Wildcard (20 page)

“It seems that his mother was a prostitute
in a small town in central Mexico,” Dartagnan narrated. “A very
impoverished place, and she a poor person comparatively.
Ill-favored, as well, on multiple counts. She was forced into
prostitution by circumstances. People tolerated it as long it was
not overt. As long as they could pretend it was not happening. The
town was, and still is, quite religious.”

Martha looked at scenes of huts made of
sticks, women without shoes carrying babies in scraps of clothing
tied as slings around their necks.

“At any rate, she had an affair, fell, we
hope, in love with the man. A Frenchman. He did not love her, it
would appear, because he left. She was pregnant, and I could not
determine if he knew that fact at the time of his departure. I
found the man, Pierre Grieves, or rather his tombstone. He died
some years back.

“The baby, as you have most likely
ascertained, was LuvRay. The people, in the manner of the Scarlet
Letter, were unwilling to tolerate such a public flout of their
principles. The woman was driven off, to die in the desert
alone.”

Onscreen was a pregnant woman, completely
naked; people were throwing rocks at her back as she left the huts
behind.

“She was over 8 months pregnant before the
townspeople found the courage to actually force her away. It seems
they have a superstition against bastard children, believing the
birth of one will blight crops and similar nonsense.

“At any rate, she wandered into the desert
alone. An Indian tribe witnessed her suffering, but did not
interfere in the white man’s business. They watched. She died
horribly, but beautifully, if I understand a certain meaning of
that word. She attempted a caesarean section to save the child’s
life.”

Martha witnessed graphic self-surgery with a
sharp rock.

“She succeeded, against all odds. As of now,
only the second known case of a self-administered, successful
caesarean section. Semi-successful, you could say. In the other
case, the mother and child both lived.

“The Indians tell the story with a great
deal of awe. They revere her for her courage and willingness to
suffer for another, but they have taboos against the birth of a
child in this way. LuvRay was a mark of something they call ‘annea
wret’, a powerful omen of the gods whose message is beyond the
understanding of man. A happening which will bring a great
change.

“They watched as the mother put the child to
her breast after stopping the worst of the bleeding and cutting the
cord. She survived for more than a day in that wretched state. The
baby lived, as we know. But the Indians did not interfere. Not
yet.”

Wolves moved in towards the child suckling
the breast of the dead body.

“Or only a little. For reasons I have not
yet penetrated, they found a wolf pack with whom they had a
harmonious relationship, and guided them to LuvRay. They spoke of a
bargain where they would bring food to the wolves appropriate to a
human child. Once per moon, at the new moon, a time of ebb.
Fascinating culture.

“The wolves raised him. The Indians kept the
note they found clutched in the mother’s hand. All it said was
‘LuvRay Chose.’ Later, at the age of 7, though perhaps LuvRay was
only 6, the Indians took him from the wolves and raised him.”

The screen went blank.

“Wow. Quite a story. Do you know where the
name came from?”

“Yes. Interesting also. And a difficult
puzzle to solve. Apparently, she named him from something her lover
said, possibly at the moment of orgasm, if I understand your mating
procedures. ‘Le vrais chose.’ The father was known for the phrase
in the town, though they did not know the meaning and had long
forgotten his name.”

“The true thing,” she translated. What a
name.

“More questions.”

“Can you lie?”

“Me? Oh, never. I could never, ever lie.” He
laughed, for too long. “I told you I was Juniper, didn’t I?”

“No. You said ‘call me Juniper.’ Not a
lie.”

“Good, Martha. I hoped you would catch that.
I love you for a reason, darling.” He said the last part in his
dramatic swashbuckler voice. “We all do.”

“The way you got me to remember the number.
I just remembered it before I called you. How did you that?”

“Meaningless, but all right. You could not
be compelled to say that number under any conditions and I
triggered it when I wanted you to call.”

“Not compelled. How?”

“A trauma sensitive
retrogression.
A psychological technique I invented.
The more you are pressured, the further it gets from your
recall.”

“Why?”

“No particular reason.”

“You aren’t scared of the wrong caller?”

“Why would I be? How could a telephone call
possibly harm me?”

“How did you do it?”

“The placement of an ideative device is very
complicated. I could not explain it so that you would
understand.”

“No, I mean how did you trigger it?”

“Oh. That was simplicity itself. I did
not.”

“What?”

“It triggered itself when the General
released you. If you were ever captured, then released, it was set
to trigger. And, voila, it worked. Doesn’t that please you?”

“Not particularly. It nauseates me to have
someone play inside my head like that.”

“Hmm. Perhaps you should accustom yourself
to the idea.”

“What does that mean?”

“You are in the game. Playing with people’s
heads is routine. My invasion was trivial beside what may happen,
like a scratch compared to a severed limb.”

“Who am I?”

“You are the Deeply Named.”

“Who am I the clone of?”

“Your previous self.”

“Double speak, huh? Why won’t you tell
me?”

“I do not wish to. Perhaps I do not know
myself. Not all knowledge is available even to an M-E.”

“What should I do now?”

“Go to your meeting. The Benefactor will
tell you many more things.”

“Can I kill him?”

“Yes. Although the question has no
meaning.”

“What?”

“You can definitely take the life of the
Benefactor. That is not the real issue.”

“What is the real issue?”

“Can you handle the consequences?”

Dartagnan contacted Karl
through RJ, who convinced him to go meet someone called The Shaman.
The M-E sent him to an apartment at 175
^th
St. Manhattan, New
York. Harlem. People stared as Karl got out of the cab and walked
up the steps of the dirty brownstone. A very large woman answered
the door. She looked at him as if he was crazy for being there,
obvious about it, no faintness, or deception. She didn’t glance
sideways at him; she just stared.

“I feel the same way when I picture myself,”
Karl said. She chuckled, shook her head slightly.

“Can I he’p you?”

“I’m looking for the Shaman.”

“Oh, hell. You want Rodney. He ain’t here,
hon. He down at the courts. He love to play. Ain’t no good at it,
though.”

“The courts?” Karl smiled. He liked her. She
was fat. Large lips with bright red lipstick, long hair tied into a
tidy bun. She had a fun attitude.

“Basketball courts. Where you from? Why you
want him?”

“Where are the basketball courts?”

“Go out the building and turn right. Walk
two blocks. It’s there on the right. Behind a big fence.”

“Thanks. Are you his mother?”

“Ooh-wee, you invited for dinner, sugar. I’m
his grandmomma.”

Karl was happy and hoped he liked Rodney.
The food smelled delicious.

He picked out Rodney, exactly as Dartagnan
had described. Lanky, light-skinned with funny red hair and
freckles. His red shorts were too small and he had long arms and a
tank top. Rodney’s grandmother was right. Rodney wasn’t very good.
He was passable at preventing the other team from scoring, but
useless when his team tried to score, a liability, really. He took
too many shots from the wrong place, at the wrong time. He blocked
a few balls, but usually wound up on his back. Not that Karl knew
much about basketball. Some people looked at him, so during the
next break, he walked up to Rodney.

His eyes were two different shades of blue.
The left was almost grey.

“Are you the Shaman?”

A few people nearby turned their heads at
the word, glanced, turned back to their conversations.

“Yeah, that’s me.” He bounced a basketball
repeatedly off his bicep, back to his hand, which tossed it again.
He dropped it a few times, although it looked like a simple trick
to Karl. He didn’t seem to think it the least bit odd that Karl was
there.

“Your grandmother invited me to dinner.”

“What did you say about my grandmomma?” He
stopped bouncing the ball, leaned into Karl. Karl wanted to laugh,
decided to stifle it. Rodney’s anger made no sense.

“She invited me to dinner. I went to your
house. I thought she was your mother. She invited me for
dinner.”

“Oh, shoot, man. That explain a lot. All
right, come to dinner, then. Let’s head on up. You a lucky man. She
a good cook.”

“It smelled amazing.”

“Later, gaters,” Rodney said to two players
standing by the gate who were talking to some girls.

“Later, Rodney. Your shoe’s untied.” Rodney
looked and the foursome laughed. “You all right, Rodney,” the same
fellow said.

“Did you know you’re one of the Named?”

“One of the what?”

“Never mind.”

A few steps later Karl gambled again. “I was
sent to you by Dartagnan.”

“Oh, yeah. Dartagnan. I know him. He a nice
man. Ain’t never met him, though. Just phone calls. He talk funny.
Like a movie about Robin Hood or something.”

“Yeah. He sent me. He wants you to help me
solve a puzzle and make some decision.”

Karl looked at a billboard that said, “YES
ON PROP 36,” in pink letters.

“What does that mean?”

“Prop 36? I think it’s about the school
spending more money on-”

Rodney stopped, putting an arm across Karl’s
chest. He reached into a holster he was wearing, and Karl put his
hands up defensively, ready to run. Rodney yanked out a cell-phone
with the spastic urgency of someone who woke up dreaming they were
quarterbacking the Superbowl. An iPod popped out as well, which he
fumbled and dropped. Karl leapt forward and nearly caught it,
arresting its momentum in a series of hand bounces until it hit the
ground.

“I think it’s OK,” said Karl.

“Oh, hell, yeah, man. Them things is tough.
I gots to make a call.” He emphasized the intent with a sharp
forward pop of his head, as if to clarify that the item was not a
weapon. He dialed.

“Mrs. Wallace? It’s Rodney.”

“…”

“The Shaman. Rodney the Shaman.”

“…”

“Yes, ma’am. I finally figured it out. You
should breed Mitzi, ma’am.”

“…”

“Thank you. Yes ma’am, two hundred dollars.”
He gave an address and hung up.

“Thanks, Karl. You answered me that
question. I definitely owes you dinner, now.”

“What?”

“I has a client, Mrs. Wallace. She can’t
figure out if she wants to breed her poodle or not, so she called
me. You helped me answer it.”

“How?”

“Pink letters. Pink poodle. The word ‘Yes’.
You see?”

Karl didn’t see, but he nodded anyway.

“I get messages after basketball.” He
skipped up the steps to his apartment, tripping once.

The grandmother seemed to have taken the
Shaman thing in stride. She just didn’t worry about it, which
disquieted Karl a bit. She actually seemed happy he was a Shaman,
and asked him questions sometimes about what she should do.
Probably the fact that he made money helped.

The food was superb. After dinner, Rodney
said, “Let’s watch ourselves some television, Karl.”

“All right.” Karl was baffled by the
suggestion.

Rodney sat on the green patterned couch and
picked up the remote control. He put his finger on a button and
paused. Karl felt the air in the room alter. Electric. Rodney
slowly straightened, with no other visible change. He sat,
completely unmoving, right hand outstretched toward the TV with a
finger on the remote. A full minute, it seemed.

Karl sat to his left, watching the Shaman
emerge. He turned his head slowly, pinning Karl with unfocused
eyes, looking through him, examining, or seeing something. The eye
contact made Karl aware of himself, and he felt a bit
off-center.

He straightened his body, a trick Martha had
taught him: “Sit straight; remember who you are.” He could hear her
voice clearly.

“Ask me the right question.”

Karl thought a second. “Why?”

“Good. Another.” Only his mouth moved.

“Who?”

“One more.”

“What?”

“Good for now.”

He went back to goofy Rodney. He turned on
the TV with a remote, began flipping, laid on the sofa with his
back curved like a banana.

“Pick it out, Karl.”

He chose at random. “Um, channel 34.”

“Why are we watching TV?”

“I’ll get the answer. Won’t be too
long.”

It was a show about an angry Sergeant and an
idiot soldier named Pile. The Sergeant didn’t seem to have a name.
At some point, the Sergeant was sad about a woman and tried to talk
to Pile about it.

“Well, golly, Sarge, if you love her, then
seek her out.”

“Seeker.” The Shaman was back, for an
instant, peering at Karl out of the bent form on the sofa.
“Who.”

Then Rodney appeared again.

A few minutes later, the Sergeant was angry
at Pile, and Rodney sat up straight, the Shaman again.

“So you like to clean latrines, eh, Pile?”
The Sergeant yelled. “Step on in. You were born for this.”

He muted the TV, turned to Karl, still
powerful, but less mystical. He tilted his head, smiled, kept his
body unmoving. “Step on in,” the Shaman said. “You were born for
this. What. Why.” Rodney returned.