The Fury and the Terror Page 14

  The mamba struck him on the back of his hand, in the meat above the loose webbed skin between thumb and index finger. Joseph jerked his hand away in shock, and screamed when he saw the shapely head of death in his chair, the grayish punctures in his flesh. Only a few victims have survived the bite of the mamba. Even with prompt antivenin treatment the bite would have meant days of agony and delirium, leaving him with a mutilated hand and arm.

  Joseph fell to his knees crying out to God in fear. The screams of his sons echoed through the house, bringing servants on the run.

  Bertie didn't scream. She put down the toy truck she'd been playing with and walked over to her father. He was lying on his side, holding the bitten hand. Because the mamba's venom was a muscle toxin, the muscles of his arm as far as his shoulder were twitching out of control.

  "Get away," he whispered to her. "Mamba!"

  She saw the snake a few feet from them, gliding down to the terra-cotta floor of the veranda. It wasn't the first snake she'd seen, but it was probably the biggest. Alberta may have been too young to know fear. Mambas were blindingly fast in their habitat, but an impulse of caution or the unfamiliar tiles of the floor could have slowed this one. The girl made a move that was preternaturally quick for a three-year-old and seized the mamba behind its hideous tapered head. Stood firm as the snake squirmed in her grasp, its open mouth dense with scalded hate.

  Then, staring at the mamba, she stroked it with her other hand, and as she did so the five-foot-long snake lost its will to fight and went slack in her chubby grip. Pumbavu, she said, meaning it was a stupid thing unworthy of further attention. After a few moments she tossed the mamba on the floor where it lay motionless. She turned to her father.

  Joseph's body was vibrating as if he were being electrocuted. There was bloody froth on his lips and graying beard. The bitten hand had turned carmine around the wound and was swelling rapidly. Bertie grasped his hand. Joseph, fearful that the minutest part of the poison might get on her skin and be absorbed, tried to push her away. And then (Joseph said, telling it to Sherard years afterward) he felt a calming warmth that rushed the length of his arm toward his fibrillating heart, from there spreading swiftly through the rest of his body. It was like a brilliant tide sweeping him to the light-struck center of the universe. The seizure stopped almost immediately. Dazed, with the sensation that he had dreamed the mamba and its bite, he watched Alberta place her lips against the punctures. Then something struck him powerfully but painlessly, like a knockout punch to the chin.

  The next thing Joseph knew he was being helped to his feet by his wife and one of the servants, while another servant carried the dead snake from the veranda, draped around the head of a broom. He felt as if he were struggling to wake up from the longest, deepest sleep of his life. There were no punctures on the dark brown skin of his hand, only a couple of insignificant healing scratches. His daughter looked up at him wordlessly, a cloudlike something in her usually clear and untroubled eyes. When Joseph reached for her, sobbing, she shook her head, evading him, and went back to her play, newly solemn. Three days passed before she spoke again.

  Bertie hit Sherard for a hundred in cash to buy a watercolor she liked. Bertie's net worth at a comparatively tender age was several million dollars, but she was scarcely aware of it. Her income was invested for her by a conservative international bank owned by the Bellaver financial conglomerate. She was comfortable making her way around the world with a Visa card that had no spending limit and a few subway tokens. She had friends in twenty countries who willingly spoiled her. Thus she traveled light, a carry-on bag, only one or two changes of clothes, preferring to buy what she wasn't given by the many designers eager for her presence in their shows. Bertie sold trendy fashion, even the most outrageously whimsical crap, with a flair all her own, high exuberance and a wink to the audience that said you are all pumbavu if you don't buy this.

  With her wrapped watercolor under one arm, she linked her other arm with Sherard's and more or less propelled him the remaining distance to the red-bordered door of the Elegant Forest, where they were expected. She never asked if his leg bothered him. She knew it was hurting, and neither of them wanted to be reminded of what the injury represented in their lives.

  "By the way," Bertie said as they entered the tiny vestibule, "I think I should mention I got peeped."

  She didn't have time to explain. The proprietor of Ya Lin, a middle-aged man who stood about as high as Bertie's elbow, swept through a beaded curtain with an ecstatic gold-capped smile and escorted them to one of six tables in the restaurant, beneath a little balcony of carved ebony. The balcony enclosed a polished stone Buddha, yellow stone with veins of ocher. There were fresh red poppies in a jade vase on the table. Bertie laughed and winked and chatted with the proprietor, who frequently turned, beaming, to pump Sherard's hand.

  When they were seated and alone for a few moments, Sherard said, "What was that all about?"

  "You may have noticed that this is the only table in the room with a Buddha above it."

  "Rather a heavyset Buddha," Sherard said, glancing up. "I hope it's a stout balcony. What's the significance?"

  "This table is reserved by Gao for occasions that require a special blessing from Buddha." Pause. "It's especially popular with newlyweds who want to ensure the health and prosperity of their future children."

  "You didn't tell him that we were—"

  "My Mandarin's a little rusty. I could have given Gao the wrong impression. But who knows where we'll be when we do get married, so I thought, here we are in San Francisco, and I'm sure Buddha won't mind—"

  "Alberta."

  "Well, I've always coveted this table. And obviously we both want our children to be—"

  "Alberta."

  Bertie lowered her eyes. "You growled at me."

  "Shouldn't wonder."

  "You're not angry, though." She looked at him, narrowing her eyes slightly. "You don't have those white spots on your cheeks that you get when you're really furious. Know what I think? It's the whole idea of being a father."

  "At my age—"

  "You're only forty-three. My father was fifty when I was born. You have loads of time, if you don't let it slip away. Let me slip away."

  She said it almost casually, with a light shrug and a turn of her head, but he had a glimpse of hurt, well concealed until now.

  "You're quite a handful, Bertie."

  She couldn't be playful any longer. "I hope I will be. Soon."

  Sherard knew he had let himself in for that, and had no answer. At the age of twelve he had looked into Joseph's fire-lit eyes, eyes he trusted more than he trusted God, on the eve of his first blood stalk for lion. Still learning, but already seasoned enough to understand that the greatest pleasure of the hunt comes before the kill. And Sherard accepted with a pang of regret that one of the joys of living had so far escaped him—seeing the eyes of his firstborn son, eyes with no fear in them while he prepared himself, as Tom Sherard had prepared, for the ceremony of blooding.

  "I'm more than twice your age, Bertie. Think about it. And too many of those years are like chains on me."

  "No. Only one year. The year just past. Is it that you can't love me, or you can't bring yourself to love me?"

  After a frowning silence he said, "That's difficult to answer."

  "Chains don't make a cage. They can be broken. You only have to try." Her eyes were moist. "Would you try, Tom? For both of us."

  He wanted to say no, to put an end to it immediately. He was sure if he did say it Alberta Nkambe would simply get up and walk out, leaving him alone at the newlyweds' table, beneath Buddha's stone weight of disapproval. In a moment of unusual clarity Sherard knew he did not want to spend the rest of his life reliving how that moment had felt.

  He took a breath. "Let's see how it goes, Bertie. A day at a time, all right?"

  "A day at a time together."

  "Yes." With a sense of relief he reached across the table and took her hand. Ending, with t
hat gesture, a kind of tyranny he had imposed on her. Bertie Nkambe's heart was in her face. A beguiling, beginning woman, for all her worldliness still defining herself, needing him in the process.

  Gao reappeared with ceremonial tea. Bertie poured. They all had a cup, another tradition at the newlyweds' table. The other guests smiled and nodded happily, watching them. There was good luck and good feeling in the air.

  Nothing Sherard had drunk or eaten had had much taste for a long time. But the tea was fragrant and delicious, the wine that came next a silvery treasure that restored his palate. There were no menus at the Elegant Forest. Each night Gao's chef prepared a communal feast, and those who were fortunate enough to get a table ate what was brought out to them. Sherard lost count of the courses that arrived sizzling, braised, or chilled. Also he wasn't paying attention to how much wine he consumed. He did remember at one point to ask Bertie about the peep she'd mentioned earlier.

  "It was the painter. The ABC girl at the end of this alley. American-born Chinese. I was really engrossed in her work. Had my back to her. She just lifted a corner of my mind, you know, like a tent flap, and looked in. Idle curiosity, I guess. But it was deft. She's had better training than that ice-pick artist on the plane coming out."

  "Was she MMF?"

  Bertie paused to demolish a lotus flower made from pureed vegetables, then made a judgment call.

  "I don't think she's in the Game. Not one of ours, anyway."

  "Neither are you in the Game," Tom reminded her. "That's what Gillian wanted, and I insist upon it. And you never take chances, Bertie."

  "I didn't do anything."

  "Could she have peeped you long enough to get some ideas about you?"

  "T-blocking leaves a definite signature. Nevertheless, I don't think it's anything to worry about."

  "Right. Then I'm not worried."

  "Nor am I. Don't know why I brought it up in the first place."

  Neither of them paid attention to the Chinese man in a steel-gray silk suit who had come into the Elegant Forest. Midnight shades with Erector-set gold frames complemented the flash suiting. Gao looked up as he was pouring wine into Sherard's glass and turned as stony as Buddha. Then he backed away from their table with a reserved but suppliant bow as the newcomer approached, kicked a vacant lacquered chair ahead of him, turned it around and straddled it, arms across the back of the chair. Sherard glanced at the bead-curtain doorway. Two guys who looked like bodyguards loitered there, looking in. Sherard breathed cologne, took in the expensive tailoring of the man who sat four feet from him, the gold accessories, a thin scar running nearly the full angle of one jaw like a chin strap. In spite of the scar he was a handsome man until he pulled off the dark glasses. His uncovered eyes looked ruined, as if he were suffering from a permanent hangover, or arctic snow blindness. There was no focus in them. The lids trembled.

  "Hi. Welcome to San Francisco. My hometown. Great place to eat, isn't it? Gao's the best, kid you not. Don't worry about the bill, it's taken care of. Entirely my pleasure." He finished out of breath, stroked his lips a few times with his fingertips. Some women would find his mouth sensual, some would find it cruel; most would just find it, buzzing with lust like a fly trapped on a windowpane. He slipped the shades back on in mid-blink, snapped his fingers at Gao, pointed to the wineglass in front of Sherard. Gao disappeared into the kitchen. "Name's Danny Cheng." He turned his hard flat head slightly toward Bertie, who looked at him with a level of response she usually reserved for a dirty rest room. "Question is, who the hell are you, Cute Stuff?"

  CHAPTER 17

  GREENWOOD LAKE, CALIFORNIA • MAY 28

  Geoff McTyer drove his Taurus to the vacation house that the Warings had borrowed, the man temporarily known as Phil Haman in the seat beside him. Haman passing the time playing a video game on a Toshiba laptop. That wasn't enough to keep him occupied. He had to make conversation too. Geoff acknowledged the attempts in monosyllables, kept his mind on his driving, tried not to give in to the panic that had resulted from being overtaken by events.

  "You're not much for small talk is the impression I get," Haman said, staring at the active matrix screen and the bombast of the video game. His thumb was busy on the controller, lobbing fireballs at digitized goons with broadswords and two-headed wizards. "Or maybe it's just that you haven't warmed up to me yet."

  Geoff didn't reply. Another few miles went by, mountainous places cragged and tufted against a softly luminous night sky. The moon floating above the tree line, disappearing at times. Twister of a road. Occasional traffic.

  "We got far to go yet?"

  "No."

  "How far?"

  "Up ahead we take a left. Pass the dam. Then, I don't know. The road follows the north shore of the lake. Look for the name. On a mailbox or something."

  "Hassler?"

  "Yes. Hassler."

  "Lot of stress on you. I'm aware of that. I sympathize. She's a honey. You just can't stop thinking about her. How about her shape? Eden have a good shape? Sure she does. You fell hard. I'll bet she fell hard too, good-looking bullnuts like yourself. How did it go, the first time? In your apartment, right? Or, no, maybe it was a camping trip; you're the rugged outdoors type. Wilderness. All that hiking puts whang in your blood. You've built a fire, set up this little tent. Nobody else around for miles. The two of you have known all day that you're going to have sex. Can't go another minute without doing it. The kissing, the touching. The moaning. I love you, I love you. The clothes coming off. But maybe it's too chilly. Or she's too shy to get all the way naked. Just uncover those parts you need to work with, get your hands on. Both of you with your jeans below your knees, back door's the best way to get it in. She's even hotter than you hoped she would be. Hands on her breasts, lips on the back of her neck. Thrusting. I'm not hurting you, am I, Eden? No no don't stop oh it's so big oh God feels so good."

  "You son of a bitch."

  "This the dam? Pull over when you get across."

  Haman turned off the laptop and put it away. On the other side of the small dam they sat in darkness by the side of the road, the lake below them painted by the moon.

  "This heartthrob Eden, you lose perspective, you lose your sense of mission," Haman said. "But I'm not here to pass judgment. We all have our work. Mine happens to be wet. I go in, I get out. I work long-range, I work up close. I carry the tools for either eventuality. I'm expressing myself in this manner in order to spare your fucking sensibilities. Purely in terms of job satisfaction, up close is best for me. I like to see their eyes when I'm making delivery. So to speak. Same as show business. There's nothing like feedback from a live audience. But I don't let the promise of visceral reward interfere with my analysis of how to do the job effectively. There's no other factors involved. Politics don't interest me. Don't tell me any of your conspiracy theories. Everything's a conspiracy. I go in, it's done, I get out. My approval rating stays high. I don't know who makes those decisions. I get instructions from so deep inside the Sector it's possible no one actually exists there anymore. That could mean a lot of things. All I want are my instructions. Sometimes it's a blind man, stopping me on the street with a tap of his cane, whispering in my ear. If a month goes by and I haven't made a delivery, I start to feel listless. Apprehensive. Then the Voices begin. Far-off, chanting. A kind of déjà voodoo. I can ignore them for a while. Then it gets so bad they don't let me sleep. 'Bring out your dead,' they cry. 'Bring out your dead!' What do they mean? Are they holding me accountable? I follow instructions. I'm in, I'm out. Sometimes it's a little girl in a Baskin-Robbins, sneaking a crumpled napkin into my pocket."

  Geoff's hands gripped the steering wheel. He looked straight ahead. One side of his face was illuminated by the cold sheen from the surface of Greenwood Lake. If he hadn't been certain before, it was clear to him now. A world that would not allow Eden Waring to live in peace was a grim asylum, a lurking hell. He had acquired a new slant on the man temporarily known as Haman. Whoever he was, he had emerged from the ru
bble of Geoff's former beliefs and misbegotten sense of duty expressly to torment and then to destroy him. Geoff was deeply afraid. But the fear that possessed him, he sensed, also had the power to define him.

  After a couple of bleak minutes, the assassin yawned as if he'd been napping, and spoke again.

  "What we do now, we locate the house. Stay back until we know if she's there or not. Then I'll take over. You don't have a part in it. When I come out, you drive me back to the burg we came from; I'm history where you're concerned."

  Geoff turned his head slowly and looked at Haman. Knew that he was lying, wasn't how Haman had planned it at all. Rather than being horrified, he was almost elated.

  "What about the Warings?"

  Haman shrugged. "Well, Geoff. You know. What can I do? Unless you have an idea I can use."

  Geoff pulled back onto the road, accelerating too abruptly.

  "I don't. Let's just get it over with."

  CHAPTER 18

  SAN FRANCISCO • MAY 28

  A pair of hand-carved nan wood doors. Ming-style carved chairs. Eighteenth-century porcelain and ormolu vases. Lacquered gold and black étagère. Tang Dynasty funerary horse, saddled. A green-glazed Han dog. A bronze ritual vessel with water buffalo motifs, three thousand years old. Objects outliving vast buried histories. Things of seductive textures and artistry that begged to be touched, revered.

  Danny Cheng was proud of his to-the-trade establishment, on the ground floor of a snowflake-white Italianate house built on Russian Hill in the days of windjammers, the famous China clippers, the Great White Fleet. The original house, Cheng said, had survived the 1906 fire because the roof had been protected with gunny sacks soaked in the wine from its capacious cellar. The fleet was long gone, but the view of the bay west to the Golden Gate Bridge was still as splendid as could be found on many a San Francisco hill.