Mistress of Death, page 15
Miko fell, and I think now he felt pain, for he was dying. “Kali!” he cried, a hideous scream, and that was all. The drug had left him no physical reserves for recovery.
I turned to face the other demons, alert for treachery. But they made no move. “It was a fair fight,” I said. “I did not go for a weapon until after he did.”
I walked boldly to the ladder and climbed the rungs, conscious of the rifleman’s red eyes upon me. My nerves screamed at me to hurry up, but I knew that if I showed fear or even undue haste, I could take a bullet in the back. I could not stop the cold beads of sweat forming on my forehead, running down my neck, and I left blood on every second rung, but I kept the pace steady.
At last I made the catwalk. I walked to the stairs leading up and out, and I thought I heard a click, as of a rifle bolt being pulled back.
I launched myself up the stairs, across the deck, and over the rail into the darkness beyond the ship. Yet another fear came to me then: suppose that I struck unseen debris floating on the water, knocking myself out and drowning?
I hit the cold water, not cleanly, but safely. I let myself go under, swimming with the current. I waited till the river had carried me some distance downstream before I struck for shore. I just didn’t want to give the demon marksman any additional chance to change his mind.
There was no pursuit. For what it was worth, the demons had honored their pact with me.
CHAPTER 11
BLACK MISTRESS
“Kali,” Kobi Chija said musingly. “I know of no man by that name. It is not Chinese or Japanese.
“I don’t either,” I said. “But it is all we have to go on.” I paused. “Kali—is it possible that Kali is a woman?”
“Possible, certainly, but still not Oriental. Unless—” He looked up, startled. “Kali—the black goddess!”
“Goddess?” Now I was startled. “He did speak of sacrilege. Or sacredness. It could be some idol they worship. Is there such a god?”
He fetched a book. “Yes! Not American, not Chinese. Indian, I believe. The Goddess of Death.”
“Indian! That fits! The Mayas—” He smiled. “The real Indians. Hindu.” He found his place in the book, a text on mythology. “See, here it is. Kali is a terrifying demon of Hindu mythology. She has black skin, four arms, three eyes-and an insatiable lust for destruction.”
“Sounds like Kill-Thirteen, all right,” I said. “They must have adopted her as their symbol. Maybe they made the same mistake I did, thinking Indian had to be American. Let me see that book.”
So I learned about the black goddess Kali: she wore red armor —the color of fresh blood?—and a necklace of human skulls about the throat. Her black scepter ended in another skull. She held daggers in her hands. Her consort was Yama, God of Death. Among her devotees were the Thuggees, the notorious strangler assassins of India.
It was fascinating, but unhelpful as hell. Obviously there was no real goddess, except perhaps as a statue, an idol. No one we could trace down to question about the source of Kill-13.
“Dead end,” I said in disgust.
Kobi shrugged. “Who can say? Perhaps an avenue will appear, though the way seems blocked at the moment.”
No point in pursuing that right now. I turned to a better subject. “How is Chiyako doing? I wish she’d let me visit her.”
“She returns this afternoon,” he said, smiling. “She is embarrassed about her appearance.”
“She has no need to be!” I exclaimed.
“Perhaps the issue is unusually sensitive. She has been trying to determine her own feelings.” He glanced at me quizzically, and I realized that I had been asked a question.
“I guess you know that I love her.”
He did not remark on my American bluntness, but answered it with a certain directness of his own. I suppose my manners were something of a trial to him. “I had suspected that you did not.”
“Not love her? I—”
“Not know.”
Close enough. “I never found the right girl before. That is, well, this is awkward. There has been a lot of emotional history to untangle. Cambodia, you know.”
He nodded. He knew.
“Is she—are you free to tell me whether—”
“She awaits your decision. She has not been spoken for.”
Good news! Yet— “If I may ask—an attractive girl like her— why not?”
“We follow the Chinese custom.”
Volumes were spoken in those words. I knew little about it, except that Chinese custom embraced arranged marriages and extremely intricate protocol. Chiyako had not married because her father had not yet made that decision for her. Yet undoubtedly he would not oppose a marriage she genuinely wanted. His attitude would be a sure guide to hers.
“I don’t really know your ways,” I said, feeling shaky. “How does one—” I faltered again. Suddenly it seemed ludicrous, this notion that a strict Chinese father would permit his daughter to marry a white man.
“One’s father pays a call,” Kobi said.
Then the answer was not an absolute no. If I would follow the forms, he would decide, in due course. But: “Suppose one’s father is dead?”
“Then the ranking male of the family.” He saw my frown. I could hardly start bringing in distant relatives, who would have no grasp of the situation, and might even have racial prejudices. I did not want the word miscegenation to be bandied about. “Or a patriarchal friend, conversant with the forms.”
I brightened. Hiroshi, the Aikido sensei. He would do it. And he had international stature.
Then I had another ugly thought. Caucasians were not the only ones with prejudices. “Suppose one’s friend is Japanese?”
Kobi’s brows raised. “Japanese?” Bad feeling was notorious between the Chinese and the Japanese. But after a moment he shrugged with mock resignation. “One must be tolerant, even of Japanese.”
I knew it was going to be all right. Hiroshi and Kobi would hit it off famously, and out of that dialogue could very well come a matrimonial contract.
For Chiyako was the girl I wanted to marry. It was not that I had known her long—all of a week!—but that she was part of Shaolin, true to its philosophies. The life I might have had in the monastery would be fulfilled in her. The fact that she was a young, talented, beautiful girl was an incidental bonus; the time would come when she was old, yet love would endure. That was the distinction between Chiyako and all other girls.
Somehow, by what devious internal process I could not fathom, that triggered a realization. “Kali. She’s like Ilunga!”
“An exaggeration,” he murmured. “At heart she is an intelligent, sensitive girl. Even now, she has much to offer. Had she been fairly treated—”
“Sure, but there’s a family resemblance,” I exclaimed. “Black, female, savage, destructive.”
He shook his head sadly. “If that is the way you see her.”
I was curious. “How do you see her?”
“I suspect she is as much a woman as my daughter, as loyal to her principles. As worthy of respect.”
“But what principles!” I said. “Kali principles.”
“It does seem more than coincidence. Perhaps Ilunga knows more than she has said.”
I dreaded another encounter with the black mistress. But there seemed to be no alternative, if I was to pursue my mission. “I’ll have another talk with her,” I said. And felt an odd relief.
“Will you wait here until my daughter comes home? I shall bring her this afternoon.”
I was sorely tempted, but that reminded me of other important business. “I have a letter to write,” I said. A letter to Hiroshi, in far Japan. “Would it be all right if I visited her later in the evening?”
“A letter,” he murmured, comprehending. Yet somehow it seemed as though he were disappointed. I was reminded once more of the head monk as he bid me farewell, so long ago in Cambodia. Then Kobi smiled, accepting this temporary parting gracefully. “As you will. Perhaps you should also talk to Ilunga at this time, so that you have full information.”
So I had done the right thing, resisting the short-range pleasure in favor of duty and the long-range commitment.
It was a terrible mistake.
*
This time I caught Ilunga in her apartment. I had spent the afternoon on the letter, destroying draft after draft until I had it right. I asked Hiroshi to speak for me and to try to arrange a marriage contract. I had mailed it air, special delivery, on my way here. So it was evening, and I hoped this would not take long. I wanted to see Chiyako again.
As I mounted the grimy stairs of the decrepit building, I felt an impending gloom. No one should have to live this way.
The locks were off, so I knew she was in. I knocked and stood back, ready for anything. I was wearing corduroy pants, a black pullover, and special hard pointed shoes with little pieces of iron in the heels. My nunchaku was tucked out of sight; I had brought it to use on the multitudes of semi-vicious roaming dogs in the neighborhood. And as insurance, just in case Ilunga happened to have some of her demon goon squad around. I did not want to fight, but if I had to . . .
Her door opened. Ilunga stood illuminated by soft light. She wore a black rubber dress that clung to her figure, showing it off to extreme advantage. I could hardly tell where the material ended and her dark skin began; it was as if she were strikingly nude. Her hair was down, brushed and oiled so that it shone, and I smelled her perfume.
She laughed, recognizing me. “Is that how you dress to visit a lady?”
What the hell did she think this was, a date? “I want to know about Kali,” I said bluntly. “I don’t want trouble.”
“The two are synonymous,” she said. “Kali equals trouble. Come in.”
“This is no social visit.”
She laughed again, seeming to be completely at ease. “What did you do so badly the last time that you are afraid of me?”
What was in her mind? Disgruntled, I entered, alert for any trap.
Her apartment was lovely. It was such a contrast to the rundown building that I blinked, literally. The walls were painted in restful pastels, the floor was richly carpeted, and classical music played softly in stereo. Authentic African sculpture rested on sills and tables, and African spears were mounted on one wall. Elsewhere were modern abstract paintings, signed originals.
It wasn’t fakery. The entire apartment was too well put together; it had a unity that could come only from complete conformance to the cultured whim of one person.
Ilunga had shown me another image of herself. Not the maiden, not the bitch, not the lonely beauty, but the artistic, intelligent, mature woman.
“So Miko did not kill you,” she said, seeming unsurprised. “Have an hors d’oeuvre.” She wasn’t fooling: a small black walnut table had canapes, anchovies, ham rolls with cream cheese inside, olives stuffed with almonds, and assorted nuts.
“He hardly tried,” I said. I took a cracker with meat and cheese spread, but declined a cocktail. I was feeling increasingly out of place. “He wanted to convert me.”
Her eyes widened momentarily. “That would have solved all problems.” She reclined half-supine on the couch, a distractingly handsome woman. Her lips were ruby red, and her fingernails matched. Only her broken nose spoiled the effect, and it really was not too obvious in this light. I suspected she was almost blind; demons needed bright light. That was the price she paid for her vanity; she could not have beauty and vision together. It was hard to believe how vicious she could be. But I steeled myself to believe it.
“Sorry to disappoint you,” I said dryly. “I killed him, instead.”
“I know. I have assumed his place in the network.”
“So soon! That’s some efficiency!”
“The drug has to be dispensed on schedule, or all hell breaks loose.”
“I can imagine. But how did you know whom to contact? I thought these things were highly classified.”
“I am one of the favored. As you might be, if you joined us.”
“I’m no facsimile of Kali,” I said.
It was as though I had struck her. “How do you know of that?”
“Miko told me about your black goddess. The resemblance was apparent. It figures that you have quite a future in this outfit. But I’m different. I’m male and white and straight.”
“My future could be yours.”
“Don’t try your park-wiles on me! The drug kills that sort of thing.”
“It kills only what is ugly in man.”
“His sex?”
“There is more to you than sex.”
I didn’t like this. She was beginning to make sense. “I hope so. I’m getting married soon.”
She reacted, but I was uncertain how to interpret it. She had tried to mark me, in our park encounter, as though she were jealous, but she didn’t seem jealous now. Sad, perhaps. “To the Chinese girl? I think not.”
“Why not?”
With no other forewarning she sprung the trap. “Because she is in our power.”
She might as well have kicked me in the unguarded groin again. It did not occur to me to disbelieve her, at first. Kill-13 seemed to act as a truth-drug, along with all its other attributes; no demon had lied to me yet, that I knew of. “How?”
“The taxi the old man took, bringing her home. The demons ambushed it at a red light.”
“I would have heard about it!”
“How? No one knows yet that they are gone,”
“Kobi would have fought.”
“Against a gun held by a demon?”
So the demons had resorted to guns for this venture. “Yes, to protect his daughter.”
“Then he is dead.”
I remembered Kobi’s seeming disappointment when I declined to accompany him to the hospital. Had he had a premonition? “Let me use your phone.”
She gestured to it. There was no trace of gloating in her manner; she seemed sorry for me.
But even before I called, I knew the demon net was pulling in tight. They had outmaneuvered me. They must have started planning this caper the moment I beat Miko, or even before. Why hadn’t I anticipated their counter-moves? Why hadn’t I stayed to bring Chiyako home from the hospital myself? This could not have happened then.
“Do not blame yourself,” Ilunga said as I dialed. “Demons have watched you for several days. We know when to strike. You could not have avoided this.”
I didn’t reply. I had seen little evidence that the local demons were clever enough to pull off so neat a play. Perhaps there was a national or world organization whose finesse was greater. Still, it was questionable.
How had they known about my involvement with Chiyako? There had never been anything obvious about our relationship; I had been circumspect. Not because I cared what the demons thought, but because I valued the acquaintance too highly to make a spectacle of it. Naturally I visited Kobi’s house often; he and I were working together against the demons. They would have had no reason to suspect my involvement with his daughter. So I had taken her out one afternoon; this was the polite thing to do for the child of an honored sifu. The demons would naturally minimize the relationship, failing to appreciate the sexual attraction because of their own weakness in that department. Chiyako had been in the hospital several days, and I had not even gone to visit her. How could the demons know it was at her own request? While she sorted out her feelings for me, and I did the same for her. No, there was no certain evidence.
Someone must have told the demons that the surest way to put pressure on me was to put pressure on Chiyako. And the demons had acted immediately.
Who had betrayed Chiyako? Who had known me well enough, and also had had contact with the demons? Almost no one.
I realized that the phone had been ringing at the other end for some time, with no answer. Neither Kobi nor Chiyako were at home. Yet there was nowhere else they would be at this hour, on this day.
Except with the demons.
I put down the receiver, looking at Ilunga. “You knew about me and Chiyako.” I said. “You wanted to compete with her, one way or another.” A terrible rage was building in me. “You just made me an offer to take her place. As you took the place of the demon you sent me to kill, Miko. You betrayed her. Kali’s way.” I drew out my nunchaku.
“Do not flatter yourself,” she said coolly, putting her bare feet upon the couch. Her long thighs showed. “I lost a battle to you, not the war. I’ll never take up with a honky bastard.”
The nunchaku moved in my hand as if of its own volition. I was expert in no weapon, but this was the one I handled best. I felt its awful power, an extension of my awful emotion. “Then what did you mean, just now, ‘My future could be yours’? It sounded like a proposition.”
She closed her eyes, not deigning to notice my ready weapon. “The Kill-Thirteen cult will expand enormously. There is room at the top. Especially for competence. I hate you for what you are, but I hate all men, including the sexless demons. You would make an excellent demon leader. Together we could move up, into fantastic power. Take your Chinese girl with you, I don’t care about that. Only swear that you will never betray my interests, and take a sniff with me. When I am really a goddess, you can be a god. We don’t have to like each other.”
“So you had Chiyako kidnapped, so that I would help you take over the cult,” I said. It was a grandiose plan, but quite possibly workable. The cult, by my own observations as well as hers, was short on effective leadership. Only the compelling power of the drug itself held it together. I could do a better job of organizing Kill-13 distribution than the present pushers; I knew that without any special conceit. And I could outfight the present demons, even when they were armed and high on the drug. I had proved that the hard way. So Ilunga’s notion made sense.
Except that I had no hankering for that sort of power. I could not be corrupted from my mission. My Shaolin commitment was eternal, and I could expiate my blunders of the past only by expunging this devastating drug from the world.
I balanced on my foot, on the verge of an attack that would mark a new phase in my war against the demons. I knew it was useless to bargain with them for Chiyako’s release, or that of her father, if he was alive. They would either kill her or addict her the moment I made my move. But I could kill demons, starting with the black mistress herself.
