Читать книгу Stewards of the White Circle: Calm Before the Storm - JT MDiv Brewer - Страница 11

The man awoke with a dull headache and the sprinkle of a cold rain hitting against his face and skin like small bullets. He brought himself to his elbows, shook his head and looked dazedly around.

He was in an alley, lying on a crumpled pile of newspaper. The filth of decaying garbage assaulted his nostrils. His clothes were soaked through; his white shirt, stained with his own blood, was made transparent by the rain growing heavier by the minute.

Get up! Stand up before you drown, he thought in a language that seemed both familiar and foreign. Somehow, he understood the meaning, but it was as if he was creating words as he used them, as if when they formed in his mind, he was using them for the first time.

He staggered to his feet, shivering. Weakly, he leaned against a brick wall to regain his bearings. Looking upward into the weeping sky, he blinked into the rain and covered his face with his arm.

“Where am I?” he muttered aloud. “How did I get here?”

Even as he spoke, he knew. Hazy memories, fog-like images, crept around the corners of his mind.

Garrin Cross. That was his name. He had been attacked from behind. The last thing he remembered was a plastic bag being thrown over his head.

“Who? Why?” he asked, frowning, fighting to sort it out. One answer seemed to make sense, and a name. Chang. One of Chang's hired thugs. It had to be. Angrily, he fought to force the scattered remnants of memory to take form, to stick.

I was to meet him here, he remembered. We were supposed to seal the deal. When I drove up, he was over here by the alley. I walked toward him ... then ... someone came from behind and before I could react, or even draw my gun, somebody hit me and then ... the bag … and … I died. I … died?!

A shouted curse from Cross's lips dashed against the surrounding brick walls and was blown to shreds by the wind. He shook his fist at nothing but a face in his mind. “Chang! How could you do this to me! You'll pay for it, you damned Chinese mongrel!”

He stopped in mid-sentence. But ... I’m alive, he puzzled. He slowly took a deep breath and blew it out quickly. No problem breathing now. He held his hands in front of his face, wriggling his fingers as his curse was slowly replaced by laughter. “Look at me! I'm alive. I'm alive!”

For a moment, all was confusion as two memories fought each other, neither making sense. The man held his head and closed his eyes, straining to knit the two ends of a broken rope together.

I am Garrin Cross. But I am not Garrin Cross. I am Qeoc-neh-qiti, high priest of the Brothers of the Moon, given this body, given a new life as Garrin Cross.

Yes. It was starting to come together, the elements of his existence swirling, coalescing into a sphere he could grasp.

I am here to serve the One True Lord. He has given me rebirth. I am here to become this man, this Garrin Cross, to assume his identity, to enter his world. There is a mission for me, but I must wait until I am told.... I must master this body, this double language in my brain, and learn to live with power in this new life, before I can serve Him. Only then will he come to me. Only then will I serve the purpose of my re-creation.

Garrin Cross lifted his head and looked around. At the end of the alley he saw a portion of a derelict building with a loading dock and, parked near it, a sleek, black automobile. “That’s my car,” he said aloud, the memory of the machine forming in his mind. “It’s called a, a Porsche. That’s right. That’s my Porsche.” He staggered toward it, half-running, at the same time reaching into his pocket for the metal and plastic thing, called a key, that he knew would make it work.

Following instinct that guided him even as he made the movement, he pressed a button on the key's monitor pad and the door latch clicked. With an instinctual movement, as if he had done it a thousand times before, he slipped behind the wheel. For a moment he sat in the machine, wondering what to do next. Coaxing the memories of its function to manifest, he found he knew to put the key into the ignition and, thus, started the motor.

A second curse expressed his amazement. “Good. Very good. It's working. Now, I am supposed to make this thing move.” He ran his fingers through his hair. “I damned-sure hope I know how.”

He did. His left hand automatically switched on the headlights and wipers, his right hand took the wheel and his foot pressed the gas. The car surged forward into the storm.

He drove, following the images and recollections that entered his brain; sloshing at first through dimly-lit, deserted back streets, then moving on through neighborhoods of tightly-woven, busier streets and finally joining a frantic, coursing torrent of automobiles, trucks and buses that was the interstate. He careened a bit unsteadily from lane to lane until he caught the hang of it. A few cars swerved and honked, spraying water on his windshield in their wake, but he finally settled into the lane that felt right and stayed there.

I’m remembering. It’s coming back. That ramp up ahead is Highway 101, he instructed himself, reading a long, green sign as he drove under it. I take this and my exit should be coming up twenty minutes after that.

Sure enough, at the prescribed time he saw the exit he was looking for and turned onto the ramp, leaving the nightmare of the freeway with a soft mutter of relief under his breath. Another half hour of driving, remembering turns as he came to them, landmarks as he saw them, found him in an up-scale residential area. He squinted and scowled through mists of rain to make out the road signs.

Coastal Pine Drive. My house is this way ... he confirmed, turning off the main street onto a two-lane, winding road that slowly climbed its way up the thickly-wooded, eastern slope of the San Rafael mountains. Peering through mist and a foggy windshield at the dark, blurry outlines of houses and trees, he finally recognized a gated driveway leading to a Spanish-style mansion set well back off the road; its lawns mostly obscured by a dense fortress of scrub oak and pine. He pulled to a stop in front of the gate, pushed a button on a remote control he recalled being located in the dashboard—-it was right where his memory told him it was—-and the gate swung open.

He drove forward, up the brick-paved drive, and stopped in front of the expansive, red-tiled and stucco hideaway villa. As he approached, two black dogs, lulling under a covered porch, sprang to attention, ears forward, noses pointed toward the car and its occupant. Cross got out of the car and whistled. Both dogs came running, jumping and whimpering, deliriously vying for their master's attention. Cross rubbed their ears and scratched their chins. “Miss me, boys?” he asked. The dogs responded in the affirmative with wagging tails and happy barks.

With the same remote control that opened the gates, Cross keyed in a digital code that opened the front door and stepped into the warmth of a spacious entry hall. He looked in amazement at the luxuriant furnishings, massive fireplace, carefully-detailed architecture and gilt-framed artwork that decorated the place. It was an odd sensation, seeing each thing, each possession for the first time, yet knowing it intimately at first sight. Straight ahead rose a fabulous, carved railing and an ascending, Mexican-tiled staircase. He hurried up it to the bedroom and shower he knew were waiting on the second floor. There, he threw open the bedroom doors, stripped off his sopping tie and shirt, and headed straight to the bathroom to turn on a steaming stream of hot water in the shower. No sooner had he done so than he heard a movement and soft cry behind him.

“Garrin?”

He turned to see a slender, stunningly-beautiful, dark-haired woman dressed in translucent white lingerie hurrying toward him, her arms outstretched.

She came to him and kissed him hard, pulling him close to her as her arms passionately embraced him. “Oh Garrin,” she breathed, pressing her head against his chest. “I've been so worried.”

A name came to him. Alicia. Alicia Elizando.

The woman continued with trembling voice, “When you took off like that this morning ... I was afraid you weren't coming back. Where did you go? And what ... look at you!” She drew back, noticing for the first time his hair, skin and remaining clothes were soaking wet. “What on earth? Your head! It's bleeding!”

She pulled him to the sink, held a hand cloth under cold water and dabbed at the gash on the side of his head with a shaking hand. “Garrin, what in the world happened?”

“I'm all right, Alicia,” he answered, taking the cloth from her hand. “Don't fuss over me. I need a shower, badly. Then we can talk.”

She backed away. “Certainly. Of course. I ... I'll wait for you on the patio. I'm just ... so glad you're home.”

He could sense she was offended and hurt. “I didn't mean to be curt, kitten. I'm just ... well, it's been a rotten day.” He brushed her cheek with his hand. “Get me a brandy, will you?”

She turned to go, wiping her cheek.

He grabbed her wrist. “Alicia, you're crying.” It gave him an odd pleasure to see it.

“I was worried,” she explained, flushing. “But you're home now. Everything's all right.”

“Yes.”

“I'll get the brandy. Don't keep me waiting too long.”

He smiled at her, a dark ember lighting within that he had not felt for a very long time. “No, pet. Not long.”

He watched her leave the room, her negligee gossamer about her body as she moved, her long hair shining like an ebony mane down her back. “Beautiful woman,” he whispered as a tapestry of memories of her flooded into his brain. “And I own her, body and soul.”

Garrin Cross ducked gingerly into the shower and began to scrub everywhere, eagerly washing away the grime and filthy smell of garbage and blood. He had just lathered his hair and was letting the hot water rinse the suds down his back when he heard the bathroom door open a crack and a man's voice call out through the steam.

“I can't believe you went by yourself this morning, Boss. That was very, very foolish. How did it go?”

Cross turned off the water. “Hand me a towel and I'll tell you.”

The man obliged and stood waiting outside as Cross toweled off. A few moments later, Cross emerged, wearing a white terry cloth robe, slicking back his dark hair with a silver comb. His eyes, in one quick sweep, took in the tall, blond Swede standing by the door with every bulging muscle in his great arms taught, his jaw set like iron. He remembered this man as soon as he laid eyes on him. Erik Holst, his bodyguard.

“He tried to kill me, Erik.”

“Chang?”

Cross nodded and turned sideways to a gilded mirror above an ornate, ash wood dressing table. He pushed back his hair, revealing a bruised gash.

“Pretty, isn't it?”

“You shouldn't have gone without me,” the Swede said, his accent thick with disapproval.

“I thought everything was set,” Cross explained, the recollection of events re-forming faster on command now, playing one by one in his mind. “I thought everything would be okay. Chang called at six a.m., gave me an address, and said to come alone or the deal was off. He wanted to meet within the hour. At first, I hesitated, but then I figured too much was at stake for him to do anything to mess it up. When I got there, nobody was around. Then I looked over and saw him waiting by some buildings, so I got out and walked over there....”

“Hell's hounds, Boss. Don't you recognize a set up when you see one?” the Swede growled.

“I'm not a total idiot, Erik. I wasn't unarmed. I thought I could handle it. As I got closer, I could see it was Chang. He smiled and held out his hand to shake and I reached out to take it. Right then, as he held on to my hand, one of his cutthroats came up from behind and hit me over the head. I vaguely remember somebody throwing a plastic bag over my face and I struggled to breathe. They held me down on the ground until everything went black.”

The Swede looked shocked. Frowning, he bent forward to look into Cross’ face. “You say they covered your head with a plastic bag?”

“That's right.”

“Then how are you still alive?”

Cross rubbed his face with his palm and grinned. “That's a good question, my friend. I’m thinking he removed the bag to look at my dead face, but removed it too soon. The bag was not on my head when I woke up.”

The Swede shook his head. Cross could tell he didn't quite buy it.

“Sloppy, very sloppy,” the Swede said, disapprovingly.

“But it’s a good thing they were or you wouldn’t be here. Then what happened?”

“I woke up in an alley, soaking wet, with a headache and a bloody skull, but otherwise, none the worse for wear.”

“Well, you're one lucky son of the devil,” Erik grunted. “I can't believe professionals like Chang’s henchmen would be so careless. If it'd been me, you'd be dead.”

“Comforting,” Cross replied, hardly amused. “I believe I can trust you to make things right?”

The Swede looked pleased. “I was hoping you'd ask. Don't worry, I'll find out who did it. The incompetent creep's as good as dead.”

“Chang, too.”

At this, the Swede fell silent.

“I know it won't be easy. He has an entourage of bodyguards around him all of the time.”

The big Swede's gray eyes flashed. “That's why you were smart to hire me, Cross. You know I can do whatever you need done. Chang's history.”

The Swede turned to leave. Cross held out his hand, signaling him to stop. “I just want you to know, Erik, I appreciate your skill,” he said, his dark eyes narrowing, looking straight into the other man's. “And your loyalty. I know the risk you'll be taking. I also expect Chang will try to make you a better offer.”

“Don't worry,” the Swede said, allowing no emotion to enter his voice. “I don't believe in making things complicated. I only work for one man at a time.”

“Good. That's what I wanted to hear. You can trust me to make it worth your while. Tonight?”

The Swede shook his head. “This kind of thing takes a bit of time to do right. I need to find out his daily routine, where he’ll be when and with whom. With his security, it may take a while. But don’t worry….” Holst reacted to Cross’ disapproving frown, “I’ll get the job done and done right. I'm assuming you want more than just a hit; you want a message sent to anyone else who may be contemplating messing with you in the future. Am I on target?”

“You read me like a book.”

“Best stay home until it's over. No sense taking chances. If he were to discover you’re still alive, he could try again. For added protection, we should increase security around the property; put in a gatehouse and guard.”

“Fine,” Cross said with a shrug. “Whatever you think best.”

The bodyguard turned to go. Cross again put out a hand to stop him, his handsome features contorted with an ugly snarl. “Oh, and Erik ... make him suffer.”

The Swede paused, his thin lips showing only the slightest trace of a smile. “You can count on it,” he said, and left the room without looking back.

Cross took time to locate a box of Cuban cigars and lit one before he strolled outside to the patio. Overhead, a thin quarter moon fought against currents of choking clouds, still threatening rain. A chilly breeze, sweet with the smell of Pacific salt, teased the heavy wine-red draperies at the open glass doorway. He breathed it in deeply, savoring the scent and power of darkness.

Silhouetted against the pale sky was the figure of a slender woman, her back turned toward him, her raven hair blowing in the wind. He advanced to where she stood rubbing her arms and shivering and watched her from behind.

“You're cold, pet,” he purred in her ear. “Come inside and let me warm you.”

She startled, then turned to face him, her eyes wet with tears. “Oh Garrin, I was thinking ... if ever I should lose you....” She started to cry.

He held her against him, stroking her hair. “Now, now, kitten, I will never leave you, and I will never, ever let you go. You can be certain of that.”

She looked into his face, blinking and smiling, and he wiped her tears with his fingertip. “Let's go inside,” he coaxed. “I feel like it's been an eternity since I felt the way I'm feeling now, here in your arms. Let's go inside and see what happens.”

“Yes,” she whispered, pulling him by the hand, “let's.”