the Cherokee, shielded from the wind, and Frederick opened the bags, quickly making a deft cut into one of the parcels. He poked the knife inside, withdrew the blade as he cupped his hand around the white powder so the wind didn't take it away. A taste would suffice and it did appear to be high-grade product. He checked the remaining parcels, satisfying himself they contained the same. Then he motioned for Paul to get the money. As he brought it over to the group of men, Frederick watched with a seething, although not completely rational, anger as Samuel walked back to the Cherokee without looking at the men or the drugs, grabbed the door handle and climbed inside the plane.

Frederick promised himself it would be the last run he'd ever make for the fucking Franklin brothers.

Guaranteed.

The cartel, separated from Manuelo and Frederick by no more than thirty yards, opened the suitcase and Paul stood by while they made their count. There was a little bit of head nodding and the case was shut. The leader added a curt, militaristic nod in Frederick's direction and rounded up his men for the chopper. Another minute and they were gone completely into the roiling sky.

"And you see, my friend," Manuelo said. "It is as I said. Businessman to businessman, no funny business. The stuff is very good, no?"

Frederick motioned for Paul to pack the duffel bags in the Cherokee before turning back to the Colombian. "Yeah, everything's fine. Just like you said it'd be." The wind was blowing harder and an occasional drop of rain pinged off the fuselage. Large drops.

"And our friend Samuel?" Manuelo questioned.

Frederick's mouth was a thin line as he regarded the sky. "Who the fuck knows."

"Still not feeling well, I see. So it goes." The Colombian laughed. He lightly tapped Frederick on the shoulder. "Some lessons have to be learned the hard way."

"You got that right."

They walked around to the open doorway which every few seconds tossed back and forth in the wind. Paul had not closed it; Frederick could hear him rummaging around inside. He quickly reached up to stop the banging.

"Have a safe flight," Manuelo said. "Our man appreciates the business, be sure to let the Franklin's know. There is no need to disturb Samuel now." He paused to sniff the wind. "Be careful," he said ominously. "The gods will piss a river."

Chapter 11: The Crash

Huge, spattering raindrops rattled against the windshield as they taxied around toward the shack. The wind ripped around from seemingly all sides, buffeting the plane so that it wavered back and forth as it proceeded down the runway. Frederick checked the gauges and glanced back at Samuel, sitting unconcerned behind and across from him.

"I didn't appreciate you walking out back there," he said.

"Come again?" the man asked. Samuel leaned forward to get in better earshot.

In so doing, Frederick was acutely aware of his presence but raised his voice anyway, so much that Paul did turn around this time. He glared at Samuel while preparing for take-off. "I said, 'I didn't appreciate you walking out back there.'"

Samuel smirked and held his hands up as if to ward off further comment. "Hey Freddy, this is your show. I'm just along for the ride, remember?"

"Yeah, that's right. But what you did could have gotten somebody killed!"

Samuel leaned back comfortably in his seat, pointed at Frederick. "And that's the thing you got wrong, Freddy. I'm not one of your goddamn men." He paused. "I'm financing this whole fucking operation, so don't you forget that." His voice was solid, hard-edged.

Frederick fought to hold back his temper; he could feel it about to boil over. He looked at Paul who remained tight-lipped. Frederick knew the last thing he needed was a fist fight right now, so he counted to 10 and tried to regulate his breathing. "Yeah," he said. "You're half right. You're paying for the trip, but on this fucking plane, I'm the fucking boss. Don't forget it!"

Samuel held out his hands again in mock surrender. He glanced out the window. "The weather's not getting any better, you know," he said, disinterested.

Frederick turned back to what he was doing and left the slow burn to die. He knew he didn't need any of this bullshit, flying in weather like this. Cool it, he told himself. You set yourself up for this, you shouldn't be surprised what you get.

He tried to refocus his attention on the business at hand. "Get ready," he said. "It might get a little rough," as he gunned the engines to full power.

The take-off went smoother than expected and by the time they were three hundred feet above the tree line, the wind didn't buffet the plane nearly as bad as it had on the ground. Frederick had flown in storms in Vietnam and sometimes such conditions served well as cover.

He pulled back on the controls, climbing hard. He was going to track the weather (ceiling and all) as soon as he had a moment, but currently his hands were full. Out of the corner of his eye he watched Paul sink farther into his seat, although he still continued to peer, nakedly concerned, out his window.

Minutes later, in easier winds at 3000 feet, Frederick noticed Paul flinch. "What the fuck?" he heard the man say. Frederick was turning toward him when a huge thunderclap deafened him. Seconds later an explosion came from behind and almost instantaneously the right engine heaved to a lurching stop. The sound of rending metal racketed the air, and the controls jerked violently down, almost tearing themselves from Frederick's grip. Everything was a sudden, blinding whir through the windshield as the wipers fought weakly against the storm.

An incredible calm centered on Frederick and the noises around him faded to background fuzz. As if from a distance, he watched the dials and meters spin and dim simultaneously. Lightning? he thought.

The altimeter took a deadly plunge. Hurtling images plunged by the windshield, vague shadows at first which took on ominous shades of green as they got closer to the tree line.

The realization was as a shot.

They were going down.

He heard a scream off to his right but did not turn, using all his concentration to focus on the controls. A roar tore through the cabin as they broke into the treetops, and even then Frederick knew it was the sound of the wings shearing off as the plane went into the trees.

There was a peppering of wetness on his face. Frederick attempted a breath, almost choked, his eyes fluttering. He flexed his limbs, trying to figure out what had happened.

After a couple of minutes he came to the realization the windshield had shattered. That's where the rain was coming from. He raised his hands and began wiping the shards of glass from his face and hair. He found the seat buckle and unlatched it. He felt around to see if anything was missing, found no mortal wound.

It was so still.

He turned his head slowly to get a look around, throwing the belt strap away as he did so. Shit was everywhere, instruments broken and incomprehensible one from the other, glass and twisted metal haphazardly thrown about.

And Paul.

Paul was prone in his chair, looking oddly like some forlorn dentist's patient left too long. But at a peculiar angle and tomb silent. Minutes passed and the young man slowly turned his head in a small arc to lock eyes with Frederick.

"Freddy?" he asked, as if the inhabitant of another world. There was a trickle of blood there, in a line from his mouth, dripping off his chin.

"Yeah?" It was all he could manage.

"Fucking shot us down, man!" he said, the exclamation only in his eyes, his voice now whispered and fleeting.

Frederick couldn't be sure he heard right. "What...?"

"The fucking helicopter, man...goddammit..." and a tear welled free. It was then that Frederick noticed his face. Paul began making strange lost sounds, deep gurgles. He groaned again, this time much louder. A new, huge red bubble grew out of his mouth and burst, spraying his face with blood. Then his body began a bizarre, tremor-fueled dance, and his feet pointed and flexed, the shoes torn free in the crash. "I can't see, Freddy...Jesus Christ, I can't see! Oh, they're gonna fuckin kill us, man..." and then he was gone without another word.

There was no sound save the creaking of the plane and the steady drip of water. Frederick swung around to a sitting position and closed his eyes until his head stopped spinning. He tasted blood but that was probably just the busted lip. Everything was blurred and numb. He sat up on the chair back and stared down between his feet.

Paul was dead but his eyes were open, fish-like and glazed as they stared silently into the rain. Frederick searched down into the shadows below and found Samuel, also crumpled up in the lower wreckage. "Jesus," he whispered. Supporting himself on the cabin wall, he reached over and touched Paul. His spirit had fled.

Frederick could not even really remember going down. Where the hell were they? He couldn't recall ever being so distanced from reality, but as he played things through his mind, guilt began its slow, unperturbed entry. Paul dead. What would he tell Jelly? The rain continued to drench his back and the wind was picking up again.

Frederick squinted into the wet darkness below, trying to accommodate the crazy angle. He saw that the fuselage had cracked clean through just behind the rear seats.

The shadows down there must be the muddy jungle floor, and there, amid all the strewn equipment and twisted metal: the duffle bag with the cocaine. Samuel was a part of the piled debris, his top half spilled outside the broken plane. He was not moving.

Frederick gingerly tested the footing on the wet, slanted floor, carefully bracing himself on his chair. But he was still too dizzy and lost it and slid down the tilted surface, his head glancing off a row of cabinets as he went face down into the mess that had piled around the gigantic split in the hull.

When he opened his eyes he found himself face to face with Samuel Franklin, coming honestly by his silence now. Frederick had tumbled out through the crack, and the wet face so close to his own seemed oddly relaxed. The rain kept up its incessant, staccato drumming, louder out here, drowning out everything else.

Frederick coughed and pushed himself up to his knees, a thin rivulet of saliva hanging from his mouth as his hair blew about his face. He pushed off the dead man's chest, the pressure causing a thick gout of blood to well out of the corpse's mouth. He rolled off to the ground gasping and sucking air like a fish slapped down upon a dry dock.

After a while he opened his eyes. Fought to relax his frantic breathing so he could get a bearing on the situation.

Paul's words slowly took form in his mind.

Something about shots and a helicopter. But Frederick had thought lightning. He began piecing the puzzle together. Lightning? Probably not; He'd been struck before (again, in 'Nam) but it had been nothing like what he'd just experienced. Too many different noises, the rending of metal even before they met the tree line. And (thinking back much harder now that the rain had begun to beat some of the fogginess out of him) something had happened right before the flash. He couldn't swear to it, but thinking back... He couldn't remember, couldn't fix it right in his head.

He clenched his teeth and kicked his way out of the hole in the plane. Time was an immediate, pressing concern. He thought back on the fucks who'd sold them the cocaine. Paul had been uneasy the whole time too.

He pushed himself to his feet and leaned on a nearby tree for support. The rain continued to come down in pouring sheets, its intensity cut only by the monstrously thick foliage that hung densely around the crash site. He wondered how the plane had even managed to reach the jungle floor. He stood there like that for several moments with his head bowed and eyes shut, trying to regain his balance. He breathed in deeply and turned so that he could rest his back against the smooth, wet bark of the tree. A few minutes rest couldn't be that bad...

Get moving.

It was the voice from Vietnam, coming back after its long sojourn in silence. Not his own voice, but even so the one he remembered. Deep, husky. Almost like a woman's though very old. Characteristically urgent.

Just like in the village.

He opened his eyes suddenly, shaking the ghost voice to a safe distance in his head. There was no need to go begging trouble, not now when he was just beginning to feel human again. The ruined plane rested no more than ten feet away, wrapped in vines. Dents and a deep, jungle-green plastered the whole body, the rear end cocked and hanging limply like the broken tail of a mangy dog. Looking back that way Frederick could just make out the path they'd cut through the treetops. As far as he could see trees were sheared off at varying heights. The smell of gasoline and sap hung in the downpour as thick as a coterie of thieves hunched around a sprung safe.

He was lucky to be alive.

The Cherokee's cockpit had come to its lopsided final resting place wedged in between two large trees that Frederick was thankful had not tested the strength of the plane's seams. He beat his way through the foliage toward the front, where the cabin was hoisted above the ground. He wanted to get around to the other side. There were questions that had to be answered.

The angle of the front section of the broken fuselage was such that Frederick had to hunker down to pass underneath. Vines were thick here and pressed up tight against the trees, bound up in many tangles, but he fought through to the other side. It didn't take him long to find what he was looking for. Large bullet holes pock-marked the passenger side of the Cherokee, a tightly-fanned pattern of fifteen to twenty separate holes. There was only a stump of the wing left but it also bore evidence of gunfire.

"Goddammit," he whispered. "A fucking double-cross!" But it didn't make sense. They could have gotten them earlier, and even though they hadn't, of course they wouldn't let the cocaine go to ruin out here in the jungle. Not if they could help it. But it still didn't make sense. Yeah, maybe the weather fucked up their plans, but why pull a stunt like that in a fucking helicopter, in weather like this? It seemed pointless. But who was to know?

Maybe they'd wait until the weather died down, perhaps they'd put down at the airstrip and hike back, or maybe they'd just find another suitable spot to put down close by, but it was a given they'd be back. Whether what had happened was retribution on the Franklins for something or other or not, nobody left this much cocaine lying around. Not if they could help it. Frederick squinted in the gloom and checked his watch. Almost twenty till six.

Had he been out that long?

Suddenly, every sound in the jungle was the warning approach of booted feet, every drumming thud of rain against the cooling side of the Cherokee a short intake of breath from one of the murderous drug dealers. Frederick clinched his fists tight and gave a vigorous shake of his head.

Get the fuck out.

There was nothing left here, nothing he could do for anybody. Dead was dead. He groped his way through the tangled vines to the wide split on the side of the fuselage and crawled into the darkness. He fished his lighter out of his breast pocket and sparked it to life. Waving shadows leapt among the crunched interior. He dug through the pile of junk in front of him, knocking things carelessly out of the way with one hand while he steadied the flame with the other.

Where the fuck was his green bag?

There, right there. Upside down against the crumpled cabinet, not far from Samuel's booted foot. The lighter burned him just as his hands closed around the strap, and he cursed savagely, giving the duffle bag a tug. Water had pooled like blood around his stomach by the time he found the zipper in the darkness. His hand was wet and there was no way his was getting the lighter to work now. He ripped the zipper back and thrust his hand inside.

He clicked the switch on the side of the flashlight and a white glow lit up the inside of the bag. He breathed a sigh of relief. Pulled the flashlight free from a tangle of clothing and immediately flashed it around the cabin. Paul's head was visible above the seat's crest. "Sorry partner," he said.

It wasn't long before he found the other duffle with the cocaine. He couldn't take all of it, but since he didn't have much cash and might need bargaining power, the cocaine would have to do. Too bad it was only worth a fraction here what it'd be worth in New Orleans. But it might well be worth the price of his life.

He pulled his knife loose from his belt and cut into the tightly wrapped package. Within minutes he'd cut entirely around the vacuum-seal and the cocaine lay exposed, roughly cut into two equal parts. He took a healthy pinch and held it to his nostrils, breathed in deeply, twice. It wasn't his usual practice, but drastic times called for drastic measures. He needed to get as far away as possible from the wreckage; the drug runners already had a hell of a jump start most probably. And they'd kill him for sure if they caught him.

The only thing he had going in his favor was the fact that the boys who'd downed the plane probably figured he was dead.

He wrapped the half-key tightly inside a poncho and stuffed it into the depths of the green, water-proof bag. Then he squirmed out through the broken fuselage. His mind raced from the coke and he fought to steady himself against the side of the plane.

He rummaged around in his pocket, searching for the compass. Found it and pulled it free. He situated the bag firmly across his shoulders, then stepped away from the plane, making his way around the right side of one of the trees. He shook his head and grimaced.

"Just like fucking 'Nam," he said miserably, checking the compass before trudging in an arduous northwest direction.

Chapter 12: Jungle Night

As Frederick left the crash site the night gradually came down. The tropical storm, although moving off to the west, left massive cloud banks ripening to drop their loads, but for a while the rain held off. Slowly, forms began to struggle softly in the drenched soil, monkey tirades struck up high in the tree tops and huge, glistening constrictors played out their coils in anticipation of the hunt.

Unknown legions began to prowl and creep along the jungle's back, called to action by the slivered moon that just barely managed to break through the racing clouds. It prodded snails out of their musky holes. A faint 'chee-chee-chee' sounded in the rain, thrown about randomly by the uneasy winds, but originating in a freshly skimmed puddle overhung with deeply-veined fronds splayed across the black water. Tiny bodies writhed in its depths, poisonous Kokoa frogs deadly enough to instigate paralysis, convulsions, and agonizing death in a matter of minutes. Above the teaming water dozens of flies skirted about frantically. Huge paramos worms, thick and long as desert rattlesnakes, burrowed in the hardwood forests' grasslands, sucking up nutrients from the spongy soil along the slopes. And then there were the Indians, the Cholo, a deathly subdued tribe now sitting around their soggy village encampment chewing on hallucinatory roots. The legendary sapo de loma, or toad of the hills, snapped out of its hiding place to devour a snoozing parrot in one vile-mouthed bite.

The jungle hummed with the heat of blood.

A roving band of army ants poured along the floor and up and around the trees. A tiny tree sloth fell easy victim as part of the silent procession encircled it and set in. The rest continued on.

They bore on through the dark night, their multitudinous legs moving in perfect synchronicity across the jungle waste while the fragmented moon winked down from above.

Nearing the battered Cherokee (the moonlight a mere whisper on the dented and broken hull), they came on quicker, an insatiable hunger driving them on. A fury of energy passed through their collective mass as they poured into the ragged clearing the plane had broken into the jungle, and they began branching out, scouring the area, leaving no crease unchecked.

Hours ticked by.

And their domain was complete. Thousands crept slowly among the scattered wreckage, pilfering out every available morsel. A chewed potato chips bag ebbed and flowed with arriving and departing bodies. The smell of drying blood also hurried them along, and they entered the wreckage, engulfing the broken fuselage where Paul Fontaino's rigor-mortised body tightened in darkness.

Outside the rain eased, leaving a heavy fog draped in the trees. An unfortunate milieu of ants chewed into a battery casing, attempting to satisfy themselves on the acidic poison.

Near Samuel Franklin's still body nothing moved. A clear perimeter defined itself around the corpse with only a thin trail of mysteriously-drawn ants venturing in a line up one swelling arm to the chest. This line continued to Samuel's rain-pooled eyes before setting to work.

And as the moon climbed higher into the troubled night, the dead fingers on the corpse's left hand slowly began to coalesce into a fist.

Underneath a huge acacia tree, Frederick laid down in the small nest he'd made. Rough calculations figured he'd trekked close to four miles from the crash site, allowing himself forty-five minutes for every mile. Whether this would be far enough only time would tell, but he could go no farther. And of course he could not start a fire.

Worry had him in a vice. Vietnam was years in the past, but right now, it seemed to be staring him directly in the eye. The wet night and flitting shadows brought back all the old ghosts, happy to breathe their putrid breath again after festering so long in oblivion. He could almost hear the familiar wind-whipping scream of the rotors; the crouching human shadows seemingly huddled under every bush; small footprints helter skelter in rice paddies, tiny bodies; and the strung tripwires of booby traps lying spider-like and lethal on the jungle floor.

Because in the dark all jungles were the same. Whatever horrors one could hold, any of the others could just as well.

In a half-dream the village drifted slowly into being. Most had been virtually identical. The thatched huts lining paths where skinny pigs and chickens ran amok; the tiny, seemingly fragile people, many snaggle-toothed and pleading in their rapid fire dialect for the newcomers to leave...to just go. All this had gotten to be pretty damn familiar.

But that one village had been different.

They'd thought they'd been close to Charley, virtually nipping at his heels as they hot-footed through the jungle in pursuit. Frederick recalled running amid shouts and curses, but when the platoon had finally broken through the brush, spilling out into a clearing which skirted the village, the burning had already been well underway. And thinking back (it was so hard to be sure, now; he'd fought it for years), perhaps it had been the burning itself that initiated the wild rampage through the undergrowth. The roar of the burn.

When he'd broken free from the jungle most of the huts were already on fire. At first they'd thought the villagers had set the fires themselves to keep their grain stores and Communist ammunition out of American hands, but it didn't take long for that hypothesis to change.

The pile of burning children had changed all that.

That and the charnel smell billowing up into the sky. Charley had been there all right, and not long before, killing the village of South Vietnamese peasants like dogs in the attempt to stop the pursuing American G.I.'s. And he also remembered thinking, Christ, they're doing this to their own people! He'd walked down the dusty, narrow row looking at the dead, black and smoking. Farmers, wives, children. The smoke curled everywhere.

But even that had not been the worst. Several huts had not been engulfed. He'd looked inside the one near the end of the row partly out of curiosity, merely poking his nose inside to discover why it still stood. The first glance made it clear the hut was, in fact, on fire, only this one burned from the back where the thatched roof was just catching. The entrance-flap had been ripped away and everything inside was smashed to pieces. A severed foot lay nearby on the sandy floor and when Frederick looked inside he'd seen the little girl.

She'd been naked, defenseless.

Grimed and hysterical, rocking back and forth, holding something in her lap, all the while jabbering rapidly in Vietnamese. It hadn't taken him long to figure out what she had. Long white hair hung from the head and there was blood everywhere. The little girl swayed in her frantic litany until he could bear to look no more.

Frederick jerked awake with a sickening start, his body rigid. "Oh my God," he prayed into the hot jungle darkness. He could feel things creeping up on him even now, small naked children carrying heads, mouthing unintelligible words as they inched ever closer. He had the 9mm in his hand before he realized it and almost pulled the trigger, only managing to hold back at the last possible moment. His breath came fast and hard.

He sat there a long while, lost in this terrible shadow of human darkness, minutes and seconds meaningless. But finally his heart did slow and he found himself in better control. He cradled his head in his hands. What had happened to the little girl? He shook his head; it was no use. It was gone, racing back to its filthy hiding place where it would wait again until Frederick thought it no longer existed. Then it would raise its severed head again.

He sat quietly, unmoving. The moon had come full into the trees, the quietest hour before the dawn. He checked his watch and found it was 5:37. The sun would be up soon, and even with the clouds it would be better. Looking up through the tree tops he couldn't make out any stars; the clouds must still be thick overhead, and that would undoubtedly mean more rain. He already knew the annual Colombian rainfall to be astronomical. And on top of that of course, there was always the usual hot and muggy. He figured he wouldn't be fully dry again until he set foot in Thibodaux, and that could very well turn out to be a crap-shoot.

The shadows began condensing down into sharper outlines, forming around clustered groups of trees and vines, the dripping rocks that were pressed into the ground. The night was finally done. "Okay," he whispered. He stumbled to his feet and walked a short distance away from the uncomfortable, bullshit campsite. Pissed long and hard, the steam rising up with a biting, acrid aroma so much that he had to turn his head. Then he backed away and shook the tightness from his limbs. No doubt, it was getting lighter.

And he was hungry as hell.

He tried to think about the last thing he'd eaten. His legs cramped and there was a terrible pulling in his back. His neck felt like a wrestler had used it to practice holds on.

He walked back to the campsite and gathered everything together. Sore, hungry or not, he had to move or something would have him for dinner and his scattered bones would lay out in the desolation of the Colombian jungles. He couldn't be sure if the drug-runners would try to track him, or just leave him to his own devices, but he had to assume the worst. Better paranoid and safe than unsuspecting and dead. There were two back at the plane right now who were doing a lot worse than him.

He sighed harshly, shouldering the pack. "Always fucking something," he said.

Chapter 13: In Other Places

Lincoln groaned and rolled over in bed himself, only half-surprised when he bumped into someone there. He remembered the casino and being on a roll at the poker table; the rest was something wading through a foggy dream. He twisted his head around and readjusted the rest of his body, in the meanwhile catching sight of a thick tuft of short black hair resting on the pillow beside him. When he pulled the covers back, the naked figure lying beside him was obviously young, nude, and very much male.

It didn't come as much of a surprise.

The last couple of years had been strange. Not that he'd ever liked to be around people in general, but even his reluctance to see people he'd known well for years had begun to steer him in continuously unaccustomed directions.

He pulled the covers back across the stranger's shoulders and shifted his attention so he could examine himself. Sure enough...buck naked too. A familiar savage intuition crept out from its hiding place, and he quickly swung his feet to the floor, shivering violently. Christ, the room was an icehouse! He looked around, scanning the disheveled room; clothing was everywhere, across the bureau and trailing from the sink. A shirt hung limp from the lampshade where the bulb still burned weakly as if gasping for breath. An empty fifth of Jack Daniels sat amid a pile of cigarette butts and cheap, plastic motel glasses. In the corner appeared to be the remains of a champagne bottle. He glanced over his shoulder for another peek.

Where the fuck did he get this guy?

"Fuck me," he mumbled dryly. He licked his lips and craned his neck so he could see his face in the bureau mirror. Hell looked no worse.

He stood up, suddenly ridiculously self-conscious, and briskly hunted down his underwear. He eventually found them underneath the table, right next to another, thinner pair. As he moved, images began to filter back of the kid bent across the table. And him coming on from behind. He knew he was crazy, but the damnedest thing about it was he couldn't remember how this one had got going. Any guess was a good one.

He noticed the sun was hard against the heavy, tightly-drawn curtains, and the poker table suddenly popped back into his head. "Where the hell is my wallet?" he said. He pilfered through the melee until he saw his pant leg lying soaked in the doorway to the bathroom. He snatched them off the floor and soon found the small bulge of his wallet. He pulled it out and opened it.

He was amazed at the thin sheaf of bills within. "Sonofabitch," he muttered, rubbing a hand across his face as tried to remember something, anything, that would shed light on this business. He'd been up several hundred dollars, he remembered that much, and now this?

"Fuck," he said, not so quietly this time. He stared at the sleeping figure snoring peacefully. Checked his watch. Ten minutes to ten. He briefly entertained the thought of beating the shit out whoever it was in the bed but didn't feel he had the energy. Then, without another thought, he crossed the room and went into the shower.

He thought he heard the motel door shut as he turned off the water. He'd left the bathroom door cracked and wasn't sure if he was pissed or relieved. So he stood there, both hands on the knobs while he listened, straining. He decided to hope 'Whoever' had gone. He got out of the shower and toweled off, glad he couldn't see himself very well in the fogged mirror. Even though cold air rifled into the room from the cracked door, the water had been hot enough to leave a mark. He pressed the door back, and when he looked into the room the bed was indeed empty. The covers were thrown back as if in haste and the room was a few articles of clothing short.

Lincoln threw the towel down and walked over to the bed, naked but comfortable now. His pants were right where he'd left them, and as he sat down he slowly pulled them on, cursing himself like a dog. He felt like railing at the walls but didn't. A maniac learned discretion, if that maniac wanted to stay out of jail. He went to the window and drew the curtains back, holding up his hand briefly against the glare.

Oh yeah, the Ramada. The view was legendary to him now since gambling had come to Mississippi: the long, soothingly-green slope to the Mississippi River with the bridge crossing at eye level. The water was angry today, random twirling circles of undercurrent surfacing here and there as if searching prey.

Lincoln smiled down at the day, even though his face scarcely registered the emotion. His features were too riddled, broken by years of abuse. Hard times had claimed him. He paused, thinking. He pulled the chord so the curtains clapped back together.

He surveyed the digs, shaking his head. How the hell did he keep himself together going from nook to crook like this? Together? a tiny voice asked. Do you figure sticking your dong up another man's ass is together? Again, he wiped a sweaty hand across his dry lips, tasting the salt and the whiskey. It fairly oozed from his pores. He could still smell it, by God, and there wasn't a drop to drink in the whole goddamn room.

Suddenly, he remembered his car. If it wasn't parked outside he was in a world of shit. "You're gonna burn in hell, motherfucker," he admitted. Then, gazing down on all that green, with the way the river rounded the curve just so, it came.

The fucking Gook village...

He'd met Frederick Paol in 'Nam and they'd struck up a friendship solely from circumstance. They were frequently under fire and each man bore the strain with a savage personal rage. But as time went on Lincoln knew here was a man solid to the core...until that day at the Gook village.

He remembered they'd come in chasing some fucking nonsense and it really hadn't been much to speak of. Just another burning rice-eaters' village. But then he'd seen the bodies; all the children heaped on the fire, the awful smell that hung as thick as wet leather in the air, then the shouts and gun fire. But for some mysterious reason, some weird stroke of the universe, Frederick Paol had been the only thing on his mind. Perhaps it'd been the shock of the situation, he still didn't know. But he'd followed the man silently as they both stalked through the smoky pathways.

Lincoln knew that Frederick had not seen him that day.

He'd watched, mesmerized, as Frederick entered the thatched hut as fire ate the roof. And he'd seen the tiny girl, crying on the floor, cradling the old woman's head.

First, there'd been only utter silence, and then a wild rush of noise when Frederick began shouting profanity into the hut. And before Lincoln could blink twice, the little girl went flying away in a spray of blood and bone, the old woman's head she'd been cradling rolling off in the dust. When the burst of gun fire subsided Lincoln had grabbed Frederick, pulling with everything he had to get the man out of the hut. And moments later when he had Frederick sprawled flat on his back, he knew Frederick didn't register him at all.

Goose bumps rose along Lincoln's arms in the stillness of the empty motel room. He squeezed his eyes shut and breathed out a loud burst of air. Of all the people in the world to start thinking about, why the fuck did it have to be Frederick Paol?

He put on his shirt, thinking. Even so, it was weird that Frederick was about the only one he'd kept in touch with since 'Nam. They possessed a sort of brotherhood.

And the last time they'd spoken, Frederick had talked about bringing that goddamn Franklin on the run. Totally out of character, just like the episode at the Gook village.

But since the talk there'd been a plague of sorts set against him in his dreams. As if he didn't have enough shit to worry about. And of course, right about then his own mysterious inner voice spoke up asking whether it was unsettling enough to take another man to bed with him. He crooked his mouth into a scowl and checked his watch for the second time.

11:17.

Check-out was noon. He began rummaging around for anything in danger of being left behind.

William Franklin sat outside by his octagon-shaped swimming pool, sipping on a gin martini even though it was not yet noon. Usually, morning drinking was not his thing, but not today. Thoughts of Samuel were working deep in his mind. There had been no word at home or the warehouse, and even though they were not due in until sometime tonight, he couldn't help but feel a pall of shifting doom pressing down upon him. The tropical storm had him worried (even though the course had changed), but it wasn't the foremost concern on his mind. There were other darker things that raised their heads. He flexed his fingers and reached for the cigarettes. From where he sat on the deck, he was high enough above his retaining wall to look out across the distance that bordered his private lot, across the wide park boulevard and concrete levee that waded down into Lake Ponchartrain. There were several skiffs meandering around out there and he tried to relax watching them. But it was no use. This tension had his muscles in knots, and the martini did little to smooth them out.

He took another sip of his drink and rubbed a hand across his lips. Clenched his teeth.

He should not have let Samuel go. He knew that now, but he'd felt his hands were tied. The Old Man had been expected (had in fact shown up yesterday) to pay his bi-monthly trip to the warehouse to peer through the books. Inside, William knew why he'd not interfered with Samuel's urge to go on the run. It was best to keep the two separated.

But he should have done something! But what? He hadn't wanted the Old Man close to Samuel because it was clear he was having one of his 'spells.' The Old Man would have noticed the unmistakable signs in Samuel's eyes and it would have only caused more trouble. He was getting old, sicker by the day, and William felt it was his duty to steer away potential storms. The Old Man's political ties were invaluable, so by Samuel being out of the way it had proved easier, but William had noticed the way his father looked around, only questioning Samuel's whereabouts briefly.

'In Alexandria on business,' William had told him, but the Old Man hadn't been fooled. He was still filed sharp, honed down by his ruthlessness. There was too much of the same sickness that haunted the depths of his youngest son's soul for him not to notice something.

William scratched the top of his head and checked his watch again. A minute before noon. He looked into the glass as if making up his mind whether to go on and then polished it off with a swallow.

He should have tried, anyway goddammit! It was all very clear to him now but it meant nothing in hindsight. Regardless...he had to admit the truth: it was easier when Samuel was out of the picture. William could feel the many monsters lurking beneath the thin, veneer-mask of his brother's face. The past two weeks had been hell, although he'd tried not to let on. William needed the shipment to please the bunch in Algiers, and Samuel's constant presence put added pressure on him. A downswing was inevitable; the increased silence, lonely brooding. Nothing could stop it, only money could slow it down, but there would come a day when nothing would help...

Maybe subconsciously he applauded Samuel's decision; the washing relief halting any aversions William had felt about Samuel going on the run; better to let someone else contend with him. Fuck it. Yes, of course, but what was the saying about a brother's keeper? Well, fuck that too.

Nervously, he checked the watch again. Another couple of minutes had rolled past. It was finally the afternoon and he had the hope the second martini would go down easier than the first.

He took the wet glass from its spot on the lawn table, and shook out the final drops, spotting the whitewashed concrete. The drops reminded him of blood, and he stood up, skirting the side of the swimming pool and walking around to the sliding-glass door. The nineteenth-century English bar waited against a back wall and he pulled the well-oiled and balanced door back easily. Inside, the tiles were cool on his feet and he actually eased a little as he ran his hand along the deep, mahogany wood when he got to the bar. He'd had the whole ensemble imported from England five years ago from some arsonist-struck pub on the outskirts of London. And even though it had taken special pains and an incredible amount of money, he felt it had been worth it.

He leaned over to peruse his cashe of liquor. A minute, throbbing had begun behind his left eye. He reached over past the Tangeray for the Absolute. This time a mere splash of Vermouth would suffice. He speared three Anchovy-stuffed olives with a tooth-pick and plunked them down into the swirling depths of his drink.

He tasted it delicately, found the vodka did go down easier than the gin. He decided a little music and indoor lounging would probably take off the sour edge he was experiencing, so, leaving the drink on its coaster at the bar, he walked back to the sliding-glass door and pushed it shut.

In the private room where Sarah Franklin was expensively incarcerated it was grave dark. In the uncertain times when she breached the wall of her catatonia she would scream if even the tiniest crack of light issued through the thick, blacked-out glass. If nothing was done it would drive her to apoplexy. Early on, when these fits had been much more frequent, the administration had telephoned William Sr. about these strange, inexplicable bouts of lunacy, and he'd told them to buy a gallon of the blackest paint possible and to lay it on the windows, thick. 'The way she'd had it at home,' he'd told them, his voice icy and distant over the line.

For the last twelve years, Sarah Franklin had been institutionalized here at this private facility five miles outside Alexandria in central Louisiana. The important staff knew she was not the only member of the Franklin clan to be classified mentally unstable. Her son had done time in the Mississippi State Hospital in Jackson under similarly suspicious circumstances, and the doctors who'd had the authority to examine both case files noticed a propensity in both for extended periods of silence, punctuated by terrible fits violent. Always grotesque and sexual. Unpredictable. But on top of this terror, Sarah Franklin bred a bloody malevolence deep behind her vacant, staring eyes. And even though state records concerning Samuel Franklin read that he'd been able to break the cycle, most of the workers in Pineville were glad they didn't live in New Orleans.

It was almost six o'clock and Rebecca Dennis, the ward nurse, was staring at a magazine she wasn't reading and thinking about the woman down the hall. She'd made her rounds no more than thirty minutes before and could not seem to find the necessary distance to get back to the magazine. She was thinking about the slot, the one cut into Sarah Franklin's door and worked with a little, metal handle. When opening this device the hall lights had to be turned off or the awful wailing would start, rising and falling for hours before gradually dying down to discordant grunts.

There was a black light anchored to the wall in what she thought of as the creature's den. It shed a little light when you had to enter. But only a little.

When Rebecca had checked last, the old bitch had been all right, unfortunately. Just staring away into nothing through the blacked-in window.

The memory brought a chill to her spine. She had a brother living in New Mexico who happened to be a Baptist preacher. He'd come to believe, many years back, that his destiny lie in selling his modest home in Atlanta, and giving up a pastor-ship of eleven years to rove about in the desert wastes, providing missionary work in the Indian reservations. Drenched in alcohol, depression and contempt, they made hard targets for Christ, but John had felt it his duty. Shortly after reaching his destination five years before he'd called Rebecca in the middle of the night, his voice hoarse and fevered.

'There are spirits here,' he'd told her in a husky whisper. 'The Navajo have a spirit they call a Skinwalker, some sort of demon or ghost, that's supposed to terrorize people in the desert at night. It's not a new creation, but the terrible thing about it, and I swear this to you Becky, coming home from the store tonight in my pick-up, something kept pace with me alongside the highway. Something vaguely human running on two legs with eyes as red as cherries...'

Within the hospital's sterile white walls Rebecca picked at the memory, the hairs prickling along her arms as John's voice came back fresh over the space of time. It seemed to start at her spine and radiate slowly outwards like a malignancy. She'd never forgotten the shaking voice on the other end of the line, or of the hour or trepidation as her brother poured his fear across the miles.

She felt a sudden urge to go to the bathroom. Smoking was not allowed in the hospital, but many of them got away with it behind stall doors. She felt in her coat's shallow pocket, relieved to find she'd not left the pack of cigarettes in her car when she'd clocked in that day. She really shouldn't leave the desk unattended but with the memory pressing close against her... Why, she could still see in her mind's eye the vague form keeping perfect time with her brother's pick-up, rushing through the night. She saw the cloven hooves kicking up the dark, desert sand as the still chest kept no rhythm with the wildly running legs, only eyes that burned endlessly sideways, peering into the cab of the truck--

Yeah, she'd have that cigarette.

Because she knew what had brought on the memory. It was that goddamn woman. No one else in the whole damn place made her feel like the witch down the hall did, so thank God she didn't have to attend her very often. Just a quick peek every once in a while. Rebecca had only seen the woman's husband come to visit once, and was glad of it. His spookiness had not been as pronounced as his demented wife's, but it was there; seeming to breathe far down in his bones and leak out when people were least expecting. His eyes had an edge of madness to them (like the Skinwalker's, she imagined), and she was glad she'd never had to change the bed sheets or any worse thing in his sick wife's den. Rebecca felt sure the whole damn bunch of them would be gladly welcomed into the deepest pit of Hell, and she secretly wished that the inevitable would speed itself along.

She went around the counter and walked swiftly down the corridor to the Women's bathroom. Nurse Cutrer was on duty somewhere in the hospital and would probably make her rounds soon, but to Rebecca at this juncture, that fact was not enough to keep her from the stall. She needed a cigarette and she needed it now. If she caught hell while avoiding Hell, well then, that was just something she'd have to take. Her fingers itched nervously for the sweet relief of the nicotine as she opened the bathroom door and slipped inside.

Chapter 14: Back in the Jungle

During the same morning and afternoon that Lincoln and William sat thinking over the problems that afflicted them, and the nurse, Rebecca Jaritson, contemplated her nervous hatred for the accursed woman on her ward, the Colombian drug runners made their way to the downed Cherokee amid drizzling rain and blood-thirsty mosquitoes. They were all heavily armed and cursed beneath their breaths at their ill fortune for not downing the plane in a more hospitable location.

When the sweating group finally broke onto the ragged path the Cherokee had broken into the jungle, they proceeded steadily closer to the broken fuselage. They came together there, clutching their rifles tighter. All of them, that is, except Santo who walked on confidently as if actually enjoying this outing. His rifle was slung over his back and his pistol bounced ostentatiously against his thigh as he made his way forward.

The plane was a wet shadow huddled against two gigantic, scarred trees in the bleak light, and as they approached, something hunched and black-coated lit out with amazing agility, disappearing in a rush of torn foliage. Santo's finger flicked out, motioning half his men to fan out to one side while he and the rest continued to investigate the one closest to them.

The crash site had an air of unreality with the thick fog condensing on the mangled hull. Thick rivulets of dew ran down every seam and crack in what had been a sleek, expensive, American-designed twin engine. Now it was nothing more than a rodents' sanctuary.

The party scanned the perimeter carefully, mindful of the scattered wreckage, but saw nothing of any real value laying strewn by the wayside. Once the perimeter was exhausted the search continued inward, more carefully and slowly now, with drawn weapons, through the massive fissure in the fuselage to the pressing darkness within. They found the cocaine that Frederick had left behind, and with a little more investigation they saw the hand, and climbing nearer, the rigor-mortised, and picked-at body of Paul stiffened and chewed by ants or perhaps the black form that'd torn away at their approach.

It was then, too, that the ants came on. Instantaneously every man began jumping around, slapping themselves, flailing at the demons that were suddenly attacking. The ones inside managed to barrel out through the crack, only to find the others similarly compromised, and fought their way back until they were a good fifty feet from the broken wreak, still slapping at their clothes and exposed skin. They retreated farther yet amid the onslaught. Only then did they begin to understand the immensity of their tiny enemy, and their own precarious position.

The limbs overhead were thick with a multitude of ticking bodies. Everywhere the sun glinted off pinprick movement, throwing a reddish glare about the entire area. The trampled grass they'd come through breathed with the steady crawling of the thousands; even now they covered the fuselage as the men stared wide-eyed and wondered how they'd overlooked them in the first place. Some prayed for their souls, crossing themselves as they gathered around Santo.

But he, seemingly, remained unconcerned. They resumed their sweep, more cautious this time, making sure the rest of the cocaine was not somehow miraculously within reach. Ants or not, money was money. And they desperately needed to find it. But they didn't and knew the ants would eat them alive if they went back inside.

Santo held up a finger equal to the stature of his long, thin body and paused a moment as if to calculate their position. He knew the men wanted to get as far away from the airplane as possible, however... He turned his finger to each of them so they could be sure. "Ono," he said. Three of the men had seen Paul's body, stiffening in the chair, but there had been no one else. Just the fucking ants. The ants that had seemed to appear out of the air itself.

Santo motioned for the cocaine they had found and Pita handed it over. Santo examined the cut in the packaging carefully, seemingly oblivious to the swarming ants venturing ever closer as the nervous Colombian's bounced about from foot to foot. It was suddenly all very clear: at least two of the bastards had been alive after the plane went down, and it seemed that at least one of them had been in good enough condition to pack up and leave with half a key. He thought about going back to the plane, but the constant, almost imperceptible crunching that surrounded them was impossible to ignore. The army ants were in a frenzy and it would take an act of God Himself to remove them from the plane. And fire was out of the question.

Santo made the only decision he thought valid. He waved his hand over his head in a signal to move out, pointing in a direction well clear of the ravaged path of the ants. Then he stalked off without uttering another word.

They'd taken all they could from the plane.

What moved now beneath the jungle canopy could hardly be considered human. It did look human, but that was the only comparison left between it and the living. When Samuel Franklin died, after that awful moment when the plane dove into the trees and his hands had ripped holes the size of baseballs in the pilot chair's backing, the old magic had taken over.

Something had come fully into being that had been engraved in his tortured soul by his mother, fawned over darkly on those endless, rainy days when the Old Man had been away at the warehouse with little Willy in toe. Because you see, Samuel had always been the Mamma's boy, and from years back the Mamma had nursed a deeply black penchant for sorcery. And in that she was not alone. Her great aunt, nine generations removed, had been burned at the stake in the late 1600s for pickling children in vinegar in the depths of her cellar. And she was not the only one.

Sarah Franklin had insisted the boys be brought up Catholic because she'd liked the idea of the oldest Christian religion pitted against the depths of her own black soul. When Samuel had taken her own strange Eucharist, alone one afternoon in training pants, the silver chalice had contained blood, purposefully that from a swine she'd carefully squeezed out of a pork roast the day before. Other times it had been hers or occasionally his, drawn neatly with a filed-down knitting needle amid endless incantations. In the evenings she'd sometimes ducked the strange looks from her husband and the questions of the band-aides, but he'd never taken it further. Had dared not.

The ants had been about their work on Samuel's eyes, chewing crusty holes into the depths of his head. Even now a resilient few worked deeper into the rotting mass of the thing's brain, as if searching for some mysterious essence only they could fathom.

The monster's gait was heavy but relentless. A shoe had become stuck underneath a root several miles back, had been thoughtlessly wrenched free, the laces still tied tightly around the swollen flesh as the shoe peeled back with a sickening ease, spilling chunks of matted blood upon the ground in long, stringing trails.

There was a mechanical method about the figure. Out of the pores beneath the filthy clothing (still thick with wads of ants which clung, tenaciously chewing) welled thick, clotted droplets of filth and blood which ran slowly in the dense humidity. Some of it ranged down the exposed arms, around which tattered sleeves dangled, and congealed there in rivulets of stinking death. The jaw of the monster hung loose, the mouth crammed with a lolling tongue, swollen and black. The cheek bones were cut like glass into the slack face.

A python less than four hundred feet behind the slow-moving monstrosity had opened its reptilian eyes a short time before and played out its tongue to the surroundings. It had not eaten in two months and had made its slow, laborious way into the lower branches of the deciduous tree, coiling its massive thirty foot length loosely around a branch while waiting for the next hapless passer-by. It had become aware of the moving figure in the underbrush, and had shivered along its length in anticipation of the kill. But as its prey got closer the smell had dissuaded it. A rotten, fetid, sticky smell that held no appetite for such a behemoth. And when the figure passed directly underneath it, no more than an eight foot drop to the ground, the python had hung silently and flicked its tongue. It took a long while for the anticipatory shivers to subside.

Other grounded animals steered well away from the Walker. It moved jerkily, flailing at unseen objects in its path, sometimes farting huge gouts of gas that lingered behind for minutes after the unholy thing had passed out of sight in the heavy growth. The skin was soon puffed up, stretched to the point of bursting; the pants like sausage skins. But still it continued on.

Frederick splashed through a deep depression, clawing at the mosquitoes clustered at his exposed neck. The sun pressed down like a huge hand. The crystal in his water resistant Pulsar had completely fogged over despite it being rated as a 100 meter dive watch, and the hands were virtually invisible. Maybe it had a minute crack somewhere on the face; he couldn't tell. Each step for the last quarter mile had been an exercise in sucking murk; his feet sinking easily and then having to be ponderously wrenched free, causing excruciating wear on his muscles. The compass was useless as he could find his direction just as easily from the sun. A degree off here or there in this vast wilderness meant next to nothing; the highway he searched out stretched for hundreds of miles and would be virtually impossible to miss. That is, if he could ever find the fucking thing in the first place.

He paused, almost knee-deep in mud, and brushed his shirt sleeve along his brow. The mosquitoes were endless devils. "Motherfuckers," he muttered. Even in 'Nam he'd usually been around others who were just as miserable as he; now there was nothing except the nightmare landscape and the goddamn mosquitoes to battle alone.

He figured it to be around two-thirty--the hottest part of the day. Evidently the tropical storm had drifted out of range during the night because not a drop of rain had fallen all day. Now he was left to bake in the blossoming humidity.

Thick foliage shrouded any ray of sunlight lucky enough to break through the tight canopy, shattering it into minute prisms of shafted light that hung suspended in the air. He trudged on with sucking steps, squinting his eyes in the mediaeval, fixed twilight in search of sound footing.

Just ahead two monstrous trees rose out of the mucky ground, anchored by roots that must have stretched to the very pits of Hell. They were warty and twisted, submerged, as if wresting too with the mud that plagued Frederick, sucking over the tops of his boots and caking between his toes. Alive with parasites. He plodded on.

He slipped on a steep incline and luckily caught hold of a branch that kept him from going face down in two feet of scummy water. He fought with the mud until it grudgingly gave back his boots. The backpack felt full of stones. Grunting, he managed to situate himself on a moderately firm spot and went down in exhaustion against the base of an ancient tree. He breathed in deeply for several moments, feeling the thick air cotton his lungs like a blanket and rasp out through his nose like hot steam escaping a pipe. Finally, he managed to work the backpack from his shoulders. It was damp and muddy from the trek but thankfully everything inside was dry. He was suddenly very glad he'd spent the extra forty bucks for the water-resistant material.

Goddammit! Where were the fucking cigarettes! He began tearing violently through the pack, disregarding the cocaine for the time being. No time to compound his problems. Yet, at least...yes, there. His hand closed around the pack, wrapped safely in the cellophane. Moist cigarettes would have been the final fucking straw. He pulled them free, digging for the lighter in his breast pocket with his other hand. It was only after his first trembling drag of the blessed tobacco that he realized he was crawling with leeches.

A short distance away from the ruined plane, Santo rounded up his men and took stock of their provisions. After carefully questioning the scratching, disgruntled men he sat down and thought about the men he was after. Whether they were injured, wandered off and died, or were still making tracks, he didn't know, but he was certain that at least one of them had been well enough to make off with a half-key. After a time he nodded and called out two from his party to go back to the helicopter with the cocaine they did have. Manuelo Poince would be waiting at the airstrip, but going back was not an option for himself. Two men and a shitload of cocaine were still unaccounted for. And what galled him the most, that smiling fuck, Manuelo, would be at home tonight. Again. Well, it couldn't be helped. Shit runs downhill in every language.

A short time later, as the men wound their way through the jungle, Santo ducked his head and cursed silently, the truth of his cur-dog status oh too obvious in his mind; he was only allowed to bark and growl as far as the Master's chain extended, and he knew it. He bit into this thought savagely and barked out his own orders loudly.

As if taking special pains to light the cigarette he held in his callused hand, Santo dragged deeply. He hawked up a wad of phlegm before he began laying out directions.

They would break up into four units positioned throughout the jungle by set compass degrees describing a fan shape, as this was the best he could fashion with such a small coterie. Santo was in a foul mood and didn't have to elaborate much to his less-than-eager party. He started off first, shouting out which frequency to use on the walkie-talkies so that they could come together at nightfall to make camp. He figured they could probably hike no more than a mile or two before the onset of night (the shadows were already beginning their slide) forced them to a halt, although the chances they had of finding the missing drug-runners was close to nil. They'd botched the helicopter incident and now they were committed to this northerly direction because Santo felt assured if anybody had managed to escape with his life or senses, they would break for civilization--the closest being Bogota. The Pan American Highway ran parallel to the direction of their general pursuit angle. Of course, it was still no more than a crapshoot, but Maneulo was involved here; a thorough search was compulsory.

They scaled out, hacking their way into the densely-packed jungle, and while Santo walked, hunched over and pummeling obstacles in his path, he thought about the coming night and the many dangers inherent in their situation.

However, there were also two things that he didn't know and could have in no way foretold; one being they were no more than three miles south of the Walker, and five miles southeast of Frederick Paol; and two, they were less than a mile from a silent band of Cholo warriors out on a hunting expedition.

Strangely, Frederick actually felt the leeches before he saw any. As he brought a hand up to light the cigarette clenched tightly between his teeth, he noticed an odd pulling sensation underneath his shirt sleeve, pressing weirdly against his skin. He didn't stop lighting the cigarette, he only leaned his head into the flame while his mind ran back through the years to the moist, steaming jungles of Vietnam. He closed his eyes and drew heavily on the tobacco, flipped the burnt match into the churned muck in front of him. Then he slowly rolled up his sleeve and held his forearm out so he could get a better look. The curling smoke cascading off the cigarette did little to dispel the adrenaline rush at the sight that greeted him. His exposed forearm was black with shining slugs--all the way from his wrist to his elbow.

"Goddamn," he whispered. He pulled the cigarette from his mouth and began burning the glistening leeches from his arm; he counted five, huge and pulsing on his right forearm. He looked on disgustedly as they tried to curl away from the heat before falling off altogether with small plopping sounds into the mud at his feet. His arm was pock-marked with the y-shaped marks of their narcotic bites, soothed from the anticoagulation agents that flowed through their bodies.

He stuffed the dirty cigarette into a corner of his mouth and rolled back the other sleeve. There were three more smaller and slightly more green-tinted leeches anchored there. He swiftly burned these away as he pushed himself farther out of the mud, scrabbling with his feet to put distance between the infested, stagnated pool he'd just dredged through.

Exasperated, he glanced around for a dry spot. Just over a ridge of knobby roots there was a higher elevation, appearing free (as far as he could tell) of standing water. He shouldered the pack again and made his way over, all the while fighting the feeling of nausea growing in his stomach. With an uncommon stroke of luck he'd no longer come to expect, he found the elevation was much drier here, and he threw the pack down before he began stripping. First his shirt, then his pants and underwear.

He didn't look down until he stood completely naked on the hill with his clothes in a pile on a nearby rock. Then he started his inspection. There were none on his chest or back, but he found over twenty on his legs, and even one on his ass, tucked well back under his balls. He burned them off piteously, and chain-smoked while he went about it, the smoke biting at his eyes as he meticulously pressed the burning tip of his cigarette into their soft, moist, pointed heads.

An old memory of George Geary surfaced as he went about the business, and he felt the bile rise in his throat. The guy had been a dumb, backwoods fuck in Frederick's first platoon, and the agony the man had gone through after crossing a teeming pond filled with leeches had never left Frederick's mind. One had worked its way inside the man's penis and lodged there. When the commanding officer had finally ordered him Medevaced out, his dick had been roughly the size and shape of a grapefruit. The leeches, he had been told, had mouths like fishhooks once they really got wedged in. God only knows what had happened to that poor fuck.

But, thankfully, there had only been one on his ass, Frederick tried to remind himself, attempting to shake off the last of the revulsion. Perhaps the tight-fitting underwear had saved him, only time would tell...or the next piss. He breathed out hard, standing naked in the approaching gloom as he lit another cigarette.

The one called Quimlicu bent carefully in the knee-deep murk, his thick, olive skin gleaming in the few wispy rays of sunlight that were still left. His body was naked save for a grassy thong that hung around his waist. His head had been shaved close to the skull the previous night by one of his women using a sharpened jawbone from a monkey they'd killed years before on any incredibly successful hunt. There were eight more hunters in Quimlicu's party (each dressed and shaved the same out of tradition and respect to the god's of the hunt), and all imbued the creepy silence like that of disease, poised like cattle birds with darting eyes.

The chirping Kokoa frogs were nearby, nestled down among the roots of the ground cover. Their mating time was close, soon to seemingly boil the water when the moon rose along its dark, celestial track. They were hunted because the poisons which could be leeched from their 1 1/4 inch bodies could bring about partial or full paralysis, wild convulsions, and choking death within minutes to anyone or anything unlucky enough to be injected. But the Cholo Indians had been harvesting these essential poisons for hundreds (perhaps thousands) of years and had become provincially immune to the tiny frog's threat by extreme prudence. Just the poison from one of the black, brilliantly yellow-striped frogs could produce enough toxins to coat the tips of fifty or more arrows.

Quimlicu squatted closer to the black water, seeming to test the air with his fingertips, and then in studied contemplation, he put his fingers to his cheek and vibrated them in emulation of the frog's call. A bizarre 'chee-chee-chee' issued expertly from his lips, and then he was silent once more, alert. From the growing shadows came an answer. He reached over and plucked a nearby leaf. Twirled it expertly into a funnel, snaking his hand into the scummy water and drawing out a small dab of mud to plug the bottom end. Then, with a primal lunge, Quimlicu leaped five feet to his left and wrenched the Kokoa frog from its perch a scant inch over the surface of the depressed wallow. In seconds he had a grassy string (pulled from his waist-strap) wrapped around the open end and the deadly frog was safely imprisoned. Quimlicu walked over to the hollowed stump close by and deposited the invaluable bundle with the other eleven already stashed there.

As he turned, he heard a familiar violent splash and the accompanying triumphant grunt from the young Kitcho as the younger warrior made his catch. Quimlicu did not look at his son, but swelled with pride out of sight of the other hunters. He knew the boy would prove a great hunter when his day came.

Quimlicu stood up to his five foot height and clicked his tongue sharply. Fifteen eyes looked over expectantly (Asnop had been struck blind in one eye as a child during a childish war game, but it had done nothing to diminish his skills as a hunter, in fact, seeming to give him an odd inner sense in the process), and he circled his hands quickly for the warriors to gather up their goods so they could move on.

They needed to get the fire burning quickly.

Chapter 15: In The Same Night

The sunset was not much different in Thibodaux, Louisiana than in the steamy Colombian jungles. It blazed out in stoic defiance, burning the edges of land and sea as it sunk away. And in neither place did it offer any comfort.

Jelly, standing at the run-down operations' shack in the humid Louisiana dusk, stared at the empty hanger where Frederick's Cherokee should have been parked and smoked his cigarette. He unconsciously rubbed his hands together and kept glancing over his shoulder toward the road, half-expecting blinking red and blue lights to peel onto the dusty drive from Highway 90.

The brilliant pinkish-red that dissipated into scattered hues of yellow and broken orange appeared to hold his attention as he looked back toward the horizon, but in reality he only saw the empty runway, the grass freshly clipped and delineated between the border land of gently swaying trees, goaded on by the Gulf breeze.

He pitched the butt out in front of him and checked his watch. The day was played out. 7:43. They were now MIA, not far over and no big surprise considering the errand, but officially missing. He'd been chain-smoking behind the mike stand most of the afternoon once he'd chased the damn St. Martien off to his miserable wife. Listening on the radio. Hearing nothing. Jelly breathed out and scratched his cheek. He was glad tonight was Margaret's bridge club gathering; she wouldn't be back until after midnight and that was a good thing.

He flipped another cigarette into a standing position in the hard pack, and walked over to make sure he'd locked the slipshod door to the shack. He pulled hard, twice, grunted in satisfaction. He walked slowly across the dusty lot, his cheap tennis shoes already covered in dirt and deep grass stains, working the while in his pocket for the Blazer keys. He unlocked the door, climbed inside, and cranked the engine. The radio was tuned to KYOS in Houma and the middle, twanging licks of "Don't Take The Girl" played out its country heartache. He turned it down and drove out to the highway, already tasting the drink he'd soon hold in his hand.

Later that night, Lincoln stood alone at the roulette wheel. He'd already come out on top eight straight turns and his happiness was only checked by the thought of the lost sums he'd let slip away because of not betting it all every time. He had a hundred bucks riding EVEN now as his eyes attempted to follow the wildly ricocheting ball around and around. His hands clinched at the table's edge, willing anything with the root of 2. Black 16 punched in with a solid knock and his eyes widened with the thrill of conquest. "Hotdamn!" he spat quietly, pumping his right fist once in the direction of the still-spinning wheel. He tried not to reach for the chips too soon after the dealer laid them down in the rectangle.

Feeling the inner wind of triumph, he pushed the whole sum over to BLACK. At two hundred-twenty up and the free whiskey racing around in his skull, how could he do anything else? He caught a few sideways glances from a group of college boys nickel-and-diming their way to nothing. Young punks, he thought. An older couple had just vacated their spot at the table and he pulled his chair closer.

The dealer, nonchalant as always, sorted and parceled out for several new-comers. He signaled to the players this would be his final spin, as he deftly fueled the wheel with a flick of his cuffed wrist. Immediately, the two college-aged students pushed their ante over to BLACK and Lincoln shot them a look to kill. Simultaneously, he cupped his chips in a moment of studied confidence and moved the whole bundle to double 0.

Green.

Green like money.

Green like envy.

His gaze went rock-hard and he thought for a moment the ball actually hesitated for a moment as he heard the surprise from the platinum blond sitting next to him, already on her fourth cigarette after a mere fifteen minutes.

He wasn't even looking when the ball clanked into place because he was summing her up for later. He knew without looking the play had to go his way due to the stars, the devil, or whatever such thing tugged his dick through life, but a whoop from the college boys brought his head quickly around. His hands began a violent trembling as the elated troupe high-fived and waited for their pittance to be paid out.

Goddamn BLACK 16 again. Impossible.

He choked back his rage and stood up so quickly the chair fell out from beneath him, spilling into the aisle. He never turned around as he left the casino, cursing every living fuck in the joint, mentally, as he went.

Frederick rifled through the backpack in search of his last dwindling carton of cigarettes. Finding the ragged edge of the box, he took it out. He up-ended it, letting the remaining few boxes fall into his hand. Two packs. Forty cigarettes. Motherfucker. He violently threw the empty carton away and stuffed one of the packs safely into the waterproof zipper-pouch inside. The other he mindlessly tore open. "No time like the present," he said, edging his voice with as much sarcasm as he could muster to blunt his stark reality.

Even though the moon was out it was practically invisible above the canopy, and he couldn't be sure if it was the smell of rain in the air or just its fetid, persisting embrace left behind. Things were not good. He pulled a cigarette from the hard-pack and stuck it into the corner of his mouth while he rummaged around in his front shirt pocket for the lighter. He couldn't get it to strike until the fourth try and in the cupping glow of his hands he noticed how pruned his fingers were, as if he'd been soaking in a warm bath for most of a lazy day. He smirked and dragged deeply, careful to only touch the filter so he wouldn't get the tobacco wet.

He leaned back against a tree trunk, cushioned by the thick moss that grew around its base. By the time he chunked the butt away his mind had calmed. But the fucking night was still thick and hot.

"Well, what's the plan?" he said. Jelly would think by now something was wrong but what the hell could he do? On runs like this you were on your own. He wiped away the salty crust of sweat that furrowed his brow.

He needed a plan. If he could get into Bogota, he'd most likely be able to get to a motel and phone Jelly. He could already hear the conversation in the back of his mind, pathetic as it was. "Uh, yeah, Jelly," he'd say. "I've been shot down in the jungle, the plane is toast, I've just walked fucking miles through the goddamn jungle, and right now I'm in a little dick-fuck motel praying the local militia doesn't come and kick the fucking door down for the cocaine I've got in my backpack." But, of course, the pretty comedy would not end there. Not by any means. "Oh, and by the way," he'd continue along. "I also gotta let you know Paul's dead. That's right, dead. And the monster I told you about? One of the guys I was doing the job for? Well, he's roasting his heels in Hell right now too. And when his brother finds out I'll probably be next in line. However," and here was the paycheck part, "Aside from these minor set-backs, everything's just fine. Couldn't be better. I was just wondering, the reason I've called you in fact, if you could wire me enough cash to get the fuck out of Bogota? Realize I really don't want to put you in a spot, but blah...blah...blah."

Yeah, a real fucking comedy, you had to admit.

A real hoot.

He brushed a hand across his face, trying to clear the bastard tsetse flies away. The oppressive, humid-damp wrapped around him closer. He checked his watch after striking the lighter repeatedly and straining his eyes to mark the hands in the fog underneath the glass, even though he already knew it could be no more than twenty minutes since last time.

Well, not bad. Quarter after nine. Almost three whole minutes earlier than he'd expected. He groaned, shook his head to send the flies reeling, and pulled up the mosquito-netting he had bunched up on his lap. He pulled it over his head. Pulled down his hat and stuffed his hands into his pants' pockets. Then he eased back to a semi-reclined position. If he managed to sleep it would be a miracle, but if he didn't his strength would be gone soon. "So go to sleep, motherfucker," he whispered, and lay there with his eyes wide-open.

Just southeast of Frederick, and on an interception course with Santo and his men, Quimlicu squatted around the small fire they'd built. He had noticed the broken branches and narrow trail on the way to the campsite, and figured they would catch up to the chimpanzee group early the following day. Tonight they had to get the arrows ready. But in the back of his mind he had noted the boot marks and adjusted his thinking.

Very carefully Quimlicu peeled back the leaf fragment and stabbed the pointed stick into the moist skin of the Kokoa frog trapped in the funnel. He pulled it free as the frog kicked and held it over the fire. The skin began to glisten as if sheened in sweat. Quimlicu picked up one of the many arrows lying at his feet and rubbed the bone tip along the side of the dying frog. The spindly legs kicked very weakly now, and Quimlicu carefully placed the primed arrow in a safe place beside him.

He picked up another arrow and began rubbing it over the dead frog. Each one would poison up to thirty shafts but Quimlicu usually threw them into the fire after ten or so because it was best to be sure. Around the fire the other warriors began carefully unwrapping their bundles and priming their arrows too. With a precision quiet, a chant floated into the humid air and their heads began to bob with an internal rhythm which continued to grow as the fire licked at the minute, charred bodies they cast into its depths.

Within hours they would leave the smoldering fire and make their way through the pitch-black terrain, weaving along trails that existed mostly in their minds, their eyes laconic and half-lidded, still stinging with the strong hallucinogenic drugs they would soon blow violently into one another's noses when the arrow-readying ritual was done.

Santo initially suspected a mosquito had slipped in around the mesh. He came awake with a quick, startled jump, his legs kicking out, but then freezing just as suddenly. He blinked in the darkness, trying to see, but when he instinctively brought his hand up to brush at his nose he knew immediately.

He shuffled around until he was in an upright position. Off to the right ebbed the faint glow of the fire. All pitch dark around the perimeter. He waited a minute more for his eyes to adjust. Cursed quietly in the darkness. A gentle swaying overhead of rustling limbs. The much darker outline of the stretched tarp overhead became gradually apparent, and Santo tore away the thin screen of netting around his body in a motion not far from panic.

He hissed into the stillness, trying to get someone's attention. A feeble groan carried back, followed by carelessly loud smacking. Then, a sound of another man rolling over. Santo balled up the netting and placed it by his side. He pulled the zipper down on his thin, waterproof facet and opened the pocket so it would afford easy access to the pistol and knife. "Attention!" he hissed again, frantically. Only another loud grunt as Santo tried to examine the denseness, attempting to ascertain which direction, if any, the danger was coming from.

He eased through the tent flap and made his way to the center of the camp. He crab-crawled over to the closest hump and punched the man soundly in the ribs. The man uttered a muffled groan and sat up. Santo pushed him toward the other humps. "Attention! Attention!" he repeated frantically.

As the group began to come to their senses other sweating forms began pushing out of the darkness along the border regions. They moved like the jungle itself, pouring from the wet ground and oozing forward, their naked bodies glazed with the salt of their exertions. They spoke not a word but each knew where the other was and at what second the assault would begin. They gazed with snake eyes into the trampled clearing, seeing the men groggily shaking themselves out, puzzled at the heated disturbance from their leader.

Even from his spot in the darkness Quimlicu could see him, and felt a kinship that had nothing to do with sympathy or mercy. They had been quiet as creeping death, but one could not fool the inconspicuous bugs and frogs with their defense zones of monotonous droning until something eased into it. Then all around silence; men were haughty in their self-awareness compared to the insect's need for total awareness at every minute. Quimlicu knew what kind of men these were, soldiers. Opponents even though he bore no personal grudge.

There had been no fresh game in the village for most of the last moon, and what had been brought back had stunk with festering sores. An epidemic had spread through the stomachs of the village children. The Men in White Skins had made their interest in the corpses' of monkeys brought to camp, and also of the poison from the frogs. There had been no latent sickness since the trading had begun, and these before them were not of the same stripe.

Quimlicu had smelled them from almost fifty feet away, at the point where the bugs had stopped their repetitious symphony.

And no one, not even Quimlicu himself, heard the bowstring stretch when he pulled it back and held it on set. He steered it forward, as if it was already lodged deep inside the tall one's throat. When he let go it left a snap in the air, and Quimlicu's eyes widened in the darkness, surprised at the unexpected, instinctual start from his intended target. The man was indeed good. But it didn't prove to be enough; instead of his throat, the razor-sharp slice of filed bone thunked into Santo's chest and tore up through the smooth side of his jugular vein. It was an immediate, deadly hemorrhage.

Santo struggled briefly when he hit the ground, vaguely aware of a shower of sparks that rained around him when his arm landed in the fire. He could feel nothing, grappling there by the edge of life itself. A quickening quiet descended as the ringing in his ears died out. He could smell burning flesh, but he was more concerned with the mild whispering he seemed to hear, although he could make out no words. His lungs became sodden and heavy and the rest of the paralysis began to push down, smothering everything. His eyes started to bug out, and suddenly the jungle was not so dark after all. Shapes moved around him and he dreamed of footsteps approaching while some lost figure struggled vainly off to his left. His lungs began seizing up, and his eyes blurred and cleared with the steady pounding in his chest.

Someone squatted down close and placed a warm hand on his forehead. Santo's last thought was as a child's. Simple and short: "What is this new thing?"

The two leader's eyes locked then, alone since the rest of the party was busy laying several of the convulsing souls to rest. Quimlicu, however, saw no point in letting this one's essence slip away unobserved. Great might was passing away and he prepared himself to breathe it in.

He could sense the soul shifting below him.

Quimlicu anticipated its exit and squatted lower, down to the gurgling chest. Not far now...

He grabbed the man's head with both hands and held it so they were only inches apart. The man's eyes were fading now, glassing over like a fish's as his mouth moved, soundless. And then he was dead. No crack of lightning, no startling insights. Just dead.

Quimlicu heard plenty of noise behind him but paid no attention to it. He breathed in deeply and placed the dead man's head back on the ground. He knocked the smoking arm away from the fire. Gazing all the while at the empty face and its mysteries. Quimlicu put his ear to the chest and listened, trying to put distance between the noise in the background and the ultimate silence he was attempting to tap. Were those faint voices he heard, even now retreating like thick syrup?

He touched the arrow to see if it still hummed. It did not but Quimlicu's heart was racing. This one had been different, imbued with a greater life force than he had ever seen. There had been no screaming or yelling, just a mute realization that was soon finished. The second the arrow had left the bow, the man had summed up his short future. Quimlicu had felt it when he heard the arrow punch through the flesh. But there had been something else too.

A terrifying image of an empty being, walking, suddenly drenched him in a blast of horror like a fell wind and he rocked back on his heels.

Frederick was startled awake by all the screaming he heard coming from very close by. He sat up quickly and for a disconcerting moment he thought he was suddenly back in Vietnam. What the hell? he thought. That was no goddamn animal for sure. He scrabbled to the side of a large tree and tore the 9mm loose from inside his jacket.

There, again. Voices actually, but nothing he'd heard before. Not even a language, really, as far as he could tell. He brought the gun up with both hands, then squeezed as deeply into the mossy trunk as he could. His mind was still muddled with sleep. The darkness surrounding him was pit-like and stifling, seeming to lull him into unconsciousness. But the dizziness and pounding heart were real enough.

Now, now...

He felt like cotton dipped in black ink. The shouts out there began taking on a chant-like quality, oozing out of the distance with a slow, rising beat. Deeper black separated gradually to take on blurred and preternatural shapes of branches and ground cover. Frederick suddenly felt the urge to cough and shoved his dirty sleeve into his mouth to fight the sensation away. Be cool, motherfucker. One sound and it's your last.

He squatted down, pulling the moss to the side like a curtain as he squinted into the night. He panned the area with the 9. His eyes continued to adjust but he could still not tell who or what was making the sounds or where they were coming from. The chanting began to pick up volume. "What the fuck?" he said. He felt around, trying to collect any articles he might have dropped. He didn't want to leave anything lying around. One thing was certain though: it was not the tagging party of drug-runners out there in the darkness. No chance. Even though Frederick could not make out a single thing in the ominous chanting, Satan's own entourage could not have sounded any stranger.

Then it hit him. "Goddamn Choco's," he whispered. He closed his mouth tightly until it was a line below his nose. A tremor-tension ebbed and flowed in the muscle beneath his left eye. He had flown the Colombian jungles for the better part of five years and he knew the land regions and its inhabitants. He also knew about the poisonous frogs and the importance they played in the Choco Indians' hunts. "Christ Almighty," he whispered again, his mind flashing through scenarios. But supposedly they stuck to the higher climes. Supposedly...

He breathed in slowly through his nose, vaguely aware again of the 9 in his hand. Time to go, he told himself. For the first time since starting awake his mind was calm enough for rational thought.

How far away are they? he wondered. From the muddled, sometimes piercing yelps that passed to him on the breeze, he placed them at no more than a quarter mile, though, of course, this estimate could be wildly wrong. Only one thing was certain: they weren't right on top of him as he'd first suspected. But what was the deal with all the yelling? They had to be clearing the jungle for a mile around. Strange. Frederick hefted the backpack to his shoulder, thankful he'd had enough sense to grab it before burrowing into the moss. A cursory inspection with his free hand convinced him that it was not open and spilling out what he had left onto the wet ground. The cocaine inside made the picture a little clearer. He'd been right to high-tail it. Manuelo couldn't let it go...

The Indians were most likely howling over a little late-night surprise they'd delivered to a bunch of drug-dealing flunkies. Frederick stood up and situated the pack so that it would ride easy. Maybe this was something good. At least they wouldn't be after him anymore.

As he tried to steer clear of the noises, very gradually he became entangled in an immense growth of vines, armed with temper-quality thorns. He fought to keep the jagged, coughing discomfort firmly in his chest so as not to let on his position, and picked slowly at the obstacles in front of his face, arms, and legs. The moonlight shrunk to spider-webbing tendrils and he felt the ground begin to go soft again; the sluggish water lapping around his ankles while he groped, afraid of what might be nestled down in the stinking mud. But a flashlight was out of the question. He could still make out the voices, although he was glad they were lessening in pitch with every inch that he forced into the practically surreal briar patch. Every move brought on another prickling warning.

"Sonofabitch!" he exclaimed as a particularly long, wooden edge dragged a rut down his arm. He immediately cursed himself again for the outburst and hunkered down, straining his ears to listen for any changes in the fading rhythms. The fucking Indians were hardly people from the stories he'd heard and read; they had noses like bloodhounds and fucking ears like a desert fox. He pictured himself being riddled from every blind spot by bone-tipped arrows, drenched with poison.

Several moments passed and nothing.

And it was just as he pulled the sleeve free from the bush that he heard the noise.

He froze immediately, his finger hard on the 9mm's trigger. He squatted lower still, dragging with him what seemed to be at least half of the jungle. The pack's straps dug in tightly across his shoulders but he paid no mind. Another noise off to the left...the wet popping of a branch turgid with water.

He very much wanted to pull his feet out of the mud; he had a clear picture of a huge, coiled snake sliding over damp branches, suspended among the trees, Frederick's smell catching on the flicking tongue and calling it silently on.

Just before the smell caught him full in the face, his adrenaline kicked over to full. The new, gluey stench caused his gorge to rise as he peered frantically into the darkness, his mind clicking quickly through a list of possible suspects. But what the hell smelled like that?! Whatever it was was getting closer, and with its next sound the moon broke provincially from behind a cloud and drilled through an opening in the canopy so that it turned the area into an odd dreamscape.

Very clearly, off to Frederick's left, an eye flashed like a coin reflecting in a pool, the body behind it wrenching itself along as a misshapen shadow. A solitary eye, muddied whitely as if from a malignant cataract, which jerked suddenly in his direction. Its attendant, swollen body stood no more than twenty-five feet away and was even now beginning to wade further into the fortress of thorns. Toward him...

Frederick bolted upright, forgetting about the Choco warriors as he broke the chain that held the flashlight around his neck. Instantly, he had it out and on, landing the smooth cylinder of light in the direction of the figure. He had never been a religious man (even in the midst of Vietnam he'd never bent his will), and he placed even less relevance on the realm of the occult, but his mouth dropped open at the lurching shape thrashing through the roped menagerie of thorns. Hell didn't seem an impossible proposition anymore. Not with this nightmare loose.

What could without a doubt only be Samuel Franklin's head was now an inexplicable mass, swollen horribly on one side, and a thick patch of bristled hair that crowned it (woven haphazardly with assorted jungle debris) formed a sort of terrible halo. A baleful, muddy stare leeched out of the hideously puffed eye which gave the appearance of being split near the crusted nose. The skin twitched on the face as if from something digging underneath that was much worse. There was no expression.

The dead man lurched at the light, reminding Frederick of the Frankenstein monster portrayed so woodenly by Boris Karloff in the old horror flicks. Christ, it would have been comical except for the fact that it was real. The clothing tossed about in lengthy strands, spraying the area with the soiling stench of urine, dried blood, decomposition.

Frederick stood still, dumb. He held the flashlight fixed on the demonic figure pushing violently closer and closer. For just a moment he was glad he'd gotten so deeply into the briars, but then it dawned on him that it was hardly slowing down the dead man coming toward him. It wouldn't be long now. "I gotta be fuckin dreaming," he whispered soundlessly.

A grotesque seeping hiss issued out in waves from the remains of the approaching body, and Frederick decided that real or not, it was time to get the fuck out. With the heat of the burning eye drilling into his back he slashed through the tangled, thorny brambles and vines. One razor-sharp end ripped at his forehead, along the edge of his hairline when he tried to duck lower, as he strained ahead, feeling the resistant tearing of his clothing. Then the backpack caught for a terrifying second (a second in which Frederick, disembodied, saw the phantom take hold of it and violently spin the two face-to-swollen-face), and with the next footstep everything thankfully gave way.

The vines, the thorns (though not as swiftly as everything else), and the ground beneath his feet fell away. The air whooped out of his lungs as his right leg slid out from under him. And he began the slide. He was soaked to the skin in seconds, sliding away into God only knew what.

There was no time to scream and he went silently. The moonlight suddenly sucked up into the night as he careened over half-submerged rocks and fallen limbs, all the while clawed at by the ever-present thorns. He started off roughly feet-first but a root soon slung him around, first sideways and then head first. He couldn't tell if the pack was still on his back as he slid off into the darkness but wondered vaguely about what he would do about it anyway.

Chapter 16: William's Dilemma

William stood at the tarnished sink and let the cold water run across his hands. He reached over and shut off the water, looked at his hands and shook them once before putting them to his face. Shit was not good. He had just opened his third pack of cigarettes for the day. A long ash was even now bent at the mid-point of the new one he was smoking and fell to the concrete floor, breaking up like shaved glass. Tom Fields, the Bull, sat at the table in the center of the room. He had a drink in front of him but knew he dared not get drunk tonight.

He'd seen this before. And although he was a big man, he wasn't big enough to want to piss William off. Samuel was the monster; that went without saying, but William was most definitely no one to fuck with either. There was always that Chinese guy to think about. Perhaps the hundred pound chunk of concrete around the dead man's ankles had sunk out of sight by now in the slimy river bottom. Then again, one of the bigger ships may have helped wash him along toward the mouth of the Gulf. Either way, dead was dead, and that had only been six months ago. And over a much smaller problem than this.

"Dad asked me where Samuel was this morning," William said, not looking at his bull, just looking out into the room. Tom twirled the glass in its wet ring.

William had let Debbie go almost two hours earlier, and the two men sat alone in the huge warehouse. An ancient, rattling fan clicked out a staccato rhythm in the corner, but the air it circulated was still thick and hot. Tom removed the frayed handkerchief from his back pocket and wiped it across his face; the headache above both eyes had gotten no better since early that morning. It would have been a day better spent in bed, and he had known that before he even got up. Only thing was, you didn't call in sick on William Franklin. Not anytime and especially not now.

William crossed the room and sat down heavily in the chair opposite Tom. "I told him I'd sent Samuel to Alexandria to check on the construction, but you know how the Old Man is..." and Tom nodded though he really didn't have much of an opinion about it one way or the other. When he thought too much his head would ache like a bad tooth. Also, he made a point never to get too close to the elder Franklin. His presence was hard to shake and easy to enjoy missing. "He didn't say much," William continued, more to himself than his handy man, "but I could see in his eyes he didn't believe me." Then he laughed. It was well known neither of the brothers had ever gotten along well with their equally-strange father. "I can remember the day when Dad would have gone apeshit if he caught somebody lying to him, but I guess by now he knows how Samuel is. That" (and another bitter laugh) "or he's getting soft in his old age." He looked up at his sounding board. Tom nodded again and drank deeply this time from his glass so he wouldn't have to say anything.

William looked down and slapped himself on the knee. "Goddammit, Tom! I knew I shouldn't have let him go! Never trust fucks like that goddamn Lincoln...I know that. Never! Motherfuck! I know that!" He paused, grit his teeth and took a pull off his drink. Checked his watch as if that action could somehow put down a framework to operate around. "They should've been back this morning," he whispered. Tom remained quiet. Rule One: never inject yourself in Franklin family business. Just do like you're told. He did the dirty work and let whatever else fall where it may. Regardless, the next thing came as a complete surprise.

"What do you think we ought to do?"

Tom wasn't much at diplomacy; breaking bones was more his style. He waited (tapping a finger and studying it intently), trying to come up with something, anything, and as William watched he could almost see the sweat begin to bead along Tom's brow. But when it came it couldn't have been any clearer. He polished off the rest of the watery drink and pushed it toward the center of the table. "I don't know a lot about this kinda shit, Mr. Will, but I guess I better get my ass out there and find that sonofabitch Lincoln," he said. He pursed his lips and nodded, amazed at the sudden inspiration, silently staring at a fixed point somewhere along the back wall where the fan droned on endlessly. He'd make that bastard pay dearly for this head-ache. If he could just find the sonofabitch, this is.

He took William's extended silence as a 'yes'.

"Listen you little fucker, when I say you pay on Tuesday, goddammit, I mean Tuesday!" Lincoln reached out and slapped the slight little black boy standing by the curbside near his Cadillac. The lick was taken as a matter of course, but Lincoln saw the minute twitch, just the barest movement toward the baggy waistline where the kid's underwear rode up over the lip of his jeans. From the inside of the Caddy, Lincoln's face wrinkled in righteous anger.

"That's right, boy," he intoned. "You pull a piece on me and it'll be the last fucking mistake your black ass ever makes." He saw the boy's face go wooden. "Who's gonna buy groceries for your whore of a mother when her little boy's ass is sprayed all over the fucking street?" The eyes widened even more and the small, shaking hand froze just above his waistline. Lincoln's leaden eyes focused, unblinking. "Lionel," he said, turning to the other boy who also stood close by. "You don't want to teach your little brother stupid tricks, do you? Tell your brother he shouldn't go around carrying heat, his balls ain't big enough yet to handle what his ass is going to get him into." Lincoln's mouth split in an evil grin, all shiny white and lethal. The smaller boy backed away another step from the car.

Lincoln sucked at his top lip and swallowed back the wave of alcohol that was threatening to come up. He'd been drinking all day and had no business fucking around outside College Town, less than a mile from the LSU campus. The Dark Section of town. A faint touch of bass reverberated from the lounge right down the street and a girl's loud, shrill laughter rang out. He wiped a hand across his dry lips; his face was pale from the half ounce of cocaine he'd been dragging on all day too. The losing streak in Natchez the night before still didn't sit right with him.

He looked back at Lionel. The Caddy idled quietly against the curb with just a faint bluish wisp of smoke trailing out. The way Lincoln drove made it hard to believe the car still ran at all, but because it did would be the only thing to keep him out of six-foot hole in the next five minutes. Even so, that would be a thin respite for what would soon follow.

Less than fifty yards down the intersection of McKinley and Highland another swaggering group of young blacks meandered along loudly. Lincoln marked them but paid little mind; most of the punks around the area knew his face if not his name and it was uncommon for any low life to try and shit on his parade. He spit out the window and Lionel did a quick chicken step sideways. The even smaller brother was forgotten as he backed away from the dirty Cadillac, annoyed at how his older half-brother was taking shit from some fucked up honky asshole. He was only eight, but he knew what it took to be Hard.

He watched the group making their way down the street. One of them pointed his way, and the knife-edged crease of a smile spread across his face. He knew about making bones; he knew how to be a man in a slum where the only thing a boy had to look forward to was teaching some white muthafucker who the real owner of the 'Hood was.

"...you little nigger bastard," he heard the drunk in the car mumbling to his brother. "I'll be back here tomorrow..." as the boy ducked away from his grasp. "Tomorrow, goddammit!" the asshole yelled.

The lead youth was passing underneath the street light no more than thirty feet away. Lil Pauly saw the arrogant tilt of the Raiders cap, recognized instantly the gleaming white smile of Jerome the Killa. He ran with the Capitol City Crips, and lil Pauly had heard Killa's name came well deserved. The dude had already waxed a couple of niggas not two months ago.

He let the smile come on he reached around to the small of his back. The semi-automatic .22 caliber was right there, tucked into the underwear that'd been Lionel's long before it'd been his. The small group of Crips were close enough now to see what was fixing to happen, and when Little Pauly pulled his piece Lincoln was still too busy fucking with Lionel to even remember the smaller boy was around.

Big fucking mistake.

Maybe Jerome the Killa saw when the kid pulled out the handgun because he did suddenly put his hands down and stop in mid-stride, his posse pulling up sharp behind him. Lincoln had the wherewithal to stop his harangue as the group looked on. They were no more than twenty feet from the front bumper of the Caddy, and Lincoln's rattlesnake awareness closed over his cocaine-and alcohol-adled brain. "Keep walking," he growled menacingly from inside the car but the ringleader, Lincoln noticed, the one with the cocked baseball cap gave him a "fuck you" attitude and didn't move an inch. It finally dawned on him what circle of Hell he'd entered unaware, but nevertheless, it was too late.

Too late by far.

Lincoln was drawing the hand he'd rested on the mirror into the Caddy when he heard the boyish voice over his left shoulder yell, "You ain't goin nowhere, honkymothafucka!" and then the pop-pop-pop of shots ringing out. He ducked down into the seat and stepped on the gas as bullets began perforating the Caddy.

Glass shattered around his head and just over the dash he saw as the group of black thugs scrambled and dived for cover; all except the cocky nigger with the baseball cap who stood his ground and pulled out his own much more effective piece and began hammering away too. The noise inside the Caddy increased ten-fold with all the pinging, breaking glass, and whistling lead. Lincoln heard a much louder sound, figured it must be Mr. Rapper with the cannon and attempted to squeeze down farther in the seat. He spun the Caddy right, away from the approaching light pole all the while trying to keep his eyes at a level where he could see what the hell was going on. A blistering bolt of heat seared through his left shoulder, just below the collar bone, and a warm spray of blood showered his chin, lower neck, and the windshield. The console glistened red.

He sucked his breath in deep and pressed down on the accelerator harder. The Caddy choked back a pained roar and lurched the remaining thirty feet to the intersection where the car spun out like a stunt from a Hollywood action flick, replete with surround sound and burning rubber. Most of the windows had already been shot out by now, and smoke billowed from the engine, but Lincoln did not let off the gas. A Porshe narrowly missed him as he careened around in a half-circle and went up on the curb, through the Exxon parking lot where already half a dozen people were either scrambling for cover or looking for some.

The Caddy crashed into a yellow-frame T-shirt shop on the corner and the front awning fell across the crumpled hood. Down the street where the shooting had taken place not a footfall sounded nor a shadow lurked. Except for the shell casings that lay in the grass and gutter, the street was as silent as Saturday morning before the liquor stores opened.

Feeling the growing numbness in his left arm, Lincoln tried to lean back and grimaced. Without thinking he turned the key off and the tortured Cadillac's engine ground to a stop with an agonizing, final wheeze. Dimly, Lincoln heard the sound of sirens not far away (a fully-manned substation was just down the street). He closed his watering eyes and patted the seat next to him. Found the bottle neck and pulled it up slowly, spinning off the cap with two trembling fingers. When the first officer got to the car Lincoln had the bottle to his lips, trying to drink his way out of what obviously had to be a nightmare.

"William. It's Tom. Pick up." William rolled over in bed and stretched out his hand toward the phone, only hesitating momentarily at...what the hell time was it? He listened to more incomprehensible fast-talk in the background as he squinted in the dark room, trying to focus on the bluish glow from the nightstand.

6:43. His head pounded from the alcohol he'd consumed up until only a few hours before. How late had he stayed at the warehouse? Who the hell had taken him home, and if no one, how had he driven? These thoughts were cut short by a slightly more exaggerated tone of voice.

"...got his fuckin ass! I'm sitting in the Holiday Inn at Airline and I-10 in Baton Rouge and I'm lookin at a sweet piece a news, boss. Lincoln fucked up last night, right here! The heat's got his junky ass in Baton Rouge General all shot to hell! I hope you get--"

William, instantly wide awake, snatched the phone from beside the bed and rammed it to his ear. With his other hand he was already searching the bureau for the pack of Camel no-filters he felt sure were there. "Tom!" he said. "What the fuck's going on?" The pack was just underneath the closest leg, almost out of reach with a few loose cigarettes making the extraction tricky. When he bent over to get them a nasty pain lodged behind his right eye.

"Hey, that you?"

"What's the fucking deal, Tom?"

Tom was done with the preliminaries. "I came to BR last night, like you said," (this was all news to William but he kept his mouth shut; he knew to never let Tom get sidetracked when he had a train of thought going), "you know, he's always fuckin around down here, selling dope to the niggers or...fuckin whores...whatever..."

William's voice stopped him before he got going good. "What the hell were you saying when I picked up the phone, Tom?"

"Oh yeah, well, I'm sittin here in my room with The Morning Advocate laid open, and Lincoln's right there in black and white. Looks like a bunch of coons shot him all to hell and back!"

William lit a cigarette and balled his fist into a depression beside his aching eye. "What else?"

"Says here, what they got, that he damned near knocked over a house, got shot at least once, and the stupid sonofawhore was still sluggin down alcohol when the Blue showed! Can you believe this fuckin wreak!?"

The metallic voice threatened to break into a bout of laughter, and William almost bit through the cigarette. "Is he going to live?" The dead-pan, humorless question cut any attempt at laughter to the quick on the other end of the line.

"Yeah, he's alive, boss. From what the paper says, the bastard's gonna probably stay that way. Just like that mothafucker to--"

"How much trouble is he in?"

"Hard to say. He was drunk, got a DUI, and the paper's got somethin about drug parafen...whatever. Typical Lincoln shit..."

"Let's see then," and the pause was a long time ending while William attempted to get a clearer picture of his course of action. "Talk to our man over there in Troop A; you know the one?" The statement was more rhetorical than a question and from the other end William heard a grunt of affirmation. Names were never good to use over any line. "Get that bastard bailed out as fast as you can."

"I got you. But the paper says he's in the hospital too, so--"

"I want the motherfucker here, right motherfucking here, as soon as possible. You got me, Tom?"

"Yeah, I got you."

"Call me when it's done. I'm not going in today. You get this shit going; I mean it. And I mean as soon as you find out anything, you let me know. Clear?"

"Yeah."

William broke the connection.

"William?" The old stern, three-pack-a-day voice was fading under the strain of years, although its resonance was still commanding.

"What'chu got Dad...?" William said. The pain near his right eye was suddenly worse.

"Called the Warehouse a few minutes ago and your sec told me you weren't in. You sick?" Then, when the answer was not forthcoming, "And where the hell's your brother?"

"Jesus Christ, Dad, I told you yesterday. He's in Alexandria checking on the housing boys," (those assholes over there had better goddamned well covered his story), "What are you all over my ass for? Whether I'm at work or not? I'm a grown fucking man."

"Uh huh, Asshole One and Two over in Alec. William, let's get this straight. They're a bunch of fucking hoods and they tell me whatever the fuck you tell them to tell me! I'm not fucking crazy! I didn't get this old being a goddamn fool!" and the Old Man had to stop in the midst of a coughing fit. William used the time to bargain a position against the shit-on hand he'd been dealt ever since meeting Franklin Paol.

"Whoa, hold up Dad! I don't know what the hell you're talking about. You call me up to tell me I'm a fucking liar! What is this?"

"Come off the bullshit, William. Where's your goddamn brother?"

"Dad. Listen. You shouldn't get yourself all worked up. What is this? You don't sound right." The vacant breathing on the other end of the line was faster, harsh and colored with something ancient and terrible, but now, it also seemed tempered from what...fear?

William leaned in, trying to get closer to the voice on the other end. It came in almost a whisper. "I got a call from the hospital, William. Your mother's having another one of her attacks. And it's bad this time. Now I'm going to ask you one more time, goddammit! Where's your fucking brother!"

"I gotta go," William said and hung up.

A year and a half or at least damn close to it, William mused as he throttled down on the custom Lexus, shifting into a lower gear to take better advantage of the curve. That was a long time to go without seeing your mother but then again not many people had a mother like his. She'd slowly slid away from him over the last couple of years, but he had to admit, it had not been long enough. He crested a ridge and looked out over the farmland that surrounded the car on all sides.

Christmas, hadn't it been? The last time he'd seen her? Halloween would have been more suitable, but it had been the Old Man's idea: all three (him and the boys) driving up to see her in a tomb-like silent car. William remembered how nervous Samuel had been. His own time away had not been long past then, but even so, seeing their mother had never been an easy task even in ideal circumstances. Like say, when she was sleeping (really sleeping and not just waiting to catch you in a trap) and you could peer in at her through a crack in the door as you passed by quietly down the hall. And especially not since their father had been able to have the bitch put away. He hoped she'd never get out.

Another one of her spells, the Old Man had said. Goddammit.

If witches walked the face of the earth, she definitely fit the bill, and having her safely away, stuffed back in the remote pasturelands and farm communities of middle Louisiana had served to quell many a nervous moment.

What the hell are you going to do when you get there?

He turned his attention to the Bose stereo, pressed around finding mostly static (something was fucked up with the XM out here too). What a fucking day, he thought acidly. The nagging headache had ebbed back to a mere dull throb deep in the base of his skull and beyond the reach of any non-prescription pain killers. And even though he had what was left of a number of Percocets from Samuel's court-appointed shrink and resident drug supplier from downtown Metairie, he flatly refused to board that train now. Not where he was going.

He also remembered now that he had not inquired as to his mother's condition except on one occasion since the last visit. And that had only been protocol, something to get the Old Man out of the way one day when things were running hot. Funny and weird in a morbid way, but completely understandable, at least to William. Because there was always that one time burned into his mind...

He shook his head but this other memory was fleeter of foot. Her delighted laughter hung in his mind, remembering her taunt the sickly dog she'd coaxed inside after tempting it with the poison meat (she'd not known little Willy saw this from behind the oak, lining his bike up so that she'd not see, or at least not acknowledge seeing him).

A rush of sweet, evergreen wind filled the car as William rolled down the window. From the corner of his eye he caught the shot-gunned Speed Zone sign leaning from the shoulder of the road, and eased down from a slithering eighty-five to something safer. He made a right at the 220 mile marker and proceeded down the black topped and shoulderless road until he finally came to the same damn, pedestaled STOP sign that had been rooted in the center of the only intersection in Winsome since time out of mind. He paused for only a minute and finger-steered the Lexus left, down 24 to wind another thirty miles into the countryside.

It wasn't long until he came to the sign, placed years before by the state DOTD, and probably the only one in this part of Louisiana not to have been shot to hell by some drunk redneck on his way home to beat his wife, or dog, or maybe both. Louisiana State Mental Hospital: all in capitals to drive the point home. 25 miles. Perhaps that had always been talisman enough to keep away the shotgun blasts: the warning that certain behavior could be dealt with quite severely. He was getting close now and he cracked his knuckles.

When the sweep of four-foot, American-dream white board fence sprang up several miles ahead, seeming to speed along with the car as he raced by, he reached down and snapped the troublesome radio into silence. His breath came quicker now and he willed himself to conscious to calm down. He was only going to see his mother, for Christ's sake! But the hunched figure in his brain offered no solutions.

Because the other memory would not be suffocated by the hum of the engine or any passing scenery; it was screwed too deep, rotting in the darkness with intent. He could still picture the day when he'd crept into the house, home just a little early from Michael's down the street. He'd heard the weird voices right after opening the front door, and he'd been carefully quiet as he stood there in the foyer, barely inside the door. Two voices most probably, but with the air condition running it had really been impossible to know for sure.

How long had he stood there? Eyes darting about, just on the verge of yelling for his mother. But he hadn't. Looking back, had he known somehow, even then? Sure, there'd been inclinations like the business with the stray dog, but still...

The now grown William slowed the Lexus down to forty-five, knocking the gear shift up into third as the memory played through his head like some scratched single from his childhood. Of course there were other times but none that hung on with the tenacity of that one.

The weird voices had come from the back room (the one set off from the mammoth kitchen entrance and just down a short hallway), his brother's room. Always the empty room regardless who was in there because Samuel had never been a part of childish follies even then, always too aloof and distant to the point that everyone had stopped wanting to carry on in his room though it was the bigger of the two.

It had been early September, just inside the doorway. September. William had done some reading on the subject, after the fact and well-distanced from the horror he'd witnessed. He'd done the reading on his own, usually removed to some quiet recess in the warehouse after the rows of sodium lights had faded to their dull heat which rained down from the ceiling. September was the month of the Marriage to the Beast Satan, specifically on the seventh, and although his recollection couldn't be perfectly defined after so much time, William thought to this day that it could hardly have been any other, considering.

Words had begun to filter from behind the door as he poised there, on the verge of shouting out but too afraid to do so.

Another mile marker came up on the right, but in his state of mind it didn't register.

Their mother had had a huge, ancient Bible resting on a black pedestal near the front door, the edges flaky and dried and the print only a whisper on the yellowed pages. For some unknown (and unasked) reason the Book had always been open to Leviticus with the 18th chapter outlined in a faded red that appeared to leech itself into the very texture of the ancient volume. It had been the same that day, open as usual to that specific place, but thrust into conflict with a palpable, ominous presence set loose within the bounds of the room.

"Nema," he'd heard, the sound drifting down the hallway in an odd perversion of his mother's voice. The sweat that beaded on his brow had not been from the heat though, or at least not any from this world. It had come from the infernal fire that his mother had carefully stoked as she'd led her other son down the path of damnation. William wiped his sleeve along his forehead.

He'd actually tip-toed down to the doorway. Across the spacious living room, carefully skirting the area governed by the huge Bible. The musky, twin voices were louder closer in and he could tell from the flickering shadows flickering around his brother's cracked doorway that candles were burning in there. Not even dark yet, with a house-full of electricity, and yet candles burned behind the door where the parasitic voices whispered.

He stooped down to his knees.

His heart drummed so loudly he thought for a crazy minute anyone in the house would hear it too. And his breath came in jabs that left him gasping. The door was open just enough to see inside.

Samuel, little Sammy, was prone on the bed, his feet splayed out and pointed as if invisible wires stretched out from each toenail. His arms were laid out into a V above his head and appeared to be desperately grasping at the headboard of the poster bed. William's eyes widened as he saw his brother was naked. Equally shocking was the fact that his penis, unnaturally large for a boy his age, was rock-hard and aimed at the ceiling, trembling slightly as he breathed. William could not see his face.

The voices again, louder this time, and William shifted slightly to the right to get a better view of the room. The disgust built in his throat like a roiling fever.

He stopped breathing at all when he saw his mother's hand reach over and grab his brother's penis in a vice-like grip. The young boy's back arched and his heels bit into the bed. Their mother was also nude in the cell-like room. A black sheet had been pinned up to the window and countless candles had been placed all around. William was rooted to the spot.

In the flickering light he'd watched and listened as his mother poured over insane jumbles of arcane words and phrases, all the while keeping up a steady pumping rhythm on his brother's cock. Her breasts were round and pendulous, and her stomach quivered as she went. In horror, William saw her naked breasts slicked with blood, even to the extent that long sticky rivulets hung from her mouth, congealed on her chin as her head rocked back and forth, her eyes closed as she railed. Her hair was soaking wet and hanging in webs.

William peed in his pants when he saw the porcelain bowl by her feet, smeared with a montage of bloody fingerprints. A cat's tail hung limply over the side, the rest hidden. His mother's rants began to take on hideous frequency and volume; William watched helplessly, gagging, as Sammy bucked his hips up and down, his penis engulfed by his mother's hand. William had to hide his eyes when his brother came and his mother went to get at it.

In a daze he'd slowly turned away and walked down the hallway in a daze, leaving a trail of urine behind. He didn't know what had happened after that, and he'd never said a word.

Not one fucking thing.

Chapter 17: The Snake

Frederick was up well before the sun rose the next morning. Initially it was the slow-falling rain, back now, and pouring through the tops of the jungle canopy that woke him, and soon it was organized streams that roared through deep clefts in the malapa trees and splattered among the leaves that left him soaked. And the rain only made the insects more voracious. They pestered the huddled figure in the worn, oak fissure until he was forced to his feet, standing up to the might of the barrage. With his first glance at the blurred, misty surroundings, the other pains came on in earnest.

He could barely move his right arm. When he focused on the source of one amazing ache he noticed the ragged drift of sleeve that was left from the shoulder down, as if he'd tangled with a paper shredder during the witching hour. He tried to flex his hand, amazed at how stiff and swollen it was. Dry sandpaper at the back of his throat stifled any complaint he might have uttered. And even worse, the only presence the morning sun allowed were the trails of night ghosts, filmy, slowly drifting back to their fetid holes and other dank sanctuaries.

He attempted to stretch his legs, found his muscles had turned into frozen, rusty cables overnight. He grimaced and dug his heels into a muddy rut in the ground. His pants were ripped at both knees and he had an angry cut along the backside of his left hamstring. The goddamn thorns had nearly torn him to ribbons!

Man, fuck that shit. Don't you remember the face?

"No...oh, no," he said, shaking his head. "I didn't see a fucking thing at all last night. Maybe it was some fucking animal was all, maybe even an Indian. It could have been anything...anything in the world except--" what it was, his mind inserted when his voice failed him. But that was madness. Still, the image flashed in his head of the horrible face and rotting body, coming for him, right on his tail until he'd tumbled down the ravine and slipped off into the darkness. He spit in the ground, checked to make sure his pack was still there; yes, right there near the fungus-coated rocks where the brilliant orange ants crossed in file, some bits of leaves held in their jaws as banners. It was hard to think clearly.

Hallucination? Maybe, there were countless strains of malaria, and of course, that did make you see shit but it just didn't jive. He hadn't been on foot that long. Besides, he'd had a brush with the bug once in 'Nam and it had never been anything like last night. It just didn't add up.

And Christ, the clothes...even in the darkness they'd been recognizable. Bullshit! the voice in his head railed. Are you trying to convince yourself that Samuel Franklin is back from the fucking dead? I mean really, is that what you're thinking? You saw him dead in the plane, just as dead as dead gets. And you should know. Get your fucking head right. Fucking zombies are the least of your problems here. Let's just look at the real picture: miles from nowhere, cut and scratched to hell and back, running short on supplies unless you fully intend to function off cocaine, eaten by bugs and leeches, possibly in the midst of cannibalistic pygmies, just for a small sample. And you're worried about fucking zombies? Shit...you'd probably be better off with malaria.

Frederick closed his eyes and put both hands to his forehead. No doubt, he told himself. No doubting fuck about it. You're losing it and make no mistake! Fuck up now and you're meat for the worms. Time to check the old sack and see how heavy the balls are hanging, pad'na. Whatever it was last night, call it nightmare, hallucination, trick of the light, or a visit by the fucking Easter bunny, and it still doesn't stack up to a hill of shit. His hands were shaking.

"I gotta get a move on," he said very slowly, concentrating on each word. He stood up, leaned heavily on the thick lichen that grew in patches on this side of the tree. Both knees popped angrily and he teetered, starbursts going off before his eyes. The long, nasty rips in his forearms were matted with blood.

He tried to shake away the cobwebs and glanced down at his hand. He'd cut it on something and it hurt like hell. "Motherfuckingshit," he said, and breathed with studied intent for the better part of a minute, trying to get the oxygen circulating in his bloodstream. It still wasn't much good. He felt woozy, capable of collapsing at any moment. And he would, too, if he didn't get some food in his belly.

And Christ sakes, that'd mean a hunt.

Man, he was already so t--

Wake up you worthless Fuck! the mental voice bellowed. This ain't no goddamn picnic! Either get off your ass and start moving lay the fuck down and die! Nobody gives a fuck, have no doubt! He blinked his eyes and stared into the morning gloom. He could hear the gigantic drops of rain splattering above his head, all around him, but a dull heat rose up from the jungle floor. It was going to get worse before it got any better.

He squatted and started to rifle through the pack. He found the solid brick of cocaine after a short search and he pulled it free. He needed something to get him going. Any port in a storm. His lips were tight against his teeth as he ripped a square of cellophane back. A tiny sprinkle of white powder feathered out on the stone's surface, the moisture quickly soaking it into oblivion. He pinched off a corner and ground the coke softly between his thumb and forefinger, holding his other hand underneath. When he had a small pile in the center of his palm he ducked his head and snorted the release into his brain.

His breath was stolen in the initial onslaught. His heart raced and the vast, burlap sack that had been draped over his senses suddenly ripped free; his ears rang with a piercing trill, blood running hard and fast. A rush of air escaped between his teeth, and he was vaguely aware of a violent ticking below his left eye again. He fought to hold down the approaching sneeze, his face pulled into a tight knot as the drug ripped through his system.

Then the moment leveled out.

His breathing became more voluntary and a kind of musical presence fitted itself neatly into place. He put the rest of the wrapped up cocaine carefully into the folds of his jacket pocket, all the while clenching and unclenching his free hand. The pain was suddenly gone. Only a consuming numbness touched him, defied in the inner regions of his body by a dull ache that in no way rivaled his previous discomfort. The saving grace was his mind. He suddenly felt strong, revitalized and awake, shaken free of his death-chasing stupor. Hunger had taken a quiet backseat to the muted calculations in his brain, but even so, he felt he could better manage a hunt in this enlightened condition. His eyes set into solid diamonds and his face came together as surely and snuggly as continental plates, sealing away the interior. Rain evaporated on his brow and any breeze died before his presence.

He looked around with a certain stiffness, mechanically getting a complete lay of the land. He'd kicked his boots off somehow in the night and his toes kneaded the muddy ground. His pack was unzipped where he'd left it by the rock, stuffed at a slight angle between it and a knobbed tree root Frederick had subconsciously used in the night to prop his head out of the mud. There they were.

He padded over quickly and got the boots, kicking one out of the puddle where it lay and picking the other up from close by while the water drained from the first. The panic was over, diluted, replaced by a steel resolve to push on northwest. Frederick sat down on a decomposing length of fallen sycamore and felt inside the boots. Even the one he'd found in the puddle wasn't so bad. He flung off his soaked and blackened socks, dug in the pocket of his cammos for the last fresh pair, and within the minute had his feet conditionally ready for a day's treacherous hike. He secured the pack to his back, after placing his jacket with the cocaine safely inside a waterproof pouch. The weight was miniscule. He flipped back the compass lid and checked it against the persistent ringing in his ears and the direction of the light edging down from the treetops.

Northwest would be neither harder nor easier than any other direction from as much as he could tell. His "clearing" was really no more than a slight hole in the area. It was no different ten or fifteen yards in a wide circle, and he moved his head, owl-like, trying to decipher the easiest path. Nothing looked easy. The ground was an eternal, muddy slop for probably miles around. The thought rolled through his mind of the many predators that'd passed him by in the darkness: his strange, cloying scent on the end of a forking, trembling tongue, or the warbling essence of a breeding sickness dwelling deep down and unknown. Maybe the power he possessed had been a deterrent too; Frederick felt it now, bouncing around somewhere between his body and mind, teased into activity by the drug. "Fuck it till it works," he mumbled, bending over and peering underneath the lichen-choked arm of the sweating, naked jungle before him.

He made out a trickle of water running gently around the base of a tree farther back in the cloudy background, and shaking a nest of flies from his face and forehead, he carefully started his way forward. He ducked underneath a huge, hanging branch and checked his coordinates on the compass again. He figured his position in the Lower Andes plateau, an unknown (although surely not exceeding thirty miles plus or minus) distance southwest of Bogota. Frederick felt sure the Magdalena River ran away on his left, facing north, but either way it wouldn't make much difference. The river ran practically north/south between Luzselva and the Pan American Highway which came together near Tadosito.

The river was the solution.

If he could only make it to the fucking river he should be alright. Or at least he might live. If things unfolded as intended (mindful that nothing had as yet, of course), he would skirt the bank of the Magdalena until it dog-legged left. From there he planned on staying along the edge of the highway. Hopefully he would waltz into Bogota, preferably sometime in the early morning hours, get a fresh set of clothes, and then begin working on the larger problem of getting home and out of this shitstorm. And he couldn't forget that his picture of sanctuary was still bordered by the remaining Franklin and his hoods, plus the far more intimate problem of Paul's absence to Jelly. He almost laughed then, thinking about how lucky he was to be stranded alone in the Andes region of Columbia.

"Ah, come off the fucking pessimism," he said. The edge was already starting to wear off, so he started toward the tree with the water swirling around the base. He'd follow the stream for a while; maybe he'd get lucky and end up at the river. But his fourth step brought him over-the-boot high in the sucking mud and he cursed a mouth-full at the jungle. It didn't seem to care.

By noon the rain had stopped but the humidity was still relentless. Blood-sucking flies kept pace alongside him, relentlessly tapping his veins. Twice he stopped and dug in the folds of the backpack for the cocaine. His nose felt like the only dry spot in the universe, despite the cloud of moisture in the air, and after the second blow it bled for a while, bringing on a whole new gang of flies and gnats. At this point he warned himself away from the drug if only because the religious fervor the insects bestowed on his face. Until the blood finally stopped he was forced to wrap his head completely with a water-soaked bandana. His mind pictured many tiny pests trailing up his nose, hungry for the taste of blood and the warm, dark places in the nasal passages. He saw them hunkered down in the cartilaginous spaces, laying eggs to fester and grow among the mucus-lined beds there.

He fought back these thoughts and tried to concentrate. His stomach twisted with hunger. He stopped alongside the edge of the creek and rummaged around until he found the last bag of potato chips he'd picked from the Cherokee. He engulfed them like a dog, and it helped, but only a little. He brought out the 9 and held it fast in his hand.

He had to kill something.

He made a silent vow to blast the very next thing that moved, flicked an ear, anything. And the cooking? That would have to wait until...until he had whatever it would be. After all, some things were not so bad raw.

He crouched lower as he moved along, more animal-like. His eyes sharpened as his gun-hand brushed through the thick vines and other foliage with a steadiness that surprised and invigorated him.

There was a large, tangled mess ahead. It completely blocked out the bank of the deeper creek bed down below, and he could hear the water running swifter even from here. When he got closer and looked, it was perhaps four and a half feet across near the entanglement. He would have to peel off into the water. There was no other way around if he wanted to continue in his present direction. He tested the bank with his boot, wrinkling his mouth into a scowl when it started to slide away toward the swirling water. He quickly reached into the nearby cluster of vines and leaves the size of sheets of paper and grabbed hold before he fell out altogether. He was steady only a moment before his other foot also lost traction and he realized that time was fast playing out; the bank was much looser close up than he'd expected. But before he went completely off balance he thrust his right hand deeper into another thick tangle of vines while holding his gun-hand as high above his head as possible. Shit was fixing to get hectic.

He knew his purchase was suspect from the moment his hand closed on it, but he had no choice. His left leg was nicely stuck in mud sucking past the ankle and crooked at such an angle as to easily cause a break. He dangled perilously out above the swiftly moving creek. The vine gave a few inches under his weight but it was the texture of the thing that caused goosebumps to sprout like weeds along his backbone. For a minute he almost let go. But didn't. A broken ankle here was sure death.

He looked down for a moment, trying to decide how to kick his leg free without getting soaking wet in the process, and by the time he brought his attention around again he was not alone.

A long, cylindrical head almost eight inches around hung down from above. Dead, glassy eyes fixed Frederick with a disconcerted stare and the thin tongue of the monster flicked out once, quickly, and then straight back. He felt an electrical tremor race underneath his hand when he realized he had a hold of a fucking snake. And a motherfucker by the look of it.

Instinctively he wrenched his stuck leg free, pulling a three-foot section of the enormous python into view as he did. It was the color of the jungle but gleamed faintly as if it'd been misted with a spray bottle full of oil. Spots along its surface were as black as death in a graveyard.

Frederick shouted, his eyes the size of hot-rod hubcaps as he brought the 9 around from his side. His other foot slipped at the same moment and began forcing his body out at a slow angle down. The gigantic head leered closer and stapled into Frederick with pupils sliced vertically like a cat's. A branch, somewhere above, groaned and a trickle of leaves swirled down as Frederick let go of the slick body.

When he hit the water he was halfway around, the hand that'd had hold of the snake pinwheeling to make purchase before he went completely under. His other hand, the one with the gun, was straight up in the air.

His head went under and the backpack snagged on a broken limb. An icy blade of water punched up his nose, knocking into his brain like a cheap right in a barroom brawl. His legs scrabbled at the sloughing bank. He kicked against a submerged root and pushed himself farther back, hoping to slip the pack free. He had his eyes open but couldn't see anything except a brilliant gush of blinding light that was somehow much brighter here than it'd been above. He did not see how that was possible, but the irony did not have time to sink in.

His breath was almost gone when he felt whatever the backpack had snagged on let go. He broke for the surface and took in great, rushing gouts of air. The pack seemed to weigh as much as a truck and his head was under again as he tumbled down the length of fast running creek completely out of control. He noticed offhandedly that the water tasted of iron and rot.

Then his ass began dragging bottom. He managed to slow down and eventually stop in a still strong current running just below his chest. He still had to fight to keep his head out of the water but it wasn't so bad considering, and he managed to balance himself more or less into a sitting position by grabbing the gnarled end of another root just behind him and splaying out his legs in the rocky creek bed. He spit out the water he'd inhaled and wiped his free hand across his eyes. He noticed with relief he was still holding onto the 9.

Pulling as hard as he could on the root he managed to work himself up to one knee. It was a fight every inch of the way between the current and the weight of the backpack. He prayed the root would hold, another submersion and he was gone. He was all the way up to a half-squat when he heard a gigantic splash behind and off to his left. So close, in fact, he felt water spray his gun hand.

He knew the python would be much more agile in the water than in the tree.

He lurched backward, away from the sound. The bank wasn't far and thankfully the water level fell as he bulled closer. However, he soon realized the folly of this route when he felt a hard length of muscle close around his ankle. He turned from his escape and spun around to meet the creature.

The water was about three and a half feet deep. He could see a bit of the snake from here, but what concerned him the most was the violent churning just underneath the water directly in front of him. This wasn't caused by any current. Then a curled knot of flesh broke the surface momentarily almost fifteen feet away like a goddamn whale sounding. "Oh, motherfuck," he said.

He felt a tug from below and almost lost his balance. There was no way to fight this motherfucker in the water. He jerked his head back and quickly scanned the bank. It wasn't that far, he'd have to make a leap for it. Straining, he pulled closer into water that was no more than two feet now, and desperately reached into the thick, overhanging vines that were within grabbing distance. He had just squeezed his hand around one of the few dry, thick ones when he felt the coil of muscle tighten around his right ankle. "Oh Jesus!" he whispered desperately, his hand white against the vine as it arched down with a great creaking from above. "No..."

Then, incredibly, the reptile made a fatal mistake. Instead of staying underwater and pulling its victim into the creek to be drowned, the python pushed its head above the surface to get a look as it continued to pull from below. Just before Frederick was torn away from the vine he spotted the sleek, cylindrical head and unloaded all twelve rounds in its direction. Water spurted up from the misses, but the head did jerk back violently several times before plunging back into the creek.

Frederick pitched the 9 onto the bank. Then he grabbed hold of the vine with both hands and tried dragging the huge weight of the backpack and snake to drier ground. It was slow going and his strength was almost at its end, but the water was soon below his knee and luckily the bank here wasn't as slippery as the spot where he'd fallen in.

Even so, it took him the better part of twenty minutes to finally extract himself from the creek and its bed of muck, and only the grumbling in his stomach mixed with an equal dash of morbid curiosity allowed him to pull and tug at the python until he had beached a large portion of the monster. It wasn't the size of a horse, as he'd first expected, but such a comparison was simply splitting hairs. The damn thing was over fifteen feet long and weighed at least two hundred fifty pounds. He simply could not pull the whole thing out of the water, didn't want to either. He did have the head, and he took special pains to examine the area he'd laid down on. Incredibly, he counted seven bullet holes. Of course, some could have been made by the same bullet, but even so, that was some hellacious shooting. Maybe, indeed there is a God, he thought. But then, equally disconcerting, he also asked himself: Why the hell would He be helping me?

His body was almost drained, but not so much that he couldn't pull his knife out of his soaked pack and set to work on the snake. He cut off several nice size strips, roughly a foot long each and a couple of inches thick. Then he scaled off the tough, outer skin to get at the tender meat below, rolling it into tight balls that he stuffed into his wet pockets.

Luckily, the fire didn't take very long to get started even though a fine mist still hung near the ground. The clouds were fleecing the trees. He had several cans of Sterno and once he'd built a small teepee of twigs around the jar he lit the wick that worked only after he'd blown on it for five minutes. He continued piling the driest leaves he could find around the jar and twigs until he had a fledgling fire. Within twenty minutes, the thin droplets of moisture, rolling on from the mists were no match for the flame licking out of the Sterno can and around the cluster of kindling. He held each strip of meat across the flames, trying not to burn his fingers, and when the flesh was sufficiently blackened he popped it into his mouth.

"Just like fucking chicken," he muttered between bites, and the thought struck him with such force that he suddenly fell back on his heels in a spasm of laughter.

He didn't know he'd fallen asleep until the ache in his neck brought him around. When he opened his eyes they were staring directly down the line of his outstretched legs. His listless boots pointing into the air gave him a shudder as his mind likened them to dead legs he'd seen in westerns. He kicked his right leg just to jar the image, and thankfully, it responded. He wasn't dead yet it seemed.

He attempted to roll over onto his side and felt something slide off his chest. He pulled himself into a sitting position and looked down to see what it was. The skinning knife glimmered dully from its place in the mud at his side. He grabbed it and cleaned it across his shirt. A faint wisp of smoky fog hung in the air.

He cleared the sleep from his eyes and looked around. It was still oppressively hot, and what he could make out of the sun (little as it was) told him it was late afternoon. He sat up. His mouth tasted funny and he remembered the snake, its taste, the fight. It had begun to seem more dream than real.

Anyway, the two-foot section of skinned python served as a reminder it wasn't. There were no clear-cut explanations regarding the hallucination of Samuel Franklin, but the ragged spinal cord trailing away to the water was plenty proof the snake had been flesh and blood.

Damn he felt like shit. Nothing as bad as this morning but enough to still keep the good thoughts away. If there were any left, that is. He slowly got to his feet and shouldered the burdensome pack, noticing how a crusty patch of mildew had already taken anchor within a fold of the waterproof canvass. He ran a track through it with his finger. He looked at the yellow stain momentarily as if it could somehow reveal something he'd need later, and wiped it carelessly on his pants. He checked his location with the compass and hunched the pack tighter on his shoulders. Before he walked off he kicked the rest of the sodden, snake's corpse into the muddy creek water.

He trekked on through the terrarium world for the better part of the next two hours. His feet became leaden, his eyes hardly focusing through the rising steam. He found himself consciously willing himself to attention so that he did nothing as foolish as walk headlong into a tree, or plunge down a steep ravine, and each step seemed to bring him no further ahead than the ones that had gone before.

Chapter 18: The Talk with the Doctor

William pulled the Lexus up short in the parking space and fixed his eyes on the massive Doric columns standing sentinel alongside the sweeping facade, an elaborate gothic nightmare now aged and cracked to the point of seemingly murderous intent. The walls held the memory of white paint, but mildew had claimed domain in the many dank recesses surrounding the six-over-six windows and the fluted pilasters. Heaped pigeon shit encrusted a cracked-paned and empty dormer window on the third floor, and the steady flow of birds in and out of another vacant forth story window did nothing to soothe William's already frayed nerves. The building was a nightmare, even in full light. An elderly lawn worker stood laconically, far back in the garden to the left, the only hint of his servitude rather than confinement, a uniform with his unintelligible name stitched across one breast. Take off the shirt and the man was, by all accounts, a patient. Either that or a statue.

William reached for the door handle of the Lexus, fighting the temptation to use the cell phone. He wanted to know how things were rounding out with Lincoln, but didn't feel up to the conversation. There would be enough inside to go around, he felt sure of that. A knot of tension pulled tight in his stomach. He closed his eyes and slowly counted to 10. "One goddamn thing at a time," he said, popping the latch and getting out of the car.

He uncoiled his full height with as much confidence as he could muster, and straightened out his pant legs and jacket front with hands that were too cold for the weather. He pretended not to notice them shake as he did so. Finally, he set his chin and started toward the recessed paneled doors with their dusty fanlight and surprisingly freshly-painted pediment. The painters obviously hadn't gotten as far as the door yet either. And if one used the rest of the building as a standard, it might have a long wait ahead. As he got closer he imagined the entrance to Hell having an identical set of solid oak, ten-foot-high double doors with identical brass knockers pressed into the muddy side of some deep circle Dante had envisioned ages before. There, he'd figure them to be smoking. Here, they were not.

Strange to have that called up now. His eleventh grade English teacher had assigned Dante's The Inferno, and even though the majority of the class had bitched and moaned about it, William (who had never been anything close to an avid reader) soon found himself immersed in the fiery vision. With a sense of cloying dread he'd forced his way through the masterpiece, somehow comprehending the mixed-up wordplay with some uncanny sixth sense he'd been previously unaware of.

But he'd never read it in the house. Not in his mother's house.

He'd read it sitting beneath a diseased elm near one corner of their vast lawn. And the nights that had followed were still clear to him in shades of orange and red. It was then Pandemonium became an actuality in his mind, and in each diabolical realm there was always his mother holding forth.

He was sweating now as he approached the doors, and he paused to take a handkerchief out of his pocket. He wiped it across his forehead as he stood there. Glanced down at the linen, seeing the darkened, dirty swath his oils had cut across its clean surface. He didn't figure much clean awaited him inside either. He looked back over his shoulder, seeking out the man in the garden. Yes, still there, unmoving, staring at the ground as if waiting for something to well up. Maybe he was a patient.

Suddenly, the humiliation of peeing himself the day he'd found his mother and brother performing in his brother's bedroom floated to the center of his mind like a stray chip an unwitting miner had knocked free from a colossal, richly imbued vein of coal. He swallowed down the rising bile and reached for the doorknob. Oddly enough, it was cool to the touch.

Inside, the pristine lobby belied the belly of the beast. Smooth, polished tile reflected brilliantly from the second-story chandelier; replicas of some late Renaissance era painter hung high enough for the untrained eye to be fooled by their brightly copied extravagance. A wide, wrap-around balcony played along the upper two stories, funneling up to a Grecian dome protected from the sunlight by thick sheets of supposedly imported stained glass. In reality, the windows came from a glass-works shop in downtown Tupelo, from the cousin of a former state senator, but since no one questioned the mixture of Renaissance and Greco furnishings and artwork rampant all around, it took no extreme stretch to imagine the unschooled viewer transported to some European block country. The elaborate falseness of the entirety made William's stomach turn. He was all too well aware of the true purpose behind this uneasy façade. This was a house of devils.

He forced his feet to move him up to the receptionist's desk. Uh huh, he thought, the same old black woman he'd met every time (she didn't seem to remember a goddamn thing) sat heavily behind the walnut-covered veneer, her head bent down in an intense examination of the latest National Enquirer. William stood quietly before the sign-in sheet, letting almost a minute elapse before finally tapping his finger on the surface of the desk next to the absurd quill pen. Her obvious, and even self-righteous, disinterest was clear from her first glance. She didn't know who he was and cared even less. William fought to hold his tongue in check.

"I help you?" she asked, holding an arthritic finger to the place she'd left off in the magazine.

"Yes, I hope you can. I'm here to see Mrs. Nadine Franklin." Then when he didn't get the needed response. "She's one of your residents on the fourth floor." That was the secret, really, to the building. From the lobby it appeared the structure had three working floors, with the dome capping the false European architecture, but it wasn't so. The pigeons he'd seen from the parking lot were a testament to this fact. Part of the fourth floor was still functioning, a set-aside lock-down for the hopelessly lost, hidden from the public eye and padded by space and lumber against the mad sounds of the damned it contained.

A strange look came over the old woman's face as her hand slid slowly from its place in the magazine. At the same time a sharp knot formed up in William's throat and he knew he wouldn't ask again. He heard her say, slowly, "Mrs. Nadine Franklin?"

He nodded. Looked her dead on.

"Okay, sir..." she said, seeming to remember him now as she tried to hide her nervousness. This whole fucking crew just gave her the ever-living creeps. She broke eye contact. "Yeah, Miss Franklin. And you her...?" she didn't finish but didn't look up either.

"Son," he answered, suddenly aware of how tight his collar had gotten.

"Okay, okay..." she said. "Just a second," folding up the National Enquirer and pilfering mindlessly through another pile of shit on her desk that had absolutely nothing to do with his request. He watched her reach for a small tablet by a lipstick-stained coffee cup. She flipped through it quickly, her gnarled fingers moving surprisingly quick. William rubbed a hand across his dry lips and backed a pace away. She was scared to fucking death. His heart raced as he looked around, trying to be normal. Soon, the whole goddamn place would know her son was back. She pointed at something in the little tablet and put the phone to her ear, looking up at him finally with a timid, doleful stare. "It'll jus be a minute, sir," she whispered as if a conspiracy suddenly surrounded the two. "If you'll jus sit down I get a doctor with you in a minute."

William gave her a laconic nod and turned around slowly on his heels. Straight ahead, past a couple of columns that did not need to be there sat a leather full-size sofa with two matching club chairs. It was obviously supposed to suggest a feeling of family and home but in the spacious, sterile surroundings the arrangement only magnified the isolation he already felt. A thick, Oriental-patterned rug provided a footing for this "comfort zone," along with a thick, walnut table placed behind the sofa and holding a fake plant. The only other thing was a coffee table spilling magazines out on the floor.

He walked over and sat down, purposefully selecting the chair that faced away from the receptionist. He found himself fidgeting with his hands and grabbed a magazine off the coffee table. It didn't take him long to qualify the selection. Goddamn Psychology Today, Cosmopolitan, and People, with a scattering of Popular Mechanic and one or two National Geographic. The old bat up front must have had the other one. It made him want to scream.

He was checking his watch for the fourth time in as many minutes when he heard the voice from behind. It was a feminine voice, but used to authority. William turned his head and caught a glimpse of a set of well-proportioned, stockinged legs moving his way. His eyes traveled up the white coat. The first thought that hit him when he saw her face was, she's too young. But by that time she was standing in front of him. "Mr. Franklin," she said flatly, holding out her hand. She didn't smile.

He nodded in return, starting to his feet before she held out her hand to stop him. "No need to stand, Mr. Franklin," she said, looking around as if half-expecting someone to be listening in on their conversation. William folded back into the club chair; the furniture, like everything else inside this mind-fuck place, was simple façade, nothing substantial.

"I'm William Franklin," he said.

She held a folder in her left hand, but acted like it wasn't there. "You're the oldest son," she said.

"That's right."

She skirted the coffee table and sat down on the couch. Placed the folder on the pile of magazines. She looked him in the eye and said, all business, "I'm Dr. Marshall, Deborah Marshall. I'm in charge of the Fourth Floor residents." William almost choked to keep from laughing. Residents, give me a fucking break, he thought. Call them what they are: lunatics. He crossed his legs and put both hands together in his lap.

"What happened to Dr. Oslow?" he asked.

She looked off for the briefest second, as if in consideration of some ridiculousness, and came right back to his direct gaze. "Dr. Oslow is no longer on staff. He retired two years ago."

William's jaw tightened with the thinly-veiled rebuke, and he breathed out, careful to avoid blinking. He decided to let her do the rest of the talking. At least for now.

She leaned back on the couch, arranging her hands in her own lap as if she were mocking him. "If you'll pardon my asking, what brings you here today, Mr. Franklin? It's been almost eight months since her last visit, and that was your father...if I recall."

William let sit for four full beats before he said anything else. But he never took his eyes off her. "As a matter of fact, Dr. Marshall, I do fucking mind. She's my fucking mother and I'll see her when I wish and you don't have a goddamn thing to do with it. In case you didn't know, she is a private pay case." He uncrossed his legs and leaned forward in the chair.

Dr. Marshall remained nonplused. In fact, William's aggression seemed to please her, if anything. She kept her legs crossed and her voice never wavered from the edge of quiet authority that was, if anything, even more controlled now that she had his hackles up. "Mr. Franklin," she said. "You misunderstand me. I'm not trying to be argumentative or prying. Neither am I attempting to keep you from your mother. Please," and she smiled. "If I offended you, accept my apology."

William considered another cutting remark, but decided against it. He didn't want his father to hear about any of this shit.

She seemed to read his mind. "My curiosity is simply piqued today because your father called." She was looking down at her folder and didn't acknowledge him flinch although he found it hard to believe she didn't catch it. He wiped a hand across his face and cleared his throat.

She brought her eyes up to his, just stared silently for a moment or two. "Mr. Franklin. Would you mind if we continued this in my office?"

His reply was as short as his temper "Not at all, Doctor."

"Good." She picked up the folder and abruptly stood up. William clearly saw his mother's name on the tag. "It's right around the corner," she said, motioning in the general direction of the hallway leading off to the right past the receptionist's area.

He let her lead. She walked quicker than most women and their matching footsteps raised a mild clamor from the quiet, polished floor. She let him into her office as she stood off to the side, and he took one of the two smoking chairs positioned centrally in the spacious room in front of her monstrous desk. On it, nothing was out of place; everything seemed to have an unseen outline beneath it. But he noted that there were no pictures of children or significant other either. Besides the massive desk, the rest of the room was largely spartan. The only thing on the walls was a thin bookshelf stuffed into a corner, badly in need of dusting. Above the space behind her chair, perfectly centered between two parallel windows thickly shaded with dark blinds, hung two sheep-skinned degrees: Milsaps and Boston College. William thought it an odd pairing, but then what the hell did he know about formal education?

She came around the edge of the desk.

He made sure to be the first to speak when she sat down. "Is there something I should know?" he asked.

She didn't look at him immediately. Instead she opened the file and glanced through it briefly while he thought of killing her. Then she closed it and turned her full attention on him. "Your brother also has a history of trouble," she said matter-of-factly, ignoring his question.

He leaned forward again. "I don't see the point." He looked around, raised his hands. "This why you brought me in here? Questions about my brother?" He was tired of this country fuck, regardless of her degrees. He would never be cowed by these mind-fucks, these slick assholes with the need to plaster what little self-worth they possessed in gaudy frames hanging above their heads. No one in the Franklin clan had ever been in for formal education; whatever high school diplomas there had ever been were long since disregarded. Money was the thing that spoke. This slick cunt was only another lackey, her automobile probably purchased through the huge sums of money families like his paid to forget their troubles, or at least to keep them safely behind locked doors. He was suddenly very tired of fucking around.

All this ran through his mind in seconds while he stared at the top of Dr. Marshall's nicely-shampooed hair. She obviously hadn't decided how to stay on top of this particular bull, he determined. He asked again, "I said, 'Is that the reason we're in your office, Doctor?"

When she jerked her steely glare upon him, the advantage he'd felt sure of withered like a mushroom in the sun. She roared ahead, as if finally glad the curtain of civility had been drawn aside. "Let's get one thing straight right now, Mr. Franklin." Her fuse had played out too. "You are not going to walk into my hospital with your New Orleans attitude and demand anything! There is no record of a visit by you for months, over a year, and now for some indeterminate reason you appear demanding this and that with your disgraceful attitude! I have been in close contact with your father about your mother, and he appears very satisfied with how she's being dealt with. And he, sir, happens to be the one who pays her bills!" She actually brought her fist down in a small arc to her tastefully clean desk as punctuation. William's mouth was an indecipherable line below his nose.

He tried to hold his voice steady. "I don't have to justify one goddamn thing to you," he said. "I drove all the way here to see my mother, and so far all I've gotten is a bunch of beating-around-the-fucking-bush-bullshit!" His fingers lashed out and seized the smoothly-polished wooden armrests on his chair. Dr. Marshall proved quick on the uptake and decided to diffuse the situation. Her crude experiment had proved what she wanted to know.

She held up her hands in a willing surrender, although her eyes remained hard and fixed upon the seething man barely restrained across from her. "Mr. Franklin...please, Mr. Franklin. I'm sorry to be so brusque, but—"

"Brusque? Are you kidding me, Brusque? What the fuck kind of twenty-dollar word is that?"

She took no opportunity to indulge him. Instead, she said, "There has been some trouble with your mother lately, Mr. Franklin."

William eased off. "What are you talking about?"

"It is becoming increasingly difficult to keep your mother as a patient here, Mr. Franklin. Perhaps that has shown in my attitude, and for it I apologize. Your mother is a very unique individual," she added, nodding silently as if agreeing with something only she had heard.

William leaned forward and let the words form slowly on his tongue so there would be no chance of misunderstanding. "Would you mind telling me what this is all about?" A methodical ticking started in his left eye lid.

Dr. Marshall pushed the file she'd carried with her into the room across the desk to William but he made no move toward it. She let it remain where it was and continued. "Mr. Franklin, your mother is no ordinary patient, as I said. Even here. More and more, she is becoming...how can I put this? Very simply, she is becoming a liability."

"My father—" William attempted, but Dr. Marshall waved him silent with a sweep of her hand. Very few people could do this, and even William knew it.

"Please excuse me if I'm wrong, but I'm sure you don't know how much your father is paying for your mother's care here. From the look on your face it is obvious you have no idea what I'm talking about so I will lay it on the line. You seem the kind of man who understands such...directness.

"Would you like to take a look at her folder?"

William refused to take the bait. Instead, he plodded on, unmindful of whatever disaster was on the way. "Why don't you spare me the sermon and get to the point," he growled. His heart visibly pounding away in his temple. A thin line of sweat had formed at his hairline, but he did nothing to wipe it away now.

"Very well. This facility no longer feels it is equipped to handle your mother as a ward. We don't like to kid ourselves here with charlatan practices or any other form of hoodoo magic, but sadly that has even been considered. But it is with increasing urgency that the administration is realizing her need to be transferred."

William collapsed back in the chair. He felt a bead of sweat race down his cheek. "Transferred?" he managed. "Where?"

"We are at a loss to say. However, we no longer feel adequate in the staffing and care of your mother. Your father has been informed of this, but each time he has offered to up the patient fee. Up until now the upper administration has bent to his wishes." She folded her hands into a tent on the desks polished surface, and for the first time William noticed how red her fingernails were. Like a whore's, he thought.

"Bent to his wishes?" he repeated and laughed, pausing to look around the room in amazement. "For Christ's sake, why won't somebody in this nuthouse tell me what the fuck is going on?" The walls gave no answer and he looked back at the doctor, shaking his head slowly back and forth.

Dr. Marshall didn't even flinch. "I don't like being patronized, Mr. Franklin."

"Why do you want my mother out of here?" he demanded. His patience was at an end.

"We don't believe there is anything left for us to do. She has, we believe, overstepped our bounds."

"Overstepped your bounds?" he repeated in disbelief. "Jesus, are all you people here as crazy as the inmates? Let's knock this shit off and tell me exactly what the hell you're talking about? My mother is a high-priced ward in your hospital" (and here he made his hands into hypothetical quotation marks), "very high-priced, I'm sure, although as you say, I don't know the exact figure. But now I learn, unwanted, also. And here I sit playing pin-the-tail-on-the-donkey with an equally high-priced" (again the quotation marks) "pill-pusher who only makes things more confusing. It doesn't get any wilder in a tent revival!"

Dr. Marshall's eyes cut to thin slats and she glared at him with a ferocity that itself verged on violence. "An interesting observation, Mr. Franklin, and one you're free to entertain. Nonetheless, it is a fact. It is also a fact, and I say this with all due seriousness, that your mother is probably in more need of a priest than any medical doctor."

William actually jumped when the ax finally came down. Another faint trickle appeared below his hairline and raced after the other. His voice, when he found it, was no more than a whisper. "A priest? Is this some more of your hocus-pocus bullshit, Doctor?" By this time he could actually picture his hands around her throat, just beginning to squeeze...and squeeze. He was suddenly afraid of what he might do, but could no more leave than walk to the moon. If it ended up that he smashed her office to bits, and threw her head through the plate-glass window, so be it. Destiny sat precariously nearby. "I want some goddamn answers," he dead-panned.

Again Dr. Marshall pushed away from her desk, as if instinctively aware of the potential danger sitting, razor-sharp, across from her. Now she took the time to notice the office door had swung shut, and there was nobody at hand. Of course, they would hear when she screamed, but God forbid—She could see a hint of the Thing in his eyes, the Thing that had grown to perfection in his mother, and most undoubtedly his brother also. She hoped the tremor she felt race through her body was not obvious.

"Mr. Franklin—" she said, fighting for the control he'd somehow wrenched from her.

"Let's cut the 'Mr. Franklin' bullshit, okay? I don't pay the goddamn bills around here, remember?"

She held up her hand, placating the furious man. His sweating had become disorienting and he was glad she was feeling a little of the same. "William," she said, acknowledging his request. "This is really getting us nowhere."

He leaned forward, taking both hands off the chair's arm rests. He placed them almost gingerly on the surface of her desk, with a careful consideration that belied their blunt presence. "You're right," he admitted, his voice dripping with poison. "So far this conversation has taken us nowhere. My time is money, and I'm tired of wasting both in this office cracking off insults to a woman I've never even met before." He closed his mouth and put two fingers to his lips as he gazed off above the sheepskins lining the wall behind her. He nodded and slowly pulled his hands away from her desk like a crocodile sliding back into the mud. When he brought his gaze back down from the diplomas, he was smiling. "Why don't you tell me about the priest?" he said.

The quick shift in tone allowed her a few seconds to gain a tenuous foothold. Her unseen feet tapped nervously beneath the desk (thankfully on a thick carpet), her conscious telling her she'd just missed a catastrophe. She willed her own sweat to freeze. "What I can tell you, you probably don't want to hear," she said simply.

"I've missed something?"

She tightened her mouth and decided enough was enough. "William," she began carefully, filing her pronunciation down to a point. "We believe your mother was involved in occult behavior before she was institutionalized. Do you have any opinion on this?"

She saw William's jaw tighten, his throat constricting as if he'd just swallowed a rock. She felt no satisfaction, and issued a short prayer to the god in charge of sweat secretion. William's breath came in two short little drags, then stopped. His eyes found the floor around the base of the chair and his advantage disappeared like a leaf of paper in high winds.

"Are we correct in this assumption?" Dr. Marshall prodded.

Another second ticked away. The air condition kicked on in the room and a steady droning whisper eased the still contagion that'd taken root. William's head was still turned toward the floor. "Do you have any information that would help us?" she tried again, feeling like maybe she'd chinked the armor.

He didn't raise his eyes when he spoke and his voice remained, surprisingly, in control. "You're talking spooks? I've driven all the way from New Orleans to be handed some half-baked horseshit from Fantasy Land?"

Dr. Marshall remained calm, but wondered how loud she'd have to scream for someone to hear her down the hall. She questioned her earlier confidence in dealing with the man. His mother's face was too easily seen in the furrowed brow, the snarling set of his chin. "Mr. Franklin," she began. "Please don't get upset. I'm just trying to make you see the situation through our eyes. We here are very aware of the troubles your m--"

William pounded a fist on her desktop and stood up violently. As it turned out Dr. Marshall needn't have worried about being heard down the hall; her guest provided all the amplitude necessary.

"AWARE OF HER TROUBLES!!" he shouted as she shrank back, fighting for the recesses of her leather chair. Finally, her eyes peeled back in real, unabashed terror.

He leaned toward her and she felt the spittle pepper her face as he planted both curled fists squarely in the center of her desk. "IT'S TIME YOU LISTENED TO ME, YOU GODDAMN WITCHDOCTOR! YOU DON'T KNOW SHIT ABOUT MY MOTHER OR ANY OF US, YOU FUCKING CUNT!" He was within inches of her face (and she could see the mother so clearly now, ghastly, remarkable) when the door to her office was wrenched open.

"What the hell's goin on in here?!" a rough, masculine voice bellowed from somewhere behind him. William ripped his attention away from the doctor with a snarl, and spun around with clenched fists. He instantly sized the man up, and for a moment he could barely hold back the Thing that now raged in his body. The other man saw it and backed off a step.

"Now listen here, mister," the orderly said, his hands out but his feet set. If there would be trouble, he looked ready. "I don't know what this is about, but I believe it's time you left." He squared off. William looked at the man, closed his eyes for a moment to clear the stars from his vision, and when he did open them, his face broke into a smile. A smile that held only death and hatred.

"No, you listen here, black man. You don't know who the fuck you're talking to."

The orderly seemed to stand a few inches taller. "I don't know and I don't care. All I do know is that you'll be leaving now with or without the police. The choice is yours."

For another agonized moment William considered rushing the larger man and ripping his eyeballs out of his head. Only an incredible push of self-control kept him from it. He slowly brought his fists down (he found them banded together at his chest), and smoothed unseen wrinkles out of his jacket before letting them swing free.

"The choice is mine, is it?" he mocked, turning his attention away from the big man at the door and focusing once more on the doctor quaking in the chair. "I was just telling the good doctor that I was on my way out, and now look at this. I have a ready-made escort." Then he barged out of the room without another word, the orderly backing up to give him a wide berth.

The doctor and the orderly remained in the room listening in tomb-like silence as William's angry footsteps echoed on the marble floor as he surged toward the front door.

"Thank you, Jeb," Dr. Marshall whispered when the sound of the front door banging closed reached them. She was shaking so badly that her words hardly had form.

"Did he do anything? Should I call the police?" he asked.

"No, no." She waved at him nervously. "Just give me a few minutes."

"Who was that?"

She managed to look him in the eyes. Her fear evident. "William Franklin. We have his mother upstairs."

The orderly reached out for the back of William's vacated chair. After a moment he felt it best that he sit down too. He mumbled the semblance of a prayer, "God help us...I knew I'd seen those eyes before."

William stalked from the entrance and crossed the parking lot. His eyes still held a deep menace that verged on the edge of explosion. His rational mind had kicked in there at the last, telling him to leave, just to get the fuck out. At least if he still intended on remaining a free man. "That fucking bitch," he sneered, grinding his teeth together. "I'll cut her fucking head off," but this image did little to still his racing pulse. For a lost moment he stopped and almost turned around.

"Cut the shit," he warned himself. "You've got your hands full as it is."

Back at the Lexus he happened to glance again at the garden where he'd seen the black man staring. He was still there, but instead of standing as he had before, he was bent at the knees and hunched over close to the ground. Pawing at something William couldn't see, apparently unaware of this long distance scrutiny. "Fucking loony bin," William said, blowing air out between his teeth.

Once inside the car he sat very quiet for several moments, collecting himself. The cunt was lucky to still be breathing and he felt she knew it. Not many people had ever fucked with him like that and lived to tell the tale. Some air head in a lab coat treating him like a bumbling redneck asshole from some shack in the woods. He savagely pictured her bent over the desk in her office, the lab coat thrown up around her head, her shiny white ass naked and round as he rammed his dick in and taught her who was boss. He knew how to fix cunts like her. And as he mused on this dark fantasy his pants suddenly grew very tight, until he finally had to let the image loose. He opened his eyes.

What kind of a hospital was this anyway? With its talk of priests and 'occult behavior'? Just what kind of a place was this?

His father had not said a word--not one fucking word--about the potential of his mother being moved from the institution. But the good doctor had said she was riding on borrowed time. Undoubtedly a much shorter period now that he'd raised ten different kinds of hell in the bitch's office. And he already knew there was no way this would slip the Old Man's attention. She was probably on the phone right this minute.

Oh yeah she'd gotten to him. Goddamn. He sat in the car shaking his head slowly as if working out a crick. She'd seen the truth. Whatever it was that lived in them, in all of them, the good doctor had touched it because William had seen the fear in her eyes. Pure, unadulterated terror. And this time it had come from him. There was really no way to throw off the shackles of heredity, even though one might try for years to sugar coat the poison, or to lock it away somewhere in the black recesses of the mind. It had peeked and she'd seen. After all, she'd known what to look for.

He remembered how the piss had felt running down his leg that long ago, lost day.

Yeah, she'd seen something, but she hadn't seen that. He'd take that to the grave and let it molder alongside his corpse. It'd be a lock never opened.

A dangerous thought suddenly railed back that he should go storming back inside, demanding to see his mother, and God help them if they pulled any more bullshit. But he knew it wouldn't do. Already the image of his father, phone to his ear and eyes wide as he heard this story, came to his mind full bore, demanding some sort of explanation. No, he had to end this rampage; he had already caused enough trouble. The Old Man would be holy hell to straighten out, first with Samuel's unexplained whereabouts and now with William skirting the lunatic fringe at the institution. It sounded like a fucking soap opera. Better to let this thing stand alone before it broke him completely.

Because, let's face it, he didn't actually want to see his mother. He knew nothing positive would come from it, and as he sat in the car he wondered what had possessed him to come over today in the first place. With hardly a second thought.

The Old Man, a voice told him coolly. He spooked you.

Maybe so, he thought. But that still didn't explain why he'd gotten his balls up for this sudden road trip. This looked like a shitstorm of major proportions. "Motherfuck," he said. He glared out the windshield, his mind racing. Nothing looked good. He shook his head and fired the engine to life, backed away from his parking spot leaving rubber behind.

But even as he fish-tailed out of the parking lot onto the highway, the bent, black gardener remained fixed, attending to whatever business called him to the dirt he pawed at.

William had the phone jammed to his ear before he was even to the highway.

Chapter 19: The Lagoon

Frederick stopped, certain he heard the faint, whispering hush of falling water. He held his breath in, straining to pick out the phantom sound. Nothing. He turned his head slightly and this time heard it again. Even so, he couldn't tell how far. But as he stumbled through the undergrowth another hundred paces, the noise grew, became unmistakable. A waterfall most likely, and from the growing susurrations, a substantial one. He didn't remember seeing one on his map, but knew that didn't mean a whole lot. Jungle rains created and destroyed countless lesser streams, run-offs, and transitory ponds daily. He'd found out through experience that mapped topography and actual topography had a tendency to vary widely.

He didn't even bother pulling out the compass to check his heading. His arms were tired from pulling and pushing at the ponderous vines and other foliage that lined every step of the goddamn way. Down here at the floor of the jungle it was suffocating; the very air seemed to be in conspiracy against him as he trudged ahead. But there was water ahead and water meant life. Again he slashed out with the short-bladed machete, and inched slowly forward. Only a slight variation in sound convinced him he was moving in the right direction, but it was still uncertain, puzzling how the sound remained almost constant, unchanging. He reasoned that the tightly-packed jungle itself was behind this theft of sound. Perhaps the whole goddamn thing was a mirage. There was a great heaviness pressing him down, wrapping him slowly in a strangling death-grip.

Twice he had to stop, furiously seeking out the lost sound amid the huge omnipotence surrounding him. It seemed he hacked through several more miles of jungle before the sound of falling water again became unmistakable. No phantom now, but real. Even while swinging the blade. He forgot his initial disquiet. He began to imagine himself stumbling out onto some sandy glade, emerging from this green, dripping Hell into a startling Eden. He tried to bite back on it.

He saw a brightness ahead, a clearing surely. It worked at pulling apart the shadows itself as he heaved forward, hacking harder and faster now. In fact, he was moving so fast and carelessly that a downward arc finally broke him through the borderland, spilling him out into what was actually a skinny ring of muddy beach. He pulled himself to his knees, flung the machete off a few yards. Sunlight danced against his closed eyelids. For several, thankful, lost moments he remained just so, on his knees, his hands useless at his side. Only when the euphoria began to wane did he dare open his eyes.

The lagoon was as irregular as anything truly natural is likely to be. It formed a thin, pronounced ribbon ten yards deep, reaching out to skirt a slight, patched attempt at an island, until finally widening out into a bowl practically a quarter-mile away. From his vantage point, he could just make out a waterfall on the far side. The lagoon formed a recessed cup at the base of a ridge of ragged slopes. They were surely no more than 800-1,000 feet above sea level but their overbearing presence immediately caused a tickling feather of discomfort in the back of Frederick's throat. Perfection could be cruel, could lie. He would be a fool now to ignore history and other ominous legends from the past. But let's face it, what other plan did he have? Stagger back into the fucking jungle? No. The sun made nightmares dim and featureless.

He rocked back onto the sand, his elbows digging in. He looked around and began to smile, shaking his head at the things he'd endured on the way to this place. He struggled out of his backpack and left it on the beach beside him. He couldn't remember ever being so glad to see the sunshine. Even fucking 'Nam didn't come close. That's right, he told himself. Enjoy, but don't get too fucking carried away. Don't forget what's happened. Even if you do get out the real fun will just be starting. He nodded at this, too, but the smile refused to go.

"Where to?" he said aloud. His voice sounded foreign, vulnerable out here in the open, and he cast his head nervously about. Some of the magic had escaped with that one utterance, and he did feel the cool, trailing needle that left a reminder of where he was at his spine. Only a few days back in the bush, and he was already starting to lose civilization. Just like in 'Nam, the vestiges of that animal even now rearing its head again. There was no comfortable distance between the violence and death that crouched on the edge of the Real World. Civilization had its trappings and rituals; here there was no ritual save living and dying. One thing was sure enough though, inaction led to a swift death.

This thought pushed away the others as he lay there on the bank, his elbows dug into the sand, his mind drifting to places it hadn't been in a long while. He sat up and tried to stretch the fatigue from his body.

He looked around again, paying attention to every detail of the lagoon. A beautiful place in different circumstances, a potential liability to him now. He needed to get away from the water, up to a vantage point where he'd hopefully be safe for the night. A place he could dig his back into and fight like a demon if need be. A place where he'd have an advantage.

That ridge. He would pitch there tonight. He felt sure it was a dominant enough feature as to be recorded on his map. It surely circled around the lagoon with enough authority. He had to be close to that fucking highway. Even going on low numbers, he felt sure he'd covered enough ground. Christ, it'd been four days now!

That's right, four days, the voice reminded him. Only four. Once in 'Nam he'd been pursued through the jungle for the better part of two weeks. You made it then and you can damn sure make it now, he tried to remind himseslf. Hell, this time you're not even being chas--

This thought stuck in his mind like a dry bone in a dog's throat. No, no, no. No more of that shit. Not here, not now. Of course, he'd been scared; he'd been off balance. His mind had played tricks on him. It wasn't that hard to explain: he'd hallucinated. Plain and simple. But now it was time to leave all that behind. Now it was time to keep on living or get on with dying.

He closed his eyes and meditated for a moment. When he opened them again he felt steady. The ridge would take him no more than thirty minutes, an hour tops. Even from here he could make out the way. Okay, next. There were still several hours until nightfall and it would do no good to hang around here. But my God, he was filthy! Better to wash the grime off and start fresh.

And the water did look beautiful. He wouldn't be in long, just enough time to leech the rest of the ache out of his bones. The last couple of days had worn him thin. He scanned the tree line for a large rock or fallen tree he could hang his clothes and backpack on. There, a rotted, sinewy length of withered tree bowing out of the competition along the border of the lagoon thirty feet to his left. The jungle had crept up far enough there that the beach was gone, but Frederick could tell from the shadows on the water that it wasn't very deep. It would suffice as a hat rack in a pinch.

He made his way over and discovered he was right, the water was no higher than his ankles, and he hung his backpack on what looked to be a fairly stout branch. His boots and socks he took from around his neck and hung them likewise. As he leaned against the tree, he took off his pants, only getting them minimally wet in the process. The 9 was safe in a leg pocket, disengaged from his body for the first time since beginning this fucked-up odyssey. He hung his shirt from the same branch and was suddenly comfortably naked for the first time in what seemed like months. This was indeed a day of firsts.

Oddly enough, he did not feel vulnerable. The sun was too high, the water too cool. The perfection of the moment could not be denied.

He moved farther into the water until it ringed his waist and stood there scarcely breathing. The tension he'd carried with him since the initial meeting with the brothers ran off in steady waves. Even the nagging thought of piranhas held little fear. He fanned out his arms, appreciating the clear, mirror-like surface. His feet undulated beneath him.

He puffed out his chest and dropped to his knees on the soft, muddy bottom. Nice. He reclined with his legs thrown out in front while he rested his bouncing ass in the depressions his knees had left. The rigorous days began to drift away. Hell, maybe there would still turn out to be a way out of this hellish mess. All he had to do was make it out of the jungle, turn a deal in some rat-fuck hole of a town off the highway (wherever that happened to be), and make it back to the now almost mythical land of Thibodaux, Louisiana. That was it, simple. And then fuck the Franklins. This was no time to turn pussy. He bobbed there for a while and thought good thoughts with a grim smile on his face.

Not long after he heard the twig snap.

He snorted water into his nose as he started up, momentarily thrown off balance. Bent over, he coughed several times before he got control, and then hunkered down, his mind racing. He scanned the tree-shrouded bank but could find no source for the noise.

Then, closer still, another snap. And as his eyes hurried to mark the spot, he thought he caught a glimpse of clothing lurching among a swaying bush set back from the bank. Off to the left, thankfully, away from the place where his clothes and backpack swayed gently from the branch. He crouched forward, closing ground on the leaning tree while panning the bank with his eyes.

There it was again, farther left still. Frederick caught himself breathing loudly and cursed under his breath. Should have taken the goddamn gun! The image came instantaneously: a man popping out of the jungle darkness, one of the Colombians or even an Indian, smiling with murderous intent as he got to the tree first, rummaging around in the backpack until finding the gun and then unloading until Frederick floated naked, bleeding and dead, face-down in this forgotten lagoon, slowly taking on water until he sunk to the bottom.

His hands began to shake. Another sound, louder; a crash this time as Frederick strained to make out the form making its way through the underbrush.

When it came it was as if the jungle had vomited the form from itself. The decomposing body spilled out to the bank with nightmarish violence, twisting and swinging madly as it tumbled toward the water line. And then it almost went down, but didn't. There was no doubt; hallucination or not, there was no doubt now.

"Oh my God," Frederick whispered when the apparition turned its single-eyed gaze on him.

Impossibly, the remains of Samuel Franklin stood on the bank. Its clothes hung in tatters and were fouled beyond all recognition, bulging at the seams from the swollen flesh rising from within the tears in the torn fabric. Frederick caught the rancid smell rolling off the body and gagged. Went down to one knee in the water.

The body took a few lurching steps in his direction, seemingly in more control now that its target was fixed. Frederick rubbed a dripping forearm across his eyes to clear what had to be a trick of the light, a weird case of sunstroke. But it was still there, its feet even now making contact with the water as it came on. Frederick rolled instinctively to the right, attempting a circle flank toward the handgun, amazed at himself for actually believing he was falling for this continuing bizarre hallucination.

"No, man, no," he whispered again. This was no hallucination. Whatever hellish thing this was, it was indeed no hallucination. The time was over for fooling himself. "This is what you saw the other night," he said almost conversationally. The how and why of it didn't mean anything anymore. Only one thing mattered: the rotten body of his drug-dealing connection was slowly entering the water.

Coming after him.

The stench increased as the breeze changed direction, and Frederick found it impossible to look away from the shambling form. Now it was no more than thirty feet away, rotting-thigh deep, cutting an oily swath in the placid water with a slow fecundity of movement that was painful to watch.

The nose had completely sloughed away, and in the black hollow that remained something, some animal maybe, had appeared to take up residence; the wound looked chewed and raw. The dead eye hung out on a shriveled stalk, swinging back and forth like a crumpled golf ball at the end of a string of cat gut. The rest of the face was a study in contrasts, contorted by wet and dried patches that alternately sagged and stretched. The mouth a swollen hole that gaped wide and leaked putrescence. The tongue had split in several places and lolled out now long and thin. What was left of the body (or what little he could make of it through its shell of rotted clothing) had swelled grotesquely and peeled away from the bone in a few places. There was no blood but Frederick could make out a gray loop of intestine playing out from the recesses of the distended and blown stomach, leaving a greasy trail behind it in the water. A ribbon of muscle vibrated madly at the thing's left arm, causing the fingers there to beat an insane staccato on the lagoon's surface.

But even with these horrible wounds it moved much faster than Frederick expected. The horror movies from his childhood had always depicted such monstrosities as slow and ponderous, but this was different. Frederick was not curled up on a sofa, listening to people talk in the background as he casually watched the hero or heroine stumble to their doom. This time he was actually backing away from something that had no right to exist. There was no channel-changer, no comfortable bed in which to escape. He suddenly believed in Hell then, with a conviction that had never entered his mind before. Not even in 'Nam.

"I've gotta be out of my fucking mind," he said, not worrying about whispering now. If he'd gone around the bend there was no use in whispering. But he continued rounding away to the bank, angling for the leaning tree. He slipped on the bottom and his head dipped below the surface for a second, his eyes wide in the now disturbed, murky water. His mind's eye pictured the thing speeding up, hurrying to get its rotting hands around his—

He flung himself up, slinging his head this way and that to clear the water. Through his blurred vision he found the monster, now in almost to its putrid chest, checking its course to find him out. The slack face was devoid of emotion, but the one fiery, baleful eye pushed far back in the doughy flesh sought out its prey with a feverish intensity.

Frederick stumbled again on a sudden incline, but regained his balance just as fast, lunging forward, almost going under again, only maintaining his balance with a sheer act of will. The fetid stench was now almost unbearable, the reek of graves. Madness loomed only scant seconds away.

The crash had not been the end of it. Somehow, in the midst of this extraordinary cluster fuck, the whole nightmarish scenario continued to get worse. He coughed out a mouthful of water and hurried ahead, paddling with his arms, trying to get back to his pack, his gun.

A loud, gurgling belch punched the air behind him. Frederick leapt ahead, high-stepping into the now knee-deep water, churning and digging with both hands and feet as he made his way into the shallows. Once there he stood with the water still lapping about his ankles (the tree only feet away) and paused to gape at the thing coming up from behind. Although still submerged to its stinking chest, what was left of the Franklin brother slowly turned toward him.

"The fucking Twilight Zone," Frederick muttered, whispering again. Now, for unknown reasons, he didn't want his voice to carry in the nightmare he found himself a part of. Coherency and logic were long gone.

He splashed up to the tree where he'd left the pack and clothes. His pants were easy enough to get into and he soaked them through in the process. Then he thrust his hand inside the pack and pulled out the 9mm. It had one in the chamber and eight more in the handle.

He spun around, pistol up and ready.

What was left of Samuel looked a bit heavy in the water. It was thrashing around madly again, the one livid eye glaring out of the rotten face. No time for the boots now, just grab the pack and go!

But it was still coming, fetid and stinking of the grave that had not yet claimed it to rest.

Frederick fired and the phantom's ragged shirt puffed out in a spray of red and black. The dead thing spun back a foot or so, but turned back. Its jaw worked as if chewing.

"Motherfucker, you're going down," he snarled, closing his right eye to get better aim. He'd always been good with a pistol and he thought the next several moments just might save his soul. Three more shots rang out in rapid succession, one splashing in the water to the left of the monster. 9 millimeter handguns were notoriously inaccurate at a distance, much more effective in close-in fighting. A wild thought entered his head. You don't miss in nightmares, do you? But he had and what did that say?

He pulled the trigger again until the gun was empty.

A sliver of smoke trailed out of the barrel, and where the form had been only a wide ripple played out. But he could still see one monstrously bloated hand, floating black and limp on the surface. The water was far too muddy now to see anything below it. And then a swollen lump of intestines rolled to the surface and bobbed silently next to the hand.

Frederick squinted at the spot. Nothing moved, but again, it was impossible to know what was going on beneath the water. What could have been a clump of hair made a darker mark just below the surface like a shadow. Only then did he realize his pants were down around his ankles, soaking wet. He quickly pulled them up and buckled them. He breathed out heavily, lost in a sense of revelry that was still greatly hallucinogenic. He was completely detached, like nothing he'd ever experienced in 'Nam.

Like nothing he'd experienced anywhere.

He peeled his shirt from the branch and pulled it on quickly. Everything was intact; wet pants but he could deal with that. There were plenty of other things that he was having a much harder time dealing with at present.

He'd just turned to slosh toward the bank when he heard another splash behind him. He didn't find the courage to turn around until he was on the bank. Where the hand and intestines had been there was now a thick, bubbling clot of oily liquid spreading out, and the smell made him groan. He had just the time to clap a hand over his mouth before vomiting through his fingers. He back-pedaled, lost his balance, and came down hard on his ass on the bank. His stomach did loops as he sought the remaining four magazines he knew were in the backpack. He puked again and went double. He scrabbled at the wet sand, pushed himself farther toward dry ground. The lagoon now held the stench of a sewer. Finally, he was out to the tree line. He slung the pack to the ground and went down on one knee to hunt down those goddamn magazines. Done. He thumbed out the spent magazine and jammed the next one home.

The noise was back, even though the stench was less where he stood. He closed his eyes and spun around to greet whatever was left to emerge from the water.

It was still coming. The monster weaved slightly from side to side, the wet rags not doing enough now to convince what they'd covered was human. The pulpy head was bent to the left shoulder, and the slivered tongue shimmered blackly in the light. The hair had peeled away from the forehead in a massed furrow laying far back from that goddamn eye.

Frederick steadied the weapon again. He squeezed the trigger.

The thing's head jerked back and for a glorious second Frederick was sure it was going down. A chunk of hair flew away from the clotted mess of its head, but it remained upright. The head, which was lying almost perpendicular to the shoulder now, slowly rotated around. Frederick could see the perfect circle punched in the white, skinless cranium no more than an inch from that fucking eye. Puss oozed from the hole.

He fired again, watching in a new slow-motion time as the drift of shirt knotted around the huge, purple forearm shredded. The arm jerked out and around. Frederick emptied the rest of the new magazine into the monster.

A black thatch of hairy meat flew away from the thing's side, far down near the hip. Skin slid and fell away, slabbing off into the water like left-over food dumped into a disposal. As if each shot hit secret levers that released great masses of flesh. The smell grew unbearable, and when Frederick retched again there was nothing more to come up. But he collapsed to his knees, his trigger finger still clicking on dead cylinders.

The moment took him unaware, gave him distance from his predicament. Gave him time to think. The jungle had never shown him this underbelly. Of course he'd seen atrocities in 'Nam, but never something not of man's own making. Yes, he'd stood in the middle of a burning village; he'd smelled the sweet, cloying scent as children boiled in the conflagration. But nothing like this. What about the little girl, a voice in his mind asked? He shook his head, trying to dispel the thing he'd fought back so many years. But it refused to go.

Not now.

"No," he whispered. "Definitely not fucking now." Perhaps this creeping horror had been after him ever since, biding its time. Because the devil always got his due. And goddammit, he was getting his now, like it or not.

So this is how the mouse feels when the snake locks those black eyes on it, he thought. He ripped through the pack again, extracting another magazine from the very bottom. He stumbled to his feet.

The motherfucker was back. The thing that had been Samuel Franklin was up again and moving through water that barely lapped at its gangrened, flayed ankles. What had been left of the pants had slogged away, and the awful reminder of what had made this thing male was long and hard, set deeply between the rotting thighs, blackened like a horse dick and oozing nastiness from the tip.

It wouldn't stop. And in the back of his mind, hadn't he always known it wouldn't?

Bullets were not going to stop it. Hell itself would probably not be able to stop it. He almost laughed then, finding it amazing how much religion he'd managed to stuff into the last few minutes. No, the only thing he could do now was put as much distance between them as possible. And plenty of it.

A loud, gaseous fart rolled out of the approaching monstrosity, and it was this final disgust that got him moving. He hunched down, near panic, and broke left around a large, wet rock near the border area of the trees and lagoon. Then he began crashing pell-mell into the scraggy brush behind it. And his screams sounded more animal than human, and above all, lost.

The thing, relentless, was soon to the break Frederick had torn along the bank, leaving bits of itself hanging from the undergrowth. And as it disappeared into the jungle the sun played curious tricks of light with the slick of grease it left behind on the once again silent lagoon.

Chapter 20: Lincoln's End

The Bull picked up the blood-stained rag and wiped his knuckles, knowing it would be a while before they were finished with this. William was fucking pissed. The Bull noticed a cut on his right middle finger and let it bleed into the rag, sucking at his teeth as he did so. The rest of the blood was Lincoln's. He'd always hated the scumbag duct taped to the chair in front of him and now he had the sonofabitch right where he wanted him.

Lincoln's face was a swollen, dripping mess. All his front teeth (top and bottom) were scattered either on the floor or in his lap. The beating had been going on for quite a while now. It only stopped when the Bull got winded, or when Lincoln passed out. Then the smelling salts were in order; eight broken caplets also scattered the floor with the rest of the shit down there.

William Franklin sat silently at the table on the other side of the room. There was a lethal, animal look in his eyes as he chain-smoked. The old fan worked noisily in the corner. He pursed his lips and knocked the ash off the end of his cigarette.

The Bull looked across the room at William. "You ready for me to start on this motherfucker again, Boss?" He pitched the bloody rag into the wash basin in the corner. William leaned forward, didn't say anything as he studied the beaten man slumped in the chair. He held up his hand and the Bull didn't say anything else. He knew how William was.

Very slowly, William took out another cigarette from his pack and lit it up. He took a drag and held it out in front of him like some strange specimen he'd found as the smoke swirled up to the ceiling. The groans coming from the figure taped to the chair signaled he was coming back to the world. This time they'd let him come back naturally. In his own good time. William waited awhile as Lincoln's eyes fluttered and his groans got louder. They'd really fucked him up. When Lincoln finally raised his head and looked across the table William smiled. "Well, hello there, beautiful. Back from your nap I see." He held the cigarette out so Lincoln could see it and dropped it on the floor. He ground it into the concrete with his heel. The implication was clear and the beaten man across from him moaned again weakly. It was all he could manage as an answer and in the last few hours he'd learned that everything with William Franklin demanded an answer. If not the Bull would go to work again. William stared off across the room.

Lincoln fought to keep his head semi-erect. His knew his face was broken; a train accident couldn't have felt worse. The Bull had fists like hammers. He just wanted it all finished. Regardless, he did try again. "I doan know what you're tryin to get here. Kickin the shit outa me..." His breath came in short, jabbing bursts; snot and blood dribbled out from his shattered nose.

William pursed his lips and made a motion with his hand. The Bull let Lincoln have another hard punch to the ear. Now there were no more words, just blubbering gibberish. He already knew he was history. Regardless of what he said.

Through his haze of pain, he could just barely make out the long shape of William rising from the chair. The man stopped with his head in shadow, maybe from the one bulb or (more likely) from the blood pooling in Lincoln's eyes. The groan that escaped him unwittingly was cut short.

"You are going to talk. Don't think for a moment that you're not." William rounded the table. He squatted down to Lincoln's eye level. Slapped the man and then deftly caught Lincoln's reeling chin between thumb and forefinger and ripped it around so that they stared eye to eye again.

Lincoln tried to swallow and the iron hand pinching his chin slid down around his throat and squeezed. Lincoln's eyes bulged as William leaned in closer. The businessman's voice was more controlled now, only his eyes were still completely mad. The other hand came up, the finger wagging beneath Lincoln's better eye. "Every one of you nickle-and-dimers make me want to puke. You think because a man like me chooses to do a little business with you pukes it gives you license to fuck with me. Well listen up, motherfucker. You've got that all wrong." Lincoln's face was wrenched into a humiliating funnel.

The granite-hard smile that followed collapsed the rest of William's face. The finger came up again as the hand at Lincoln's throat began raking painfully through his hair.

"Now," William said lightly, patting his prisoner like a dog. "We have had enough games. The fun has been tremendous, but I'm tired. So, you tell me, you fucker. WHERE THE FUCK IS MY BROTHER?!" and his fingers grabbed Lincoln's hair and yanked his head back.

A high-pitched scream, like a woman's, filled the room.

William let go of Lincoln with a show of disgust and backed away. He turned to the Bull. "You hear the little bitch?" he said. The Bull nodded but said nothing. He'd backed away from the heat of confrontation, and even though the shadows in the room made everything jumpy, he didn't like what he saw in the face of the man who signed his checks. It reminded him far too much of Samuel.

William walked around the edge of the wooden card table where his pack of cigarettes was. He paused, then shook his head and spread his arms in Lincoln's direction. "I'm a rich man, fucker. Like my father. Some say 'because of my father,' but I know those cowardly pukes don't know what the fuck they're talking about. And they wouldn't say that to my face. You know it's true. I can see it in your eyes, Drug Man. My father chose to make money in his way and I choose to make it in mine. Nothing much separates us." He threw a glance over to the Bull but found his henchman staring at the floor. Typical. William ground his back teeth together, deciding not to let the Bull off easy tonight either.

"We each have a way of conducting our business. That's a safe assumption, right?" William said, making the Bull sweat. Screwing him into an answer. The big man nodded, never lifting his gaze from the floor. "Yeah. Every businessman does or he's not in business very long." He crossed to the chair and sat down. Took his time fishing out another cigarette from the pack, seeming almost to lose his train of thought.

"Filth like you," he said, billowing smoke beneath the thin shard of light like a kettle as he focused back on Lincoln. "I've pictured this many times. The whole bunch of you, packed together like rats in some cheap dive. Patting yourselves on the back, pulling each others' dicks about the contacts you've made. The important people you associate with. You collect the scraps that fall off my table and think it's a feast. Just a bunch of lousy assholes sitting on barstools most of the time, pumping each other full of bullshit." A sardonic grin cut the tirade short as William stared absently at the swaying bulb.

After a minute, he turned his glaring hatred back to Lincoln. The man moaned low in his chest but said nothing. "And while you're content to jack-off each other's egos, I sit here with the knowledge that I control your destinies. I say whether you live or die. I'm your God." William stood up and took off his jacket. Held it out in front of him with one hand while he lit the lighter and burned a hole in the jacket, letting it go until the stink filled the room. Then, with a small flame beginning to curl above the threads, he worked the jacket into a ball and threw it across the room to the shop basin. There was a light hiss as the flame met water, then a tendril of smoke, then nothing.

William pointed across the room. "That, my friend, was worth a hell of a lot more to me than you are. And now the suit's ruined. I can take the rest of it and drop it off the fucking pier out back, and not think twice. But know what, Drug Man?" he said. Lincoln managed a barely perceptible shake of his head.

"I'll have another one tomorrow. Maybe not the same style or color, but I'll have another one if I want it. Right now I've got about a hundred of these fuckers hanging in my closet. And every one of them is just as easily replaced as that one," he said pointing at the sink.

"Are you starting to catch my drift, Drug Man?"

He paused a moment. "You're the dirt on my shoes. You're the shit that washes down the gutter when it storms. You're just another suit on a hook, yesterday's news, trash ready to be thrown out.

"I'm heir to a shipping fortune, Drug Man. More money than your scrawny little ass could ever imagine. That's what makes it so fucking funny. You little bugs never even question why I choose to associate with freaks and punks here in my own private little shit-hole. None of you fuckers ever takes a pause to wonder why I do what I do. I conduct my real business in private rooms at the top of the Sheraton. Places you'll never see because you're nothing. I've got penthouses up there. And that's plural." He stopped and picked the pack of cigarettes off the table. He lit another one and circled around to the front of the table, rested his ass on the edge. He picked a piece of tobacco from his tongue, studied it momentarily before flicking it away.

"Would you like to know why I do what I do?" William stared at the dirty walls and fidgeted with his free hand as if unable to stop this avalanche of words. He smoked for a moment, then crossed one leg over the other while picking away pieces of lint that were stuck there.

"You really want to know why we do this shit? I can tell you, it ain't for the sense of adventure. Hell, we own the cops. How do you think I was able to get your sorry ass out of jail? You're bought and paid for, Drug Man. Bought and fucking paid for." He flicked an ash away, watched as it fell to the floor. "I'll tell you why," he said.

"There is something seriously wrong with me. My brother is a whole different story, but blood does run thick. Yeah, there is something gravely wrong with us. I love inspiring false confidence; I love breeding it; tending it. Especially from shit-kickers like you." A mocking smile froze and slowly evaporated on his face.

"THAT'S WHY IT DRIVES ME BERSERK WHEN ONE OF YOU SHIT-KICKERS TRIES TO FUCK ME!!" he screamed, his eyes livid and vile. He bent over so they were eye level again.

"I'm not going to hit you. You understand that?"

Lincoln nodded, trying to slow his racing heart. William laughed sadistically and raised his cigarette hand. Rested it on Lincoln's shoulder so that the smoke wafted into the man's eyes. William patted him gently. The Bull slunk farther back in his corner.

Then William jammed the burning cigarette into the pulp that until a few hours ago had been Lincoln's nose.

The reaction was instantaneous. The trapped man lurched and strained against the electrical tape holding him to the chair. He managed to scream as his feet scrabbled at the floor, the painful frenzy threatening to overturn him. He pitched about like this for a moment until collapsing limply.

William drew slowly off the blood-stained cigarette and blew a thick cloud of smoke onto the dripping, weeping man. He could tell there was not much left. Now, very quietly, he leaned closer and said, "I'm the most dangerous motherfucker of all, Drug Man. Of all. You understand that?" and he smiled into the room.

"You, my friend, have made a fatal mistake," he said. He flipped the cigarette away to a corner, watched as the sparks flew. The Bull had as good as vanished.

He wiped a sleeve across his mouth. Then he leveled one finger at Lincoln. "You turned us on to this Paol fuck. You said he was all right. You said we could trust him." He pursed his lips. "It's just unfortunate for you that I, being the man I am, can't let word get around that the Franklins can be fucked with. Can't do it. Won't do it.

"I talked to my man in Columbia. He tells me everything went off without a hitch, but here we are; no word, no plane, no coke, no brother, no nothing." He examined his manicured nails. "I've also had a man watching Mr. Paol's airfield in Thibodaux. Guess what...nothing.

"So now there's really only one thing left, one thing I've really got to know. Where is my fucking money? Samuel is one thing. Granted, it's trouble enough but I can handle it. But fucking with my money is another thing altogether. So, brass tacks, Lincoln. Where the fuck is Frederick Paol?"

The pinched, racing fear was alive in Lincoln's eyes. Maybe the sack-of-shit really didn't know, but that had nothing to do with anything. William was at a crossroads. If Samuel was dead (as by now he felt almost certain) he'd need to establish his own level of brutality. Up until now he'd always been safe in the shadows but the Day had finally arrived. He could feel it. It was time for a statement. A standard must be set.

Lincoln's doom was sealed, and from the story in his eyes, he knew it too. But there was still more suffering to come. If he knew anything else, it would come out. And if not, fuck it. At this point all William was concerned with was end product.

He knelt down to one knee when he saw Lincoln's lips moving, putting one arm across the trembling shoulders as he pulled the doomed man closer. Pulled him hard against the duct tape. He wanted everything now, every plea, every bargain, every lie. "Tell me about it," he whispered with the same smoky eroticism that had blanched the Bull to the shadows long moments before.

Lincoln's reply was reedy and wet. Exhaustion and pain made the words garbled and largely unintelligible. It took William several seconds to distinguish sense in the weak litany... "---tellin you, Mist Fra'lin, 'Sus Christ, I doan know. Knew 'im...'Nam. Neva fucked be ova 'fore...neva trouble...'Sus, my mutha, man, swear..." he whispered in an increasingly fragile hiss. William grabbed the man's wet hair and pulled him upright. Looked him in the eyes. Yeah, he was used up.

Perhaps a full minute passed in silence, save for the occasional sob. William waited patiently for these to subside before standing up and backing away. "Get the Redi-Mix. It's time to finish this shit," he dead-panned to the shadow barely breathing in the corner.

Lincoln immediately jerked back to life, his forehead hard against the loose tape that barely restrained it. He tried to say something but the words wouldn't come. William remained impassive, watching him.

"No one cares here, Drug Man. There's only us and I'm the worst fucking thing you can imagine." He straightened to full height and walked back to the table.

Lincoln struggled on, seeming to find untapped reserves of strength as he watched the Bull pilfering around back there in the shadows. Before long he'd pulled free three fifty pound bags of Redi-Mix and laid them in the circle of light on the floor, along with a five-gallon bucket of water. He worked in eerie silence, as if afraid to breathe.

As the work continued Lincoln's pleas grew louder. William finally held his hands up for quiet, but when he got no satisfaction he crossed the floor and slammed his right fist into Lincoln's broken face. There were no more screams. Lincoln's head came to rest with chin to chest. His lap began to pool with blood and mucus, and the only sounds were mouse-like squeaks and occasional rattling moans from somewhere abysmally deep.

"Save it for your Maker, Drug Man," William intoned. "If Sam's out of the picture I gotta make a statement. And unlucky for you, you're it." He watched in renewed silence as the Bull poured water from the old paint bucket into a small wheelbarrow he'd hauled out of the utility closet. Slowly, methodically, the Bull began mixing the concrete. It proved messy work but, like Lincoln, it was no more than a minor inconvenience.

When the large splash came at the end of the empty pier hours later, the moon had gone behind a cloud, and the two quiet men back there could make out nothing below the black surface of the Mississippi River. The Bull had his dick in his hand, pissing away Lincoln's memory into the muddy current, wishing the dead a hasty hell.

William walked like a long, thin crease in the night along the length of pier, smoking one of his endless string of cigarettes as he trolled along through the many problems in his head. He felt deep down that Samuel was dead; there was a tingling in his spine, a curious sensation at the base of his neck. Just enough to let him know.

But that fucking Frederick Paol was another story altogether.

Chapter 21: No Rest for the Weary

He only realized he'd lost his shoes when his big toe slammed into the gnarled root curling away into the undergrowth. An explosion ricocheted through his head as his knees gave out and he fell to the ground face-first, skidding through the mud and grass. He lay there motionless, blinded by the mud for several minutes, waiting for the pain to subside. The sun had fallen until its light hung in the trees like an oily cloth drenched and dripping all around him. He had no idea how long he'd been running but the rasping tear of breath and his pounding heart was proof it had been a good while. Finally, when the pain eased off enough for him to sit up, his skin immediately began bitching about the multitude of slashes that criss-crossed his body and oozed dark blood from beneath the mud that covered them.

He took several moments trying to knock the dirt and mud off, grimacing through the pain. Then he pushed himself away from the slick spot he'd cut in the wire grass, around to the dry side of a crooked cypress that pointed like a thin finger toward a break in the canopy, letting through just a whisper of light. Even so, there was too little light left to distinguish much in the murk where he'd fallen. Already the voracious insects had found him in the gloom.

He crouched down low, drawing up his knees, willing himself acute to every nuance, every minute creak in the brush. He still had a hard time justifying the reason for his flight, and fought the internal voice that told him incessantly now that he'd gone around the bend. Was this how it felt?

He could actually sense his mind working, and from the best resources of his memory and faculties, he felt sane. Regardless, there was one huge problem: he was utterly lost, shivering like a baby, completely alone, fighting every step of the way against a thing he'd only considered possible in nightmares. He kept waiting for the punch line to this hideous joke, or the light to come through his bedroom window at home. He practically prayed for the moment he'd come violently awake in his own bed in Thibodaux, these events and terrors merely figments of a nightmare that would dissipate with the first cup of coffee and cigarette of the morning. The only problem was morning was not coming. He was somehow lost in the blackness of a hell he'd never imagined. He actually worried that he might be dead already and reaping the benefits of his riotous life. The memory of the Gook village (the one that had hidden itself so well for so long) had come back in all its lethal glory, and now Frederick expected no quarter. As if an old room had been discovered in the ruin of his mind. He could still see the little girl rocking the head right before he'd pulled the trigger. And why? It didn't matter. For him there would be no redemption.

He shook his head. This was no nightmare and hell was real. The fatigue was real. The heaviness of his backpack was real. The bugs and heat were real. He pulled his bleeding, bare feet out of the mud and stared at them. They were real.

That, perhaps, was the worst thing of all.

Even if everything else could be explained away in some completely rational (or even irrational) way, the fact that he was bootless brought everything home. He was here, now, and this was real. Barefoot in the motherfucking jungle. A death sentence. If he was going crazy (and all arrows seemed to point in that general direction), then it appeared the time for backtracking and repossessing his soul was long past. Whatever had prompted him into the mad scramble away from the lagoon (whether it was real or simply a manifestation of his growing insanity) had left him stranded with only the slightest protection. While another question nagged at him.

Did sitting lost in a jungle, shivering and bootless, on the run from drug dealers, rogue Indians, and a fucking zombie of all things necessitate a mind that was no longer in control? Probably. Unless all this shit was true. But it couldn't be. Somewhere along the line you went south, my man, and you're sitting here spinning your wheels trying to convince yourself you're still sane. Because that is the great paradox of insanity. Even completely fucking nuts, you still manage to believe you're logical. You're sane. He stretched out his hand, flexing his fingers as he stared in silence. Real.

He let the hand drop loosely to his side as he stared off into the gloom. Night was not far off, was never far off. "No," he said. "I've got to be fucking loony tunes. Something's happened to me, malaria, something." He whistled briefly and stopped when the hair on his neck stood on end.

Something was moving in the underbrush.

He pushed to his feet with a great heave, a branch catching his backpack and pulling it down his backs. He strained to see through the undergrowth. And make no mistake: this was no clearing whatsoever. He was as tightly packed in here as a can of sardines. The air held hostage, the ground covered with a multitude of shrubs and other brush, growing in clustered humps of black and deeper black. Like a goddamn cage.

The sound again, but he could see no movement. The light was now nearly gone and Frederick suddenly realized how ultimately dark the area would be in no time at all.

Then, there again, a shuffling scrape, followed by what must have been a lurch forward, then a splash. Even in the dream-like sponge of his surroundings, Frederick could tell that whatever approached was coming from the same direction he'd just come from.

A certain blinding terror began deep down in the pit of his stomach, radiating outward. He tasted bile at the base of his throat but could produce no spit to clear it away. His pulse began to race as the last, thin vestiges of bravado filtered away like smoke, and it was then that a portion of his mind did slip, beginning the inevitable true slide. He hunched over at first and quickly broke into the humid, stinking darkness; anything to be away from the leaking shadow that crawled ever after him.

Because that eye had found him out again.

He ran in the blurring tailwind of terror, his pack now lost, his broken toe hardly slowing him at all. He tripped over a root (the snap of his left ankle like a gunshot), threw out his hands as he fell forward. He bounced off the side of a thickly vined tree trunk and went down in a muddy spray, his mouth full of mud.

He'd paid no mind that he was rushing along in a slick runoff, but he neither had the strength nor the presence of mind to jig left or right in an attempt to alter or stay his course. Now, head down, he flew over the lip of the pit welled deep into the ground at the end of the muddy slide. Then he plunged headlong into the pitch black emptiness of the swollen, underground cavern that awaited him below. He fell only a moment before the cold water stole his breath. Then he floated, sputtering, his ankle momentarily forgotten as he kicked desperately back to the surface for air.

In the darkness he heard the hollow, echo-filled howl of falling water. He offered up his own shouts to no avail. The broken ankle began to scream in earnest now, flapping back and forth in the water, so that he could only just keep his head above water every now and again. It took several more minutes to realize he was being carried along by a swiftly-running current.

It was also right about this time that he heard the meaty thump of something else splashing into the water not far behind him. It didn't take a genius to figure out what it was. Then nothing but the roar of water tearing through the cavern. He pawed weakly at the surface, spinning along like a kitten cast off a country bridge in the water below.

He prepared himself for the end.

But it was as his head lolled back in the chilled water that he began to make out what appeared to be a haze in the distance. Through the pitch subterranean darkness a light suddenly appeared, grew, and his already frantic mind provided the story. He was already dead, he thought, dead and racing toward the light people had been talking about his whole life. He began to fear for his soul.

He raced along faster now in the current, speeding helplessly toward a finish line he so desperately wished to avoid. But as he got closer the haze morphed itself into a general craggy orifice of rock. And a sound like a waterfall. Of a waterfall.

He tried to spin around so that his head was pointing down current, fanned out his arms and kicked with his good leg to keep his head up. And it was in this parody of dog-paddling (biting his lip clean through from the pain in his ankle) that Frederick made out the dimensions of his watery labyrinth. The ceiling was the better part of fifty feet high, and the sides stretched out to half that. What he at first thought were vines hanging from the ceiling were actually roots dangling down from above. The closer he got to the light the more speed he picked up.

No farther than fifty yards from the craggy opening he caught a brilliant glimpse of moonlight. A little farther along and the yellow moon peered through into the waste of the monstrous dripping hole. In another second he was suddenly flung over the lip of the waterfall, plunging with the same graceless ballet into the opposite side of the lagoon that he'd seen across the point of the finger island, in what now seemed like another lifetime.

He didn't fall long and when he did splash down his breath was raked away. He went under, far down, and slowly struggled back to the surface. He broke sputtering and gagging, retching into the water that pitched about his face. The noise was terrific, like a low-throated steam train pouring down a mountain, alive with blazing torrents of falling water. He worked his arms to circle him out of the zero point, fighting to find still water in the rage. He was not out of the worst of it when an unmistakable splash came from close by.

That, and a stench that burned the air.

Terrified, Frederick kicked immediately in the opposite direction. Stars, constellations, burst in front of his eyes as the force of the water ground at his broken ankle, but he kicked on regardless, his breath coming in gasping spurts. Overhead, it was a surprisingly cloudless night. Ribbons of clouds were tenuous, ephemeral. The bright moon cast down a knifing scar. But there was enough light to see the misshapen head when it broke the surface no more than thirty feet away.

The burning eye was back.

Frederick screamed. Every muscle in his face worked against the others, transforming his features into a mask of pain and bewilderment. The smell was overpowering, and even though it was impossible to concentrate, it was obvious the thing was approaching from the way his skin crawled along his bones.

Frederick quit floundering and threw his right arm around, straining to break into the swimming crawl that had not done him bad up till now. The pain in his ankle was immense--the pressure of glaciation, the filing down of mountains--and his vision faded in and out. At times he was sure he could make out a rocky bank close by, but at the next stroke he would see only blackness and fall back upon his hell theory. He believed himself now deeply mired in one horrible moment, chased by every wicked deed and intention he'd ever entertained, racing down a slide to things that would only prove worse. He thirsted now for oblivion.

It became impossible to keep his head above water, the act of holding his breath becoming weaker and weaker. When he felt the fingers clutch around his shattered ankle there was no energy left to be surprised.

He was suddenly pulled below the surface, the fight gone from his limbs. But his mind still railed on. For a moment he was a child being pulled along by the old cocker spaniel bitch, Sadie, as he pedaled his bike down the street from his parents' house; then a corresponding sensation of walking through thick mud in both Vietnam and Colombia, for some reason unable to free his legs from their gummy prison; and then there was the human-standard chase in slow motion when the monster from nightmare finally claims you. It was inevitable. In the end the monster always got you.

As a final act Frederick opened his eyes, freeing himself of the insane nightmare his mind had become. Surely now he would wake to find himself home in Thibodaux, sleeping off a drunk with some whore by his side. Of course, it was very clear now. He would have to re-think the Franklin run. Nightmares were really nothing to mess around with. Frederick knew this now, his life had changed.

He blew out what remained of his air and opened his eyes to watery darkness and the irresistible pull from below. He tried vainly to scream himself awake, succeeding only in letting in a lung-filling gout of water, and then nothing as he went deeper and deeper.

And soon the lagoon was once again unbroken save for the continuous drumming rhythm that the waterfall played on through the night.

Chapter 22: The Unraveling

Things came to a head in the next forty-eight hours. When the Old Man learned of the fiasco his son had pulled at Louisiana State Mental Hospital he wasted little time in starting over to the Warehouse District to tear William a new asshole. His blind, raging anger stemmed primarily from Samuel's mysterious absence, and he would have been a formidable opponent in his rage, despite his age, had he made his date.

But while waiting in his Lincoln Town Car (one he'd purchased only three weeks before; before this goddamn trouble with his ingrate sons! he fumed) at the intersection of Washington and Louisiana, a group of young black kids slid out from the shadows surrounding the remnants of a burnt-out liquor store. They came across the largely deserted lanes quickly, in the guise of washing windows. Franklin Sr. waved them off but when they paid him no heed he got nasty. He told them very pointedly to "get the fuck away from this car!" And whether it was this or simply the fitting of another piece inevitably into place, the end result came hard and fast.

As the Old Man raved from the luxurious confines of his finely-tuned automobile, the closest of the group pulled a cheap handgun from his waistband and stuck it in the Old Man's ear. The shot came instantaneously, so much so that the youth would later swear to his posse in the Willanona Housing Project in Algiers that the fucker was still cussing them after his brains were splattered all over the passenger side window. Even when the group broke into a mad scramble for the alleys, the big Lincoln idled momentarily at the intersection before plowing forward, striking a curb, and barreling through a ten-foot section of wrought-iron fence before coming to a stop.

When the paramedics arrived fourteen minutes later, the engine was still running, the driver's door was open, and the Old Man was stone dead. His wallet was gone, stolen not by one of the gang who'd shot him, but by a thin, twelve-year-old girl passing by no more than two minutes before the ambulance arrived.

Upon learning of his father's murder, William locked himself away in his mansion by the waterfront, allowing no calls, no visitors, no servants. He cut himself off for the better part of three weeks, coked and boozed out of his mind every waking hour. He lost thirty pounds and absolutely forgot about Samuel's disappearance. Calls to the home went unanswered until he finally stopped the incessant ringing by ripping every one of his five home phones out of the wall. The cell ended up at the bottom of the pool. Since there was no one willing, or capable it seemed, to go about the business of preparing the Old Man for his Last, Long Stay, the lawyers had no choice but to act (the body had lain in state at Ballenger's Funeral Home until an open casket was out of the question and the undertaker was on the verge of ripping out what remained of his fringe of hair), and they finally sanctioned interring the body in the first floor of the Greenlawn Mausoleum before sitting back to wait, many somewhat nervously. Incredibly enough, the Old Man had owned no plot; perhaps like many other dead men, he'd thought he would live forever.

When William Franklin finally came out of his self-imposed seclusion, gaunt and stringy, nervous and disoriented, he was informed (only after a great deliberation by the standing team of company lawyers) that his mother's stay at the institute was up. William laughed in the face of the man who told him so and said his own piece. "What the fuck do you want me to do about it?" he asked.

The lawyer reluctantly faced the man who put a hell of a lot of food on his table, cars in his garage, fancy dresses around his wife's ass, and the first thing he felt was intense surprise and then desultory disgust at the twisted amusement in William's mad eyes. "How's that?" he managed, fumbling at his tie like a clown in a side show.

William leaned closer, carefully enunciating every word so there would be no mistaking this time. "I said, 'What the fuck am I supposed to do about it?'" he repeated.

"I-I'm not...sure, Mr. Franklin." The lawyer cleared his throat. "I thought you should be...the, ah, first to know about the hospital's...insistence that your mother find other...quarters." When William said nothing more, the lawyer stumbled on, "I...we, the law firm, I mean, thought you should know this earlier, but with all that's gone on...." He coughed into his hand. "Mr. Franklin, something really must be done. There is no time left."

William held up his hands and made a face that shamed the man before him. He had never seen such hatred balled up into such a nice bundle before. "Right, okay," William said through the smirk. "I'll tell you what." He leaned back in his chair and regarded his fingernails like a villain from a James Bond movie. "You, and I mean the law firm, put that old bitch wherever her worn-out ass lands her." The look that was forthcoming gave no opportunity for discussion.

The firm found a suitable enough establishment in upstate New York, and Mrs. Franklin was transported in the middle of the night in a straitjacket after trying to pluck the eyes out of one of the orderlies unlucky enough to pull the shift.

Seemingly in an unrelated event, Dr. Marshall was found unconscious at her desk four days after the departure of their infamous patient. A pool of blood was found across the table and on the floor, and it was clear she was dead as soon as the first person entered her office. There was no gunshot, no other sign of foul play. The blood had run out of her mouth and ears, her nostrils were crusted with it by the time Mooney (the janitor who found her) tenderly picked her head out of the mess before praying to God for her soul, and then yelling for help. The cause of death was found to be an aneurysm. She'd been unmarried with no children, so there was only her mother and father left to mourn. They flew in from Chicago to stand beside their only child's grave.

An older, more connected, doctor was awarded the vacant position, after being coaxed out of retirement by a promise that no more than six months at most would be expected until the Board of Directors could fully interview and prepare for a successor. His quick eye for an extra dollar made him a unanimous choice after the flamboyant irritations of the recently deceased Yankee.

Sarah Franklin lived on in solitude, her living arrangements much more spartan even than that of her Louisiana confinement. No one visited, checks were sent faithfully each month stamped with impersonal authority by a Louisiana law firm, and no family member ever presented himself at the hospital's doors. At times, her incoherent screams and tirades would check even the boldest and most pagan of orderlies, and if bedsores were frequently left unattended, it was considered just as well for everyone involved. Her presence was a plague and only huge sums of money secured her in even the cooler climes of the hospital's basement where a room had been hacked out, well away from any of the other patients.

Lincoln's remains sunk deeper into the muddy Mississippi River bed, picked at by all manner of fish. Cleaned to the bone in a short time, the skeleton was torn to pieces by the suction of the Gulf of Mexico, leaving only two, barnacled shards of shin bone to poke above the sludge. Stuck in their twin barrels of cement.

William regained himself slowly. For several months after his exile he didn't show at the warehouse very often. He kept to himself in his lakefront home, sunning in the afternoon by the pool though he never actually got in. He was timelessly lost in his thoughts. He cut his house staff down to one and had everything in the way of food, alcohol, and drugs delivered personally to his maid in the front of the house. Sometimes late in the night, the woman would hear William screaming, or at other times, talking in a hoarse Spanish dialect to someone on the telephone. Always outgoing calls. At times his cursing would fill the hall near his room, and she would venture her services no more for that night. When she left she took his car, and stayed gone until she finally felt safe. He simply did not care.

The Bull went on a vacation of sorts. When he didn't hear from his employer after the Old Man's wake, he hung around the warehouse for a couple of weeks. He tried to tell himself it was a good thing, this time to himself, a time when he could get his own house in order, although he'd never even lifted a finger to fix so much as a sprung faucet. Every time the phone rang he'd sit nervously in his chair while Gretchen spoke to whomever it was on the other end. It was never William though, and the Bull began to hold his wife personally responsible. They'd been married forever and she wasn't much to look at. He got tired of how she was always underneath his feet. More than once she got his fists.

After three weeks without a word, he decided it was time to take action before he ended up killing her. He could see the fear building in Gretchen as well. Everything was crashing down, his contact with the outside world had cut him adrift. All he knew for certain was that he was beginning to be afraid. His hands crept mindlessly into grappling hooks, taking an extraordinary act of will to straighten them out again, and the headaches piled one on top of the other until he could actually see red.

He took to breaking things in the house. Nothing could satisfy him: food ended up on the floor, Gretchen lost another tooth. His calls to the Franklin Warehouse went unanswered. In desperation he found that William had changed his home phone number. He knew Samuel was still missing, and that was really the thing that had served to fuck everything else up. The little secretary up there had actually told William himself the Bull had called, but he never heard anything. He questioned the little bitches' honesty. This, above all else, was the key to the headaches, the violence.

The fact that he wasn't needed anymore.

In a short period of weeks his life fell apart. The only person capable of pulling him free was unavailable. What had he done to exact this hatred from a man he had loyally served? He could come upon nothing. Nothing but a plan.

He prepared to drive to Thibodaux to prove his loyalty. He'd prove it every time the blade came down.

The Bull left on a Wednesday while Gretchen was away at the grocery store. She'd left with her biggest pair of sunglasses barely hiding the shiner he'd pasted on her the night before, and the Bull knew if he didn't go now he'd wind up behind bars. His drinking had escalated and his hands shook constantly. As he crawled into the truck's cab, he breathed a sigh of relief, feeling that he was narrowly averting disaster. Little did he know.

Once in Thibodaux it didn't take long to locate the airfield. It was night when he pulled onto the gravel drive, and he heard the crunch beneath the Ford's Mag wheels at the same time he noticed the lone shaft of light coming from the shack's door. A shadow of mosquitoes danced in its depths. He got out of the truck with the blade riding against his hip. He didn't know how the show would go, but felt assured it would be big. He pressed himself flat to the side of the building, pricked up his ears. The darkness was once again a friend. St. Martien's unfamiliar voice reached him as he neared the doorway, and when the Bull peeked around the jamb he found the ludicrous shape of the overweight, balding idiot squawking away at a tin box.

The Bull flung back the screen door, and when St. Martien turned and saw the big man coming inside his breath stopped, his eyes bugged out, and his hand went to his chest. The Bull came across in a short arch with the knife, splitting the earphone cord and opening a gaping wound across the bald man's neck. The fat ass slid out of his chair, gasping and holding his throat as the blood began to spurt. He managed no sound save for a low bubbling gurgle that grew lower and lower as he sank to the floor. Blood foamed on his chin.

The Bull pitched the bloody knife onto the table by the ham set, and walked over to give his boots a workout. After a two minute dance, the man on the ground before him was thoroughly dead. The Bull snorted and wheezed above him like an engine long overdue for a tune-up. Regardless, he'd not felt better in weeks.

He was finally smiling as he skirted the body, figuring on the best way to get it out of here, when he thought he heard the faint protest of hinges. He never had a chance to turn around. The shotgun Jelly had trained on him blew him completely off his feet and shoved him across the table amid the electrical equipment. One arm smashed through the window overlooking the airfield and hung there bleeding.

Jelly had waited diligently for days for this. It was just his fucking luck that he'd picked the now lost minutes to go to the liquor store. The pint of Jim Beam had cost St. Martien his life.

But now it had finally happened.

Jelly had been frantic ever since the plane disappeared; there had been nothing. No word at all. Now this crazy fucker was sprawled out the window, bleeding all over the fucking place. If it was hard ball they wanted, then goddammit, it was hard ball they'd get.

By morning Jelly and a few of his boys had gotten rid of the two bodies. They cleaned up the mess and let the proper 'authorities' in on what had gone down. Or as little as could be managed. Time passed and the Lincoln collected dust, now sitting in the empty airplane bay. Eventually it was sold for scrap to a demolition worker Jelly knew from his oil field days. The Bull's truck was crushed at the same scrap yard in Des Almandes less than a week later.

William, charmed as usual, received little blow-back from the fuck-up the Bull had pulled. In fact, it was almost two more weeks before a fisherman found the huge, stinking body washed up on a cypress stump just off the main highway twenty miles out of town. Dental records finally pinned a name to the corpse, and by that time there was no way his dear wife, meek and stupid Gretchen, would have recognized him at all. The name 'Franklin' surfaced simply on principle. It was known the man worked for them, but that was about it. At least as far as proof went.

The New Orleans PD was informed of the decomposed body. Jelly was never mentioned in anything. However, there was something of an empasse. NOPD readily admitted that the Franklin's were connected, and also that several of the family had histories of mental disorders. However, the family had made no ripples as of late; there were no more accusations like the one that had sent Samuel away years before. Besides, the Old Man had been gunned down by hoodlums in the street himself. William hadn't been seen since. At least, publicly.

When the Thibodaux inquiries got to the District Five Sergeant's desk they stopped. Sergeant Riggish had personally been in the Old Man's back pocket for years, and his oldest daughter could thank her college tuition at Ole Miss on the gaff he'd taken. It was all common knowledge. Everyone was on the take these days, but a little bit of loyalty did go with the territory as far as Riggish was concerned. He wouldn't let some small town horseshit get his jock in a knot. He'd let the Franklin bunch have their time for grieving, and then he'd play it by ear. With nothing further on his mind he flipped to The Times Picayune Sports section to see who the Saints would get their asses whipped by next.

William, meanwhile, remained at home. Two more months passed before he showed at the warehouse. And even then, never for very long, usually just a quick check in the books, or a downtown meeting with the lawyers. Then it was always straight back to his cave. Messages could only be left with the receptionist. He could not be reached at home. But with the devil's luck, he continued; their contracts were time honored and followed to the letter; the business continued on, just a faint drone in the background.

His real business became the search for Frederick Paol. He no longer expected to see his brother again, but he wasn't so sure about the fucking pilot. If the drug-runner was alive in Colombia, the United States, or the Valley of the Kings, he'd find the sonofabitch.

And he burned up the phone lines trying.

For many weeks there was nothing. Then, early one morning in the spring he got a call. It was placed by an illegal prescriptions 'link' he had in Bogota who had recently become aware of William's wishes. The man called to say he'd seen an article in the paper the morning before about some white man recently found in the jungle. The story he forwarded to William said this person had been found someplace south of the capitol in a section close to the Pan American Highway. An area called Siphoe, known for its choking vegetation and lack of human contact. The only reason this cast off story had reached any paper whatsoever, was because of its slight dose of intrigue. The village in which the man had been loosed from the jungle was inhabited by people who swore the man was a demon. Sketchy details told of his heated removal by a private militia unit for his interment elsewhere. That was it.

When William read the article (his plan already formulating in his head), he'd visualized a pagan crowd huddled in a village, his brother waxen and grotesque, lording over all. Because a nagging itch had begun, what if he wasn't dead? Perhaps he was still out there.

It took him three days to find the whereabouts of the man from the strange newspaper story. He phoned hospitals, nursing homes, heath units, institutions and all manner of other related interests in his search, getting nothing substantial, only laconic replies and short service no matter how much money he promised. Amid this series of dead-ends his trail eventually led to a morgue, a last card played on a whim. As if by providence, the first person he talked to (the only person who was actually there at the time since it was a week-end) had indeed seen the creature, as he put it. Very often the fast-speaking man would run away from William's ability to understand, so the call was long and somewhat painful at times. The janitor referred to the man from the jungle not as a demon, but as the Devil himself. While he relayed his information (as if just being able to speak of the horrible man would take him back into grace), William visualized him, standing in some dank corridor, nervous at every sound while he spoke about the thing that plagued him. Maybe he had many gods to protect him; perhaps he had none at all.

In a pidgin mash of English and Spanish William was able to piece the story together. The strange white man had been brought to a hospital in the vicinity (one William had phoned and been told nothing), but his condition had been so grave that he'd soon died. The voice on the other end of the line was muffled, as if in deference to this point of legend, of myth. The dead man's skin had spoiled, he'd been told. He said it was unlike anything else he'd ever smelled, but William didn't have to understand every word to understand the man's intent. William had witnessed the rites of demons before; he knew the scent of the Depths. The janitor's voice shrunk to a whisper (William was sure he could make out a rushed rosary fragment) when he spoke of the dead thing attaining movement, of the way the eyes had flashed. This was the part of the story that haunted him obviously, and when he got to it he didn't want to go on, but the American on the other end had a persuasiveness that eventually got the janitor to tell all. William knew before hanging up that the man had been far too afraid, unable to hang up on one demon without relaying the Other's whereabouts. That was fine; the game was almost up.

The next morning William booked a first-class flight to Bogota, Columbia. When he got there and had packed his belongings away in his suite, he went to the local car rental and got the only one available. If he'd had to, he would have taken a bicycle. He was alone when he left the hotel and he had a lot of American cash sitting beside him in a locked suitcase.

The fence was as nondescript as the informant had told him it would be. It was no more than six feet high, but even on the forested side, trees were cut back at least twenty feet from the fence. It had not been hard to find; the informant had been very plain. And if the fence was nondescript the signs warning High-Voltage Electricity in five different languages, spaced at intervals of fifteen feet up and down its length, were not. He knew he had the right place even before he saw the guard house. William pulled up and talked to one of the two men at the booth. They soon had him in touch with the administration, and within twenty minutes he walked into an office where three other nicely-dressed men awaited him. He brought the suitcase of money with him when he entered, but it was mysteriously absent when he left with one of the men an hour later. No tour of the facility was necessary and no more introductions were made to any other staff members. The two men simply worked their way to the back of a small cluster of buildings, and when they reached the end, the administrator took out a key and opened the door in front of him. They descended a flight of forty steps that brought them down to a much chillier and poorly-lit nest of catacombs. Neither one spoke as they made their way to the cell in question. The one from the morgue was here.

They'd said he wouldn't eat but the smell of shit seemed to disprove the statement. They'd said the man never spoke and hardly moved, and that was not hard to believe either. As the administrator pulled back the rusty bolt so that the two could peer inside, fighting the darkness for a glimpse of the man they said was there, William suddenly got his first true dose of hell.

There had been something in the room. Something that appeared both naked and dead, illuminated ever so faintly through piped lighting which leaked in through a grate in the ceiling. There was no cot or toilet within; the room was simply six by six feet with a sloped stone floor leading down to a plumbing grate. The thing lay next to it, motionless.

But as William stared, his eyes glued to the figure on the wet stone, he began to hear a scratching, and only after several moments was he able to make out the movements of the thing's left hand. Long nails raked furrows through the filth clotting the grate. The smell surrounding them now was almost unbearable. When the thing turned its head and set its eyes on William, he hurriedly back away, leaving the administrator to run the bolt home, shutting away the demon. William's hands were at his mouth and he said nothing.

At least it was not Samuel, he thought, as the fresh madness stirred.

But it was Paol. William grabbed the administrator by the elbow and they hurried back down the corridor, talking in fevered Spanish whispers. Several calls were placed to the law firm in New Orleans. The thing's departure from the cell was cleared. The remainder of the week William spent in the suite, smoking continuously and eating little. But he drank great amounts of whiskey. Regardless, his head never stopped hurting.

Finally, with everything set, the headache began to ease off, if only a little. He wondered how effective his act of containing the beast would be, and constantly pictured his new-found vision of hell always close in his mind.

He guessed it would be like a homecoming of sorts.

Chapter 23: The End of the Mess

What was left of Frederick Paol came to reside at the Louisiana State Mental Hospital. The Franklin family name was never officially linked to this new patient, in large part due to the effectiveness of their law firm. Huge sums of money were laid out, and the crafty old doctor who'd taken over administration proved as well-schooled in politics as medicine. There was a need to dispel the tensions the previous Director had let take root; now that the head had been, unfortunately, cut away, the rest of the weakened body could not live. The staff's disquiet became no more than vague grumbles and a silent unease that coursed through the hallways but was never spoken about in official meetings. But it was also equally evident, the relief everyone showed by having the witch taken away. Laughter could occasionally be heard in the lunch room...on occasion.

Frederick came in by ambulance late one night months after the witch had been whisked away in a very similar manner. The patient's history was unclear, or why also for the seeming need for secrecy that such subversive entrances tended to lend themselves privy to. Of course, there was talk of money changing hands, and everyone on staff knew the old doctor's reputation. All these things further fueled the unease that had become a constant figure.

The sick man had been cleaned up as much as possible, and even though he didn't smell quite so bad, the stench of decay perpetually clung to his body. Soon, his very name became the lever to illicit a case of nerves, or a sudden need for a cigarette. Anything to prolong the inevitable tending. Because such visits brought about visions of the departed witch, as if she'd somehow managed to manifest herself again.

By the time the old doctor resigned for the second time, the worried talk had simply become background hum. The staff would not let itself be led to public admissions of demonic possession, and the orderlies and janitors gritted their teeth and prayed all the harder. Times were hard and even a bad job was better than no job at all. The old doctor was replaced by a young firebrand fresh out of college.

The money continued rolling in for the maintenance and care of the stinking, almost-corpse in the basement rooms, so no questions surfaced. The status quo was tended carefully. Some said the demon's skin was too dull, and if its mouth were open the smell of the tomb reached from underneath doors. Rebecca Smith, the ward matron whose brother had told her late one night of the Skinwalker, suddenly retired in the summer of '13. She had twenty years under her belt by then and enough pension to chain-smoke the rest of her life away. Because she could no longer work at the institution. The similarities between the witch and the demon were too much, the nightmares brought on by the bestial eyes far too vivid.

Sometimes the patient would appear semi-conscious for short periods of time, although his posture never changed. To keep their charge free of bedsores, he had to be physically moved. Other times he would mumble or groan loudly, his face contorted with hideous straining. Its only nourishment was intravenous. The fingers were nail-less and swollen now, carrying the tint of bruising deep within that never quite went away. But the hospital's keep never showed the slightest hint of simple understanding, or anything else vaguely human.

It did finally speak, but only once, at least as far as anybody knew. And afterward the rumor persisted that the voice had been empty of anything human, that it grated as if issuing from the very throat of the devil himself. The revelation it contained was directed at William Franklin on his first and only visit to the institution since his argument with the late Dr. Marshall.

By that time most of the features that had distinguished the drug-runner had melted away, leaving only a shrunken shadow stuffed back in the corner of the cramped basement. The visit had not been a long one, and the now gaunt Franklin had been turning to leave when something had made him double-take the figure lying on the bed. Legend had it that the doctor and orderly, along for any hint of danger, had sworn the thing's eyes cleared, if only for a moment. That he'd seemed to gesture with its fingertips. The rest was legend.

"Something for you," the thing had said. Then, "Your brother burns in hell inside me. Just like you will." Then the eyes filmed over and the laughter started.

According to an orderly, William Franklin had slowly backed away. He eyed the creature on the bed for a moment before beating a hasty retreat to the door. It was rumored the horrible, grating laughter continued for several hours afterward.

William never visited the hospital again. He became increasingly reclusive and committed suicide in his lakefront home the following year. He left no note and pulled off the job with a goose gun, apparently to make sure the mess of his life was finished. His mother lingered on another ten years to the day of his death, the sole heiress to the Franklin empire. She continued her infrequent bouts of screaming, and some of the help talked amongst themselves about how her pupil's would spread across the surface of her eyeballs until nothing else remained. Like looking into a depthless, black pit, they said.

The money continued by decree of the Old Man's will; the lawyers tended their garden, and time crept along.

P'molo, now a young warrior himself, had the little children enthralled beside the fire. He had his father's eye for detail but proved far more articulate when it came to telling tales. This made him very valuable. His fiery intensity colored all he did, affecting all those who were near him. His wide-eyed audience, listened enraptured as he related the Tales of the Tribe.

Tonight's lesson was one of fear, of the danger inherent in disobeying elders. As example of the doom awaiting those youngster's incapable of rendering up the necessary respect due their elders, P'molo whispered of the Walking Thing: a creature made up of both shadow and smell, a thing that lurched its blind way through the jungle darkness incessantly, thirsting for the blood of little girls and boys. This ghoul had only recently evolved in the Tribe's pantheon of gods and demons, but its reputation had already achieved legendary proportions. The children hunched closer to one another, promising themselves to do good, to gain the care of the protective jungle gods that would afford them protection in the wild, vast, and unceasingly mysterious jungle depths where the monster walked.

The gardener William had seen pawing at the ground the day of his argument with Dr. Marshall was arrested three years after William Franklin blew his head off with the goose gun. The man's neighbors had complained of a stench surrounding the man's dilapidated house, and when it was investigated, animal bones were found scattered throughout the ramshackle abode, littering the wood-fenced back yard.

The authorities found him digging in the same garden William had once seen him in and under questioning the man had initially revealed nothing. But throughout, his eyes held a far-off gaze. When he was searched, a clutch of small, severed fingers was found in his possession. And as they took him away, he finally began to rail about unfinished work.

His yard turned up the decayed evidence of far worse crimes during the course of the next two eventful weeks. Eventually he came to speak of a woman who came to him in dreams and bid him do this work. Sometimes, he said, a man was with her.

Sometimes two.

