Carrion Comfort (16 page)

“Yes,” said Barent. His voice was soothing, the British accent more audible. “We know what you meant, Mr. Harod. And this may be your year for it. Do you know who will be on the Island this coming June?”

Harod shrugged and turned his gaze away from Colben. “The usual bunch of boys eager for summer camp, I suppose. I’d imagine Henry the K will be there again. Maybe an ex-president.”

“
Two
ex-presidents,” said Barent with a smile. “And the chancellor of West Germany. But that is not so important. We will have the
next
president.”

“The
next
president? Jesus Christ, didn’t you just put one in?”

“Yes, but he is
old,
” said Trask and the others laughed as if it were a favorite in-joke.

“Seriously,” said Barent, “this is your year, Mr. Harod. When you help us clear up the details of this Charleston mess, nothing will remain in your way to full membership.”

“What details?”

“First, help us ascertain that William D. Borden a.k.a. Herr Wilhelm von Borchert is dead. We will continue our own inquiries. Perhaps his body will be recovered soon. You may help us simply by eliminating other possibilities if any arise.”

“All right. What else?”

“Second, carry out a much more thorough search of Mr. Borden’s estate before anymore . . . ah . . . vultures descend. Make sure that he has left absolutely nothing which could embarrass anyone.”

“I’m flying back to night,” said Harod. “I’ll go back to Willi’s place in the morning.”

“Excellent. Third, and finally, we would like your assistance in dealing with this final Charleston detail.”

“What’s that?”

“The person who killed Nina Drayton and who almost certainly is responsible for the death of your friend Willi. Melanie Fuller.”

“You think she’s still alive?”

“Yes.”

“And you want me to help find her?”

“No,” said Colben. “We’ll find her.”

“What if she’s left the country? I would if I were her.”

“We will find her,” said Colben. “If you don’t want me to find her, what do you want me to do?”

“We want you to be present when she is apprehended,” said Colben. “We want you to cancel her policy.”

“Neutralize her,” said Trask with a thin smile. “Terminate her with extreme prejudice,” said Kepler.

Harod blinked and looked to the window where Barent stood. The tall man turned and smiled. “It is time to pay your dues, Mr. Harod. We will find the lady for you. Then we want you to kill the meddling bitch.”

Harod and Maria Chen had to fly out of Dulles International in order to get a direct flight to Los Angeles before the Red Eye Special. The flight was delayed twenty minutes by mechanical problems. Harod badly wanted a drink. He hated to fly. He hated to put himself at anyone’s mercy and that was precisely what flying always had meant to him. He knew the statistics which showed how safe it was to fly. They meant nothing to him. He had clear images of wreckage strewn across several acres, of twisted pieces of metal still white-hot from flame, of bits of bodies lying pink and red in the grass like slices of salmon drying in the sun.
Poor Willi,
he thought.

“Why don’t they serve the fucking drinks
before
takeoff, when we need them?” he said. Maria Chen smiled.

The runway lights were on by the time they finally rolled into their takeoff run, but once above the solid layer of clouds there were a few final minutes of sunlight. Harod opened his briefcase and removed a heavy stack of scripts. There were five possible screenplays on his lap. Two were too long, over 150 pages, so he tossed those back into his briefcase unread. One had an unreadable first page so he set it aside. He was eight pages into the fourth manuscript when the stewardess approached to get their drink orders.

“Vodka on the rocks,” said Harod. Maria Chen declined a drink. Harod looked up at the young stewardess when she returned with his drink. It was his opinion that one of the most asinine acts in corporate history occurred when airlines surrendered to sex discrimination charges and began hiring men as stewards. Even the stewardesses seemed older and homelier to Harod these days. Not this one. She was young and well-scrubbed-looking, not the usual airlines mannequin, and pleasingly sexy in a peasant girl way. She looked Scandinavian. She had blond hair, blue eyes, and lightly flushed cheeks replete with freckles. Her breasts were full, perhaps too full for her height, and they pressed nicely against her gold and blue blazer.

“Thank you, my dear,” said Harod as she set his glass on the small tray in front of him. He touched her hand as she straightened up. “What’s your name?”

“Kristen.” She smiled, but the effect was offset by the speed with which she had pulled her hand away. “My friends call me Kris.”

“Well, Kris, sit down here a second.” Harod patted the wide arm of his chair. “Let’s talk a minute.”

Kristen smiled again, but it was a perfunctory smile, almost mechanical. “I’m sorry, sir. We’re running behind schedule and I have to get the meals ready.”

“I’m reading a movie script here,” said Harod. “I’ll probably end up producing it. There’s a part in here that sounds like it was written for a beautiful little Mädchen like you.”

“Thanks, but I really have to help Laurie and Curt with the meals.” Harold grasped her wrist as she started to leave. “Would it kill you to bring me another vodka and ice before you get it on with Curt and Laurie?”

She pulled her arm away slowly, obviously resisting the temptation to rub the wrist that he had squeezed tightly. She did not smile.

The second drink had not come by the time a smiling Laurie delivered Harod’s dinner of steak and lobster. He did not eat it. It was dark outside and the port running lights were blinking redly at the end of the wing. Harod switched on an overhead reading light but finally put away the screenplay. He watched as Kristen moved efficiently to and fro. It was Curt who cleared away Harod’s untouched meal. “Care for some more coffee, sir?”

Harod said nothing. He watched as the blond stewardess bantered with a businessman and brought a pillow for a sleepy five-year-old two rows in front of Harod.

“Tony,” began Maria Chen. “Shut up,” said Harod.

He waited until Curt and Laurie were busy elsewhere and Kristen was alone near the forward rest room. Then Harod rose. The girl turned in the aisle to let him squeeze by but otherwise did not seem to notice him.

The rest room was unoccupied. Harod stepped in and then opened the door to peer back around the corner.

“Excuse me, miss?”

“Yes?” Kristen looked up from stowing trays. “The water doesn’t seem to be running in here.”

“No water pressure?”

“No water at all,” said Harod. He stepped aside to let her enter. Over his shoulder he could see the first-class passengers listening to music on their earphones, reading, or dozing. Only Maria Chen was looking their way.

“It seems to be running all right now,” said the stewardess. Harod stepped in behind her and slid the bolt into place. Kristen straightened and turned. Harod gripped her upper arm before she spoke.

Stay quiet
. Harod brought his face close to hers. The compartment was very small and the vibration of the jet engines pulsed through the bulkheads and metal counter.

The girl’s eyes opened wide and she parted her lips to speak, but Harod
pushed
and she said nothing. He stared into her eyes so fiercely that the force of his gaze was much more intense than the pressure of his hand on her arm. Harod felt resistance and pushed against it. He sensed the current of her thoughts and pushed even more strongly, forcing his way like a man wading upstream. Harod felt her squirm, physically at first and then in the confines of her mind. He pinned her straining consciousness as firmly as he had once pinned his cousin Elizabeth in a wrestling match when they were children, Harod accidentally ending up on top, holding her arms by the wrists, forcing them against the ground, his lower body between her legs, between her thighs, resisting her straining, thrusting pelvis with the friction of his weight, embarrassed and excited by his sudden erection and by the vain and violent struggles of his helpless captive.

Stop it
. Kristen’s resistance slackened and slid aside. To Harod it was like the shocking, penultimate warmth when physically entering a woman. There was a sudden calm and an almost alarming looseness as his will expanded into her mind. Her sense of self dimmed like a dying light. Harod let it dim. He made no effort to slide along the warp and weave of her thoughts to the warm plea sure center at her core. He did not take time to stroke her. Harod was not interested in her plea sure, only her submission.

Do not move
. Harod brought his face even closer. There was a faint golden down on Kristen’s flushed cheeks. Her eyes were very wide, very blue, the pupils fully dilated. Her lips were moist and open. Harod ran his mouth across hers, bit softly at her full lower lip, and then inserted his tongue.

Kristen did not stir except for a slight exhalation which might have been a sigh or moan or scream had she been free. She tasted of peppermint. Harod bit her lower lip again, sharply this time, and then pulled his face back and smiled. The tiniest drop of blood left her lip and moved slowly to her chin. Her eyes stared past Harod, through him, passive, passionless, but behind them there was a flicker of fright like the half-perceived motion of a caged animal behind cold bars.

Harod released her arm and drew his palm across her cheek. He savored the helpless twistings of her will, the firm sureness of his own control. Her panic filled his nostrils like a powerful perfume. He ignored the pleading undertones of her writhing and followed well-trod paths of darkness to the motor center of her mind. He shaped and molded her consciousness as surely as strong hands could knead soft dough. She sighed again.

Stand still
. Harod tugged off her blazer and let it fall crumpled on the counter behind her. The tiny cabin resonated to his heavy breathing and to the throb of the engines. The plane banked slightly and Harod was thrown against her, thighs touching. His excitement added to his power over her.

Stay silent
. She was wearing a silk scarf of red and blue airline colors tucked inside her beige blouse. Harod ignored the scarf and unbuttoned the blouse with sure fingers. She began to tremble when he roughly pulled the blouse loose from the elastic of her skirt, but he tightened his mental grip and she stopped.

Kristen wore a plain white bra. Her breasts were pale and heavy, rounded above the white curve of fabric. Harod felt the inevitable tenderness well up inside of him, the wave of love and loss he never failed to feel. It did not interfere with his control.

The young woman’s mouth moved slightly. Saliva and blood trembled on her lower lip.

Don’t move
. Harod tugged the blouse off her shoulders and let it hang from her limp arms. Her fingers twitched. He unhooked her bra and tugged it up. Harod opened his leather jacket and unbuttoned his own shirt in order to rub his chest against her. Her breasts were even larger than he had thought, heavy against him, the skin so vulnerably white and nipples so delicately pink and undeveloped that Harod felt his throat tighten with the force of his love for her.

Shut up, shut up, shut up. Stand still, bitch
. The plane banked more steeply to the left. Harod leaned against her, his weight on her, and rubbed himself against the soft curve of her belly.

There was noise in the corridor. Someone tried the lock. Harod bunched up her skirt and forced it up over her wide thighs to her lips. Her panty hose tore as he roughly tugged them down, trapped them with one foot, moved her left leg aside with his knee to free her of them. She wore white bikini underpants under the panty hose. There was more soft, golden down on her thighs. Her legs felt smooth and firm beyond belief. Harod closed his eyes in gratitude.

“Kristen? You there?” It was the steward’s voice. The lock rattled again. “Kristen? It’s Curt.”

Harod pulled her white pants down and opened his trousers. He was painfully erect. He touched her lower belly just above the line of pubic hair and the contact made him tremble. The plane pitched to turbulence. Somewhere a chime sounded urgently. Harod gripped her buttocks, moved her legs apart, and slid up and into her as the aircraft began to shudder violently. He felt the edge of the sink beneath his fingers as her weight settled backward on his hands. There was a second of dry resistance and then, for the second time, the overwhelming sensation of surrendering warmth. Harod moved roughly against her. The shark tooth’s medallion bounced against her flattened breasts.

“Kristen? What the hell’s wrong? We’ve got some weather here. Kristen?” The plane lurched to the right. The sink and countertop vibrated. Harod thrust, lifted her weight against him, thrust again.

“Are you hunting for the stewardess?” Maria Chen’s voice came through the thin door. “She was helping an older lady who was ill . . . quite ill, I’m afraid.”

There was an unintelligible murmur. Sweat glistened between Kristen’s breasts. Harod held her to him more tightly, squeezing her, seizing her in the tightening vise of his will, inside her, feeling himself entering and withdrawing through the rough reflection of her thoughts, tasting the salt of her flesh and the brine fear of her panic, moving her in response like a great, soft puppet, feeling the orgasm building in her, no, in him, the two streams of thought and sensation cascading into one dark cauldron of physical response.

“I’ll certainly tell her,” said Maria Chen. There was a soft tap on the door inches from Harod’s face.

Harod strained, exploded, felt the medallion cut into both of them, and buried his chin in the hollow at the side of her neck. The girl’s head was arched back. Her mouth was open in a silent scream and her eyes stared fixedly at the low ceiling.

The plane bounced and slewed. Harod kissed the sweat on her throat and stooped to retrieve her skirt. His fingers shook as he buttoned her blouse. Her panty hose were torn in several pieces. He stuffed them in the pocket of his jacket and brushed at the wrinkles in her skirt. Her legs seemed tan enough to hide the absence of stockings.