Takedown, page 16
“This time it’s you who must stop him, Detective,” Buck urged Gavin under his breath. “You must get to him before he gets to you.”
“Me? You must be kidding. How am I supposed to do that? He knows me and I don’t know him. Besides, I don’t even believe this demon stuff is real half the time. Buck, is this really happening? Please tell me there is a chance you’re wrong.”
“You know it’s real when it’s happening, Detective, or you wouldn’t be here with me.”
“Yeah, I know, there are no atheists in foxholes. But at least they know who’s shooting at them. Agghhh, I can’t do what you do… I don’t know what you know… and frankly, I don’t want to.”
“This is not about ‘want,’ Detective. We’re dealing with life and death, light and darkness. You must call on God and learn from Him in the light,” Buck said, opening his eyes wider, “and never doubt in the darkness what God has given you in the light.”
“I’ll try to remember that.”
“You have to remember that.”
“Can’t you just give a name of someone already involved in this stuff?”
“Yes. His name is Detective Gavin Pierce.”
Before Gavin could answer, his beeper vibrated. Chris again.
“You don’t mind?” Gavin picked up Buck’s room phone.
“Dial nine first,” Buck said.
Gavin nodded and dialed. “What’s up?”
“You didn’t, by any chance, read today’s Daily Post?” Chris asked.
“No.”
“I didn’t think so.”
“Why?”
“You follow wrestling?”
“The WWX?”
“Yeah.”
“Of course not.”
“Well, there’s a full-page ad about a thing there starting tonight called Armageddon.”
Gavin rolled his eyes. “Chris, I’m here in the hospital with Buck. We’re in the middle of—”
“Fine, fine, I’ll chat with you later about the main attraction of the show, who just happens to be a guy named Krogan.”
“What?”
“Thought you might be interested. And get this…” Chris laughed. “The WWX is offering a million dollars to anyone who beats him in a five-minute bout. Not our Krogan, of course, but quite a coincidence, wouldn’t you say?”
“Why do you say he’s not our guy?” Gavin demanded, then immediately realized what Chris’s answer would be.
“Hello? Our guy’s in the big house, remember?”
“Right. I keep forgetting.”
“Ever hear of Jackhammer Hoban?”
“Well, yeah, who hasn’t? But like I said—”
“You don’t follow, I know, I know,” Chris finished for him. “Anyway, it seems this guy Hoban has had a sudden resurgence. He won a title fight on Monday, and the ad claims he started calling himself Krogan after Monday night’s fight.”
After the tortoise died, Gavin thought, a shudder trickling down his back.
“Anyway, I’ll see you later. Sooner the better. We’ve got a lot to go over.”
“Later,” Gavin said, hanging up the phone and turning back to Buck. The old man’s eyes were closed again. Again, Gavin was tempted to turn off the IV. How was he ever going to get Buck to help him in this condition?
“Buck.”
“Yes?” The old preacher opened his eyes.
“I guess at this point we can consider the tortoise route a failure.”
Buck sighed and nodded slowly. “Lester could never tell the zoo the truth… and now he’s dead. It’s my fault. I should never have asked him to even consider such a task.”
“Hmm. So let’s say we find that Krogan lives inside… a professional wrestler, for example. What would be the first thing to do?”
“The first thing is always the same as the last thing.”
“Dial nine-one-one?”
“I guess you could say that—only, a heavenly emergency line. It’s prayer, young man! The first thing to do is pray for Krogan’s host.”
“Krogan’s host? You mean the guy that drove through my house with a cement truck and put my wife in the hospital! You pray for him! Pray I don’t kill him!”
“Detective, when are you going to realize that your fight is not against flesh and blood, but against the spirit that influences its decisions and, in Krogan’s case, possesses his life?”
“So what kind of prayer do you pray for someone like Krogan’s host?”
“Mercy, forgiveness, and ultimately, surrender. And then you need to pray for Krogan to be bound. You must understand that God’s heart is for the man and against the demon. When the demon is bound, the man will be weak. That’s when the man must be seized or the demon cast out.”
“If I recall, Buck, this is a battle you almost lost against Krogan on Ellis Island. I was there, remember? We were fortunate to get out of there with our lives. How am I supposed to do this alone?”
“You won’t be alone, Detective. When you pray you are never alone. And to come against the likes of Krogan you must also fast.”
“What good does that do?”
“It helps you become weak, surrender to God. It is when you are weak that you will be strongest.”
“I want you to know that nothing you say makes any sense to me.”
“Pray first, then understanding will come, Detective.”
“I know who Krogan is.”
“That is why you must know who God is.”
“No, I mean I know who Krogan is.”
Buck reflexively lifted his head off his pillow. “You do?”
“I think so. A drugged-out alcoholic WWX wrestler has just reappeared on the scene big-time, and he’s changed his name to Krogan. This all happened just after our tortoise died. Can a repossession happen that fast?” Gavin said, wondering if repossession was the correct word. It was all so out of this world.
“When a demon leaves a host it reenters the spirit world it was originally born into. Jesus called it ‘the waterless place,’ a desert-like wilderness, if you will, because demons can no longer nourish themselves there. Ever since the resurrection, it has been a place saturated with the light of God, and the demons cannot hide. They are exposed to the light, tortured by it, and want to leave as quickly as possible. In agony, they search in haste for their next home, usually human. In our time, this can happen very quickly. Once in its new home, the demon seeks to control, dominate. In Krogan’s case, the overpowering of the new host can be swift. He gives them more of what they already want, then destroys them with it.”
“Buck… do you think Krogan will come up here… for you?”
“Not if you stop him first,” the old man said with a weak smile.
Gavin glanced at his watch. 2:44. If he left now he could be back on the Island by six—oh, but then there was rush hour. Make that seven or seven-thirty.
“Gotta go, Buck. Sorry for being the bearer of bad news, but I didn’t know where else to turn.”
“What will you do now?”
“Krogan sent me a message. I think it’s about time I sent him one.”
26
Krogan pushed open the glass door of the Harley Davidson dealer and went directly to the bike displayed in the window. He had never seen anything like it, ever. The seat was cut low like other Harleys, but that was where the similarities ended. The entire bike was a raw, anodized aluminum—not a metallic silver paint but real metal, like a stainless-steel knife. He envisioned himself riding it at a hundred-sixty or more. The vision excited him.
“Help ya?” said a deep voice from behind.
“I want this,” Krogan said, focused on his own reflection in the glistening alloy gas tank.
“Yeah, well, who doesn’t? The V-Rod’s the hottest bike on the market. It’s just awesome.”
Krogan turned to face the man, middle-aged, long gray beard, tattoos on his forearms, black Harley T-shirt over a gut, black pants over black boots. He reminded Krogan of so many others he had killed, usually for their bikes. “I wanna ride this.”
“Hey, wait a minute… aren’t you Jackhammer Hoban? Yeah, yeah… I read about you in today’s paper. Full-page ad. You’re gonna fight in that Armageddon thing tonight, and you’re gonna challenge anyone. A million dollars to anyone who can beat you. That’s wild, man. Wild.” The man shook his head. “Also read you changed your name to Krogan, like that psycho. Sweet move… I like that. But, hey, looking at you in person, I think it’ll be a hard million to earn. I saw you on Monday night’s title fight. Man, oh man, did you whip Tyrant’s butt! And I heard it was real, that you threw the script out. Is that true?”
“The bike,” Krogan growled, his glare removing the salesman’s grin.
“Oh, right. What did you want, a test ride? In your case I’ll waive the usual formalities and hook you right up. Not like we don’t know where to find ya,” he said with a laugh. “Just take it down Peninsula Boulevard a little ways. There’s an open area a half mile down for you to check it out. If you like it, are you thinking of buying one today?”
“I want it now.”
“Uh, yeah… sure… great. I can do that. I’ll, uh, have one brought around front and—”
“Now.”
The salesman stepped backward, almost tripping over his feet as he hurried away. A moment later he reappeared with a few other salespeople behind him, all looking at Krogan.
“Here we go, Mister, uh, Krogan,” the salesman said, pointing through the glass where a V-Rod was standing, another employee at its side.
Krogan exited and straddled the bike, the bright alloy finish flashing in the sunlight.
“Okay, now,” the salesman said, all chummy-like. “The key goes right here and, uh, you’re gonna need a helmet. I’ll be back in one second.”
Krogan kicked the shifter into neutral and turned the key. The engine started instantly. He pulled in the hand clutch, kicked the gearshift down to first, and revved the engine. A moment later he was gone.
Two hours passed before Krogan blazed into Nassau Coliseum’s parking lot on the V-Rod. The odometer read one hundred sixty-eight miles—eighty-seven more than when he had left the showroom, five of those miles collected off the road. The once pristine machine was scratched and soiled with sand, straw, grass, and mud.
Krogan passed a gaggle of fans who had gathered early to see their heroes arrive. They pointed and screamed at him as he turned down the ramp to the coliseum’s massive lower level. Coliseum security recognized him and waved him in as he downshifted. Once inside, he screeched to a skidding stop and then stepped off the bike, letting it fall to the ground like a child would an old bicycle at a playground.
He didn’t know what time it was and didn’t care. It was still light out and the fight wouldn’t start until dusk.
“Hey, Hoban!” called a loud voice as he passed by the weight room. “Oh, I’m sorry. I meant Krogan,” the voice said sarcastically, then laughed.
Krogan stopped in his tracks and turned back, stepping into the room, where a dozen wrestlers were pumping up for the event. That is, until he walked in. Most of them stopped and looked up at him. The scene reminded him of another time long ago.
“A million freaking dollars… and no script to protect you?” a belligerent voice hollered, the same voice that had called his host’s name a moment ago. Krogan’s host knew the man as Malcolm “The Mountain” Murchison. The WWX had hired him six months ago after he’d won the World’s Strongest Man contest, where the contestants carry cars and boulders. The WWX was bringing him along and had plans to make him one of their new superstars. In the weight room, Murchison was a giant among giants. “When we fight, I will not need three minutes against a has-been like you. Tyrant wasn’t expecting you to—”
Murchison continued his ranting, but Krogan’s attention went to one of three television sets suspended from the ceiling. All were tuned to different stations, but all were showing the same event, albeit from different angles. With music coming over the weight room’s sound system, the TV volume had been turned off and close captioning scrolled at the bottom of each set’s picture of what looked like a capsized boat. Krogan read the captions just long enough to realize the same guy who had derailed the train was being blamed for flipping the boat. He marveled at how such a feat could have been accomplished and again found himself envious of a host with such creativity.
“Agggghhhhh,” roared another wrestler working out on the bench press. Hoban had known him as Kamehameha, a powerful Hawaiian wrestler who’d named himself after the first Hawaiian king. The Olympic steel bar was bending under the dunnage of four plates per side totaling four hundred five pounds. Once, twice, three times. Veins popping, muscles bulging, eyes screaming, the Hawaiian finally allowed the hefty bar clang to rest in the forks.
Suddenly Krogan wanted to feel the blood flow and the muscles harden… something he had missed while imprisoned in the cursed tortoise. He walked over to the bench, where the wrestler had sat up, resting for his next set.
“Leave,” Krogan commanded.
Kamehameha looked at him indignantly. “Say what?”
Krogan locked onto his eyes, holding him motionless with his gaze. “Hele, hemu lapuwale,” he said, in the wrestler’s ancient native language calling him a fool and telling him to leave at once.
Kamehameha’s eyes widened with surprise. “How do you know—”
“Hemu!” Krogan ordered.
The Hawaiian wrestler turned pale and slowly moved away without a word.
Krogan settled under the bar. Without the usual ritual of stretching, warming up with lesser weights, and making sure of balanced hand placement, he lifted the load off the rest with a grunt and lowered it to within an inch of his chest. Krogan tested Hoban’s natural strength and enjoyed the pain of the straining muscles along with the increased heart rate. Breathing and surging adrenaline from his host’s fear of not being able to get the weight back up if he held it to his chest any longer was a problem his host would soon learn not to concern himself with. He would teach Hoban to expect supernatural strength. Then someday, in all likelihood, Krogan would use his host’s newfound confidence to kill him. In the meantime, he would burn him out physically and mentally like spiritual LSD and when—
“Nobody walks away from me while I’m talking to them and lives to tell about it,” Malcolm “The Mountain” Murchison said, straddling Krogan as he lay on the bench, Murchison’s massive hands gripping the bar, pushing downward. “Whether I kill you now or in the ring makes no difference to me.”
Krogan cursed at him, which made Murchison push harder.
“I… can’t… breathe,” Krogan gasped, the bar now deeply creasing his chest.
“So then don’t,” Murchison said, grinning.
Krogan’s panicked expression transformed slowly, eerily into a smile. Murchison leaned into him until he was pushing with all his weight. Krogan continued to smile until he finally puckered his lips and threw him a mock kiss and said, “I’m sorry I wasn’t paying attention to you.” He then thrust the barbell away, sending both the weight and Murchison backward to the floor. In a flash Krogan was on him, their roles completely reversed. Murchison cried out in pain as Krogan shoved the barbell into his chest. “Now, what is it you were saying?”
A moment later, Krogan walked out of the weight room, leaving Malcolm “The Mountain” Murchison curled in fetal position on the floor, coughing spasmodically, while the other wrestlers looked on, stunned. He walked through a rising hallway that emptied into the arena. The festivities would not start for another few hours. WWX stage crews were setting up microphones, tables, and cameras, testing sound levels and checking light switches. Spurts of heavy-metal music were coming on and off. WWX security personnel in black-and-white shirts wandered about with walkietalkies.
“Hoban the man!” said one of the stagehands to Krogan, holding up his hand for a high-five.
Krogan ignored the man as he walked by. He did not want to be liked, much less engage in some ritual with a menial drone. His audience would be unseen to human eyes. He would give an exhibition for all those who despised the creator and his precious creation. He would be an example to some of his less-than-ruthless comrades of how easily darkness can dominate. He would take and enjoy. Play with the creation like a cat would a bird with a broken wing.
He climbed to the upper seats of the coliseum, sat down, and gazed into the empty arena. In the center of the ceiling was a circle of twelve large lights focused only on the ring below. He stared at the lights, like glowing numbers on a giant clock, until his mind started to drift to another time. The intermittent music and the voices of stagehands fell to the background, then into silence. The workers’ motions slowed until he saw no movement at all. Downward light beams formed from the twelve lights, stretching until they reached the floor surrounding the ring. Out of the quiet he heard faint cheers that grew louder and louder. The twelve beams of light became solid stone pillars topped with robust flames spewing thick black smoke. The pillars moved farther apart, separating, until they encompassed the entire floor before the seats.
The vision became clear. The ring was gone. He saw the crowds and their attire. The torchlit floor of battle was muddy and sticky, almost waxy, and he remembered its being called a keroma. A dozen or more naked men stood with him at one side of the arena while two men fought in the middle. The fight would continue without break until one of the men surrendered by raising a right hand with a pointed index finger. There were no other rules, no weight distinctions. The men would battle in any way they wanted, without clothes or weapons. Meanwhile, Krogan waited impatiently for his turn. The fighting was fierce by their standards, but he would change the standards.
The crowd cheered as one of the naked men overpowered the other, choking and punching until the sign of surrender was finally given.
A man in white, draping clothes entered the keroma, holding a parchment list of names at his side as the two fighters, soiled and bloody, were helped away by guards, one walking, the other carried. The man in white called for the next two contestants. “Talus. Krogan.”
