The Undead Kama Sutra (14 page)

O
nce we got to
Savannah, Georgia, I left the F-150 and its driver in the parking lot of a crowded McDonald’s and proceeded on foot to a bus stop. A mile down the road, I got off the bus and flagged a taxi that took me to the Savannah airport, where I’d left my Cadillac.

The taxi dropped me off near the west end of the airport parking lot. I scanned the cars and searched for the telltale glow of an aura belonging to someone on a stakeout.

The area looked safe. The few people I saw were encapsulated in auras swirling with petty worries. No one cared about me. But I had to assume that my cover was blown and that Goodman knew who I was and what I was up to.

I walked around my Cadillac. A film of dust covered the body and windows. I stood still for a moment and cleared my
mind. I held my hands up, fingers raised, at mid-chest level. A faint breeze brushed against my skin, but nothing tingled. My sixth sense didn’t detect any threat.

Didn’t mean I wasn’t in danger. In a previous case, I had an electronic bug planted on me that I had had no idea was there. My car could now have a listening device or a GPS transmitter stuck on it. I got on my hands and knees and inspected the undercarriage. I ran my hand inside the fender wells and the bumpers. Plenty of dead, crusty bugs, but no electronic ones.

As I stood and brushed myself off, I felt disappointed. All this time I’d been looking over my shoulder and priming my muscles for a desperate fight. I could’ve flown back here from Kansas City first-class and spared myself the long drive and a numb butt.

Maybe Goodman and his cronies had no clue about me. Maybe they were so fixed on their plan—whatever it was—that they didn’t bother to notice I was sneaking up on them.

I was done with that. I knew where Goodman should be, and I would go straight to him. No more hide-and-seek. I started my Cadillac, tuned to a satellite radio channel, and cruised directly to the Sapphire Grand Atlantic Resort.

Goodman’s image loomed foremost in my mind. I was sure he had killed Karen Beck and was responsible for me taking a swim in the Missouri River and hiking through the sewers of Kansas City. I rehearsed scenarios, how I would corner him and punish his body.

I passed the first guardhouse entrance. Down the road,
orange cones funneled traffic to a security guard beside the second guardhouse. More guards and a phalanx of the Gator utility vehicles waited on the shoulder. Why all this security?

The guard waved me to a halt. He asked if I had a reservation, which I didn’t. He said the hotel was booked up and closed to the public for the weekend. He wouldn’t elaborate and asked that I clear the entrance.

A convoy of white Chevy Suburbans with tinted windows lined up behind me. I couldn’t hypnotize the guard in front of so many witnesses, so I turned around and left.

I stopped up the road and examined the convoy with my naked vampire eyes. Everybody had a red aura with the typical range of emotions. Curiosity. Anticipation. Anxiety. Boredom. Nothing that threatened me.

Why was I turned away and the others let in? What was going on? Feeling not so much frustrated as puzzled, I checked into a multistoried motel off South Forest Beach Drive. I brought in my extra bags from the Cadillac and changed into fresh clothes and put in new contacts.

Despite the heightened security, I was getting back in the Grand Atlantic. However, I couldn’t let myself get complacent about Goodman. Maybe I was tracking all the wrong clues. What if this involved something supernatural that I wasn’t familiar with? What if my pursuers were in plain sight and I didn’t know? Even though I saw no evidence of being followed or spied upon, I remained wary as a cat sneaking through a kennel.

After I inspected my motel room, I sat still in one of the chairs to let my sixth sense magnify the sounds in the motel. A distant toilet flushing. The gentle hum of the ventilation system. The conversations of guests walking down the hall. Nobody made noise like they wanted to kill me.

I got my spare laptop and searched online for a mention of Karen Beck. The
Kansas City Star
reported that she’d been the victim of an attempted robbery. Her assailant escaped when he ran off the highway to avoid a police roadblock and crashed into the Missouri River. His body hadn’t yet been recovered. No kidding, because here I was. There was no description of the suspect—again, that would be me, though I hadn’t harmed Karen.

Sooner or later I was going to meet Dan Goodman face-to-face. We’d settle the matter of whether he was behind the murders of Gilbert Odin, Marissa Albert, Karen Beck, and quite possibly all those aboard the crashed airliner. And, of course, what was his part in this scheme that threatened the Earth women?

I
turned off the laptop,
clicked on the TV, and channel surfed. At this time in the afternoon, my choices were soap operas and talk shows. Most of the commercials were for prescription medications. Corporate America had figured out that turning the nation into a herd of hypochondriacs was great for the bottom line.

The present commercial showed a woman standing before a mirror. She looked dowdy and frustrated. An aura magically surrounded her, like a shimmering cocoon. “Luvitmor,” a woman’s soft voice repeated in the voice-over, “from Rizè-Blu.”

The woman stepped clear of the aura (obviously, the creative talent behind this effect had no experience with real auras). She was now beautiful, confident, and very busty.

“Reclaim the real you with Luvitmor, the only nonsurgical breast-enhancement pill guaranteed to increase your bust size.”

Then the disclaimers: occasional headaches, mood swings, muscle soreness, and heightened libido.

Hold on.

Heightened libido? Bigger boobs? Rizè-Blu was going to rake in millions. Make that billions.

Not surprisingly, the next commercial was for another Rizè-Blu product, Olympicin. “Free yourself from the tyranny of the razor.” A woman marched out of a gloomy dungeon and onto the sunlit sidewalk of the big city. Her bare legs glistened like polished bronze from under the hem of her miniskirt.

I switched channels to a talk show bubbling with women’s laughter. Four women, in their early thirties, I guessed, sat on a stage beside their male partners. Each woman was dressed like she was about to step out for the evening: slim gown, high heels, hair done up. And each had enormous breasts that threatened to avalanche over the tops of their gowns. The women described their use of the trifecta of Rizè-Blu’s new cosmetic drugs. NuGrumatex to restore the lushness of their hair. Olympicin as the world’s most effective depilatory. (Close-ups on their legs.) And with the help of a lingering camera shot on their ample cleavages, the women claimed that Luvitmor was the only proven way to enhance a bustline without surgery.

The petite blonde of the group explained that she had been an A-cup; an accompanying photo showed her in a loose and dismally flat halter top. With a shimmy of her shoulders,
she demonstrated how proud she was to be the owner of a pair of new FFs.

She and the man beside her shook their clasped hands in the air like they had just finished a race together. “Sex is now more than amazing,” she announced with unbridled perkiness. “It’s spectacular.”

Thanks for sharing
.
What’s next
?
Details about the wet spot,
aka the winner’s circle?

Forget AIDS, cancer, and the other diseases that ravaged the Third World. Rizè-Blu gave society lusher hair. Smoother skin. Bigger boobs. And, ladies, there’s more: Rizè-Blu can guarantee a libido to match your new bra size.

The elevator on my floor pinged, making a sound as faint as that of a tiny bell. The doors clunked open.

I clicked the TV off. Footfalls clicked softly on the tile foyer and became muted as they trod onto the carpet. The brisk steps were those of a woman. The footfalls stopped at my door.

My sixth sense perked up.

Someone knocked.

My fingertips tingled. The hairs on my arms and the back of my neck stood on end.

Another knock.

Who was it? What did they want? Why didn’t they announce themselves?

I got up from my chair and levitated so that my feet moved soundlessly over the carpet. I stood to the right side of the door. A common trick of assassins was to call upon the target and, when he answered, shoot through the door.

Well, I was not a victim. I took out my contacts. My talons
and fangs grew to combat length. At the first shot, I’d spring to the ceiling and counterattack from above.

One more knock.

The faint rustle of clothing.

Silence.

I primed my muscles to jump to one side. “Who is it?”

“Felix, quit screwing around and open the goddamn door.”

Carmen?

Was it a trick?

She pounded the door. “You owe me five hours of sex and if you don’t open this fucking door right now, it’ll be ten.”

It was Carmen.

My fangs and talons retracted. I freed the deadbolt, swung the door open, and winced in surprise.

Carmen had a blond helmet of hair that spilled around her face and curled back up where it touched her shoulders. The artificial sheen made her skin seem dark as hot caramel. Her orange aura looked like a scoop taken from the sun.

A pair of large sunglasses with white rectangular frames was stuck into the wig. She wore a white sleeveless dress with wide yellow stripes. The skirt ballooned around her hips and the hemline orbited her knees. This was a very un-Carmen getup but there was no hiding that smile or those sparkling eyes.

“Well, aren’t you going to let me in?” Her lacquered red lips twisted into a devilish grin. “Partner.”

I
stepped aside. “How’d you
find me?”

“Your credit card.” She strutted past me on high-heeled pumps that matched the yellow stripes of her dress. An enormous leather tote bag hung from her right shoulder. “Better be careful. If I could find you this easy, what about Goodman?”

“I’m aware of him.”

Carmen dropped the bag on the floor by my bed and settled on the mattress. Her dress crinkled like crepe paper. She raised her heels out of her pumps and kicked the shoes into the air. One of the pumps landed between my feet, the other clattered against the wall.

“Don’t mind me,” I said. “Make yourself at home. Before we discuss the ‘partner’ thing, what’s with the outfit? The
last time a woman dressed like you,
Sputnik
was orbiting the Earth.”

“Whatever happened to ‘Carmen, you look great, as usual’?” Carmen took the sunglasses from her hair. “This, since you asked, is a getaway disguise.” She tossed the sunglasses on the bedspread. “I was visiting a chalice in Washington, DC, and for the sake of brevity let’s say that we were almost caught in the Smithsonian museum.”

“Caught doing what?”

Carmen removed the plastic bangles from her wrist and let them rattle in a heap on the sunglasses. “Doing field research for my
Kama Sutra
book.”

“And this outfit belongs to the Smithsonian?”

“Not anymore.” Carmen propped back on her arms. “I would have preferred to exit au naturel but in this post-9/11 world, walking around naked in the nation’s capital could be construed as an act of terrorism. Wouldn’t be worth the hassle.”

Carmen stretched her stockinged legs and circled her feet. “Which brings the story to you.” She pointed her toes at me. The nails alternated yellow and white. “Partner.”

“Let’s get this straight. I have no partner.”

Carmen yanked the wig from her head. She threw the wig at me. “Yes you do. Now shut up for a minute and listen to me.”

I caught the wig. In my hand, it looked like the pelt of a golden retriever and smelled of Chanel and Aquanet.

Carmen’s natural hair had been plastered into a glossy black skullcap. “I have news.”

I set the wig on the dresser. “What kind of news?”

Carmen gave a teasing smirk. “The kind of news I’d only share with a partner.”

“It better be good.”

“First, say the P-word.”

The request confused me. “You mean, ‘please’?”

“No, I mean ‘partner.’”

“Let’s hear the info first.”

“Nope.” Carmen cupped a hand behind an ear. A diamond stud earring caught the light. “I’m ready.”

No point in arguing with her; I’d be better off arm-wrestling a squid. “Okay.
Partner.
”

Carmen smiled victoriously. “I have the lowdown on Dan Goodman.” She let the smile linger.

“You were going to keep this a secret?”

“Not from a partner. Are you ready? Our mysterious Dan Goodman was an assassin for the U.S. government.”

I had a problem believing that anyone could rise to the rank of bird colonel because he was handy with a nine iron. But to hear that Goodman was Uncle Sam’s hired killer defied comprehension. “Are we talking about the retired colonel Dan Goodman? The golf pro at the Sapphire Grand Atlantic?”

Carmen nodded. “None other. Here’s his public résumé. West Point graduate. Spent his career in the army’s Morale, Welfare, and Recreation Command.”

Carmen tugged at one of her bangs and stared at it cross-eyed. “His golfing was simply cover. Most of his time he was getting ‘sheep-dipped.’ That meant being discharged from the army and doing something dirty for the CIA. Afterward,
he’d go back into the army. Technically then, the army never had an assassin on their payroll and the CIA could say, ‘Dan Goodman who?’”

Instead of clarifying matters, this information only stirred up the muck. “How did you find out about this?”

“One of my chalices works for the Directorate of Operations in the CIA. If anyone in the government would know about an army colonel doing funny business, it would be that chalice. He’s one of those spooks with a silly top-secret clearance. As if he wouldn’t tell me anything I wanted to know.”

“And you went to see him about my investigation?”

“That and to have him and his wife contribute to my book. That’s how we ended up naked in the museum.”

“Spare me those details. Right now, tell me more about Goodman.”

“Years ago my chalice gave the then-major Dan Goodman a target folder of one Olivia Martinez-Cisneros.”

“Target folder?”

“It’s a dossier the government keeps on people it wants to get rid of.”

“I’ve never heard of this Martinez-Cisneros. Why keep a target folder on her?”

Carmen folded her right leg and massaged her foot. “Olivia was a lawyer helping peasants in Ecuador fight the oil companies trying to take their land. At the time she was small potatoes but had a lot of potential. So Olivia had to go before she became a threat.”

I tried to imagine the cold stare in Goodman’s eyes as he snuffed out her life.

“Olivia was shot during a robbery, and on the way to the hospital,” Carmen said, “a medic administered the wrong medicine and she died. A medic, incidentally, that no one had seen before or since.”

“Goodman?”

“You connect the dots. Either he killed her or planned the hit.”

“If Goodman is that expert an assassin, why didn’t the government sic him on Osama bin Laden or Kim Song Il?”

Carmen stretched panther-like on the bedcovers. “Using an assassin is a lot like our vampire powers. You have to be careful when you use them. Attacking a high-profile target might be too much of a risk. Even if you succeed, your target could end up becoming a martyr and even more dangerous as a symbol.”

“Perhaps your scholarly pursuits can provide an insight into this.” I told Carmen about Vanessa and Janice, the two missing airline passengers, and what happened in Kansas City, including the murder of Karen Beck. When I got to the part about dunking myself into the Missouri River and escaping through the sewers, Carmen was quiet for a moment. Then her calm expression broke apart and she laughed.

I didn’t see myself as comic relief. “What would you have done?”

Carmen pulled the bobby pins from her hair. “Not gone into the river. I can’t imagine what that would’ve done to my clothes. But then again, you being a guy.”

“Let’s stick to the case,” I said. “Suppose Goodman did kill Marissa. Why?”

“That I think I can answer. I made a detour to Marissa’s office in Minneapolis. She was a PI, remember? Her office had been ransacked but I did find her sister. She told me—under hypnosis, because I didn’t want her to remember that I’d been there—that Marissa had been hired to find a missing woman, Naomi Peyton, and followed a lead to Key West.”

“And this Naomi Peyton is connected to Goodman?”

“We don’t know yet.” Carmen dug her fingers under the cap of stiff hair, like she was working a shingle loose. “There are a lot of loose threads here. You said Vanessa’s and Janice’s bodies were missing from the morgue in the hangar. Yet the officials said they were dead, though your friend…” Carmen glanced at me.

“Her name was Karen Beck.”

Carmen continued, “Karen said Vanessa and Janice never boarded the airliner.”

All this information was a pile of facts I couldn’t quite fit together.

Carmen scratched her scalp. She closed her eyes and a pensive expression settled over her face. “Goodman went to Chicago the day before the crash as a consultant with RKW for the feds. So either it’s a coincidence that he was there or Goodman’s a psychic or…” Carmen let the thought drift.

Or, or…what?

She wiped the flakes of dried hair gel from her fingertips. “How many people were on that commuter airliner?”

“Nineteen, including the crew of three.” I remembered the pictures of the dead inside the trailer.

“Maybe,” Carmen let a talon sprout from one index finger and used the point to clean her other fingernails, “what Gilbert Odin said about saving the Earth women is not about them getting killed but about something else entirely. Think about it. Vanessa and Janice are missing. As is Naomi Peyton.”

“Meaning they’re not dead?”

“That’s what we want to find out. The mysterious aspect about Naomi was that her car went off the road, killing her husband. And she’s missing.”

“Sounds like a wife who got tired of her husband,” I said.

“Felix, if it were that easy, why are we going in circles?” Carmen asked. “Marissa discovers a lead on Naomi that takes her to Key West and the next thing we know, she’s dead from a blaster wound.”

Carmen reached into her bra and pulled out a folded slip of paper. “Here’s Marissa’s cell phone number. Can you access her phone records?”

I took the paper and read the number. It had a 612 area code. “Consider it done.”

Carmen winked. “And you didn’t want me for a partner.”

“That’s three missing that we know of,” I said. “Naomi from a car crash. Vanessa and Janice when the commuter airliner went down.”

“Then where did they go?” Carmen asked. “And why would the officials lie about them? Don’t forget the other
plane wreck. How many of those passengers aren’t dead but alive and missing?”

Trying to understand this case was like kneading a ball of hard clay. My brain started to cramp from the effort. I leaned against the bureau and rubbed my fingers against my forehead. “Was their disappearance a kidnapping? If so, could that justify the murder of all those people?”

“Maybe it’s the stakes involved?” Carmen lay on the bedcover and looked at the ceiling. “Notice that Odin said ‘Earth women,’ not simply ‘women.’ And he is an alien.”

“
Was
an alien,” I corrected. “He’s in the past tense, remember?”

“Is that the clue? That Odin was an alien? He
was
killed with a blaster.”

I caught on to Carmen’s reasoning. “Let’s accept that Goodman was Odin’s assassin. Goodman used a blaster to kill an alien. Why not shoot him with a regular pistol?”

Carmen sat up and looked at me. “Could it be that Goodman is an alien as well?” Her eyes sparkled with renewed insight.

“I don’t think so. Odin referred to him as a man.”

Carmen slumped her shoulders in disappointment.

I asked, “Did you ask your chalice about the ray gun?”

“I did. Under hypnosis, to keep the question a deep secret. But…” Carmen finished the thought by shaking her head.

“What about the ‘Earth women’? Is this a plot to kidnap them?” I asked. “All of them? Or just a few?”

Carmen added another question. “And why?”

I told her about the secret annex behind the main hotel
and how the GPS disabled my golf cart. I described the annex, its array of NASA-style antennas, and the arrival of a military helicopter.

“What kind of a compound is it?” Carmen asked. “If it’s so secret, why build it behind the hotel?” Her aura glowed a bit warmer, the psychic equivalent of a wry smile. “Well then, Mister PI, what about this? I know why you’re in this motel and not the Sapphire Grand Atlantic. Ever hear of the G8?”

I answered, “That’s the Group of Eight, right? The organization of the eight richest industrialized nations.”

Carmen nodded. “Depends on who you listen to, the G8 is the world leaders either discussing how to solve the world’s problems or scheming how to make themselves and their cronies masters of the planet.”

“What’s the G8 got to do with me being in this motel?”

Carmen raised a finger. “One of the G8 study groups is holding a conference at the Grand Atlantic.”

“What study group?”

“The Markov PharmacoEconomic Study Group. They advise the G8 on medical developments and global health care.”

I remembered being turned away from the resort. “Security seemed pretty tight for a bunch of eggheads meeting to talk about vaccines and Band-Aids. Would Goodman have anything to do with them?”

“I’m ahead of you, Felix.” Carmen reached back into her tote bag and tossed a plastic card at me. “This is your pass for tonight’s party.”

The card looked like a standard-issue ID. It had my name,
photo, a bar code, magnetic strip, and an iridescent stamp. “Where did this come from?”

Carmen shook her head. “Are you asking
me
that question?”

“All right. What party?”

“At the Grand Atlantic, what other?” Carmen produced a pair of envelopes in her hand, like a card trick. “You and I are guests of the G8 Markov PharmacoEconomic Study Group.”

Carmen scooted back on the mattress. “Now we better get ready.” She hitched her skirt and slip over her hips and peeled the stockings off her legs.

I did notice something, rather the absence of something. “What happened to your tattoo?” Carmen, always in orbit, once had a
Star Trek
insignia tattooed below her navel.

“
Star Trek
got so damned politically correct that they pissed me off. So I lasered the tattoo away in protest.”

Carmen rolled across the bed and reached into her tote bag. She pulled out a pair of strappy, golden, stiletto-heeled sandals and a tiny black bundle the size of her palm.

“Let me show you what I brought for the party.” Carmen shook the bundle and it unfolded into a cocktail dress. She fluffed the dress and it hung from her arm perfect and free of creases. “This is my little black number.”

“It’ll look stunning, Carmen.”

“No. On me it’ll look positively deadly.”