Trifecta (79 page)

Her briefcase was large enough to hide the package when
she left the office.  She drove to a public mailbox and made her deposit with a
feeling of immense relief.  Nothing in the world was worth that much stolen cash. 
She wanted it out of her possession.

When she glanced at her watch she thought that Nakamura
had probably already arrived at her apartment building.  She was going to have a
heart attack if she had to endure any more tension like this.  She drove quickly
home and saw Nakamura chatting with the security guard at the entrance to the condominium. 
Damn, she was late.

Michelle quickly parked her car under the building and
ran up the garage stairs to the back lobby entrance, realizing she hadn't even had
time to change from her silk dress.  She still had the stupid flower behind her
ear.  She tore it out as she raced up the stairs and stuffed it into her purse.

Michelle took a few deep breaths, hoping she wasn't panting
noticeably from her exertions and opened the door to the lobby.  Nakamura was sitting
on the lobby guest sofa.  He looked up and smiled as she approached.

"I'm sorry I'm late.  I had to get something from
the office."

"You're much too fastidious about work.  I just wanted
a brief chat.  We could talk right here, if you would rather."

The lobby was perfectly empty.  He was probably going to
renege on the job offer.  But it would be impolite not to invite him up.

Michelle made a cordial show of inducing him by saying
they would be more comfortable in her apartment, which was totally untrue.  She
tried to remember if she had clothes strewn all over the bathroom, and thought she
probably did.

When they were just stepping into the elevator, she saw
Omar coming into the lobby from outside.  He was walking in the direction of the
mailboxes.  The elevator doors were shutting.  She knew Omar had seen them. 

Great, she thought, now Omar probably thought she went
on a date with him and had another man up to her apartment, late the same night. 
When she thought of his fascinating eyes, she didn't like the idea of them examining
her with anger.  She shivered a little bit.

"Are you all right?"

"Oh, yes.  Fine."

As they walked down the hall toward Michelle's apartment
she suddenly thought of Heather.  "Do you want to meet my best friend?"

"Oh, of course."  Nakamura looked pleased that
she would ask.

Michelle knocked on Heather's door, but again there was
no answer.

"Too bad," Nakamura said, when Michelle told
him Heather must still be out. 

To put off the bad news Michelle expected, she made soft
drinks in the kitchen.  It was still warm outside and cold drinks at night in Hawaii
were not unusual.  As soon as Nakamura was seated he seemed uncomfortable.  He was
looking around her apartment; apparently he also wanted to delay the bad news.

"That's a picture of you, doing karate?"  He
was pointing at a picture of Michelle with her teacher, a diminutive oriental man,
on a side table next to the couch he was sitting on.

"Yes.  The man in the picture is my sensi, Bill Robinson. 
Kind of interesting."

"What?"

"You're Nakamura, he's Robinson.  Both of you would
be more believable if you traded names."

"I'm a bastard.  My grandfather is Japanese."

Michelle looked at him in surprise.

"It's a vile Japanese joke.  You see, the Japanese
don't like children of mixed parentage.  They're all bastards, even when the parents
are married.  My mother was half Japanese and half American.  Back then they made
a big deal about mixed children and they were severely humiliated for something
that wasn't their fault.  I guess no self-respecting Japanese male would have her. 
She married an English serviceman after the war.  World War 11.  I was brought up
mostly in Japan though, because the marriage didn't work."

Michelle nodded.  The old story about the conquering hero
impregnating the conquered, marrying her, and then finding the difficulties were
too much for the marriage to survive.

"It must have been hard for you," Michelle said,
but she was surprised.  Nakamura was much older than she had supposed if his parents
had married after the war. 

"Oh, not bad.  I lived in Japan, but it wasn't a problem.
People assumed I was pure Caucasian.  They pitied me, but I wasn't ostracized. 
Then I would spend the summers in California with my father."

"Really?  I'm from San Francisco."

"I love that city.  My father lives in the Napa Valley,
so we visited San Francisco often.  In fact, I'm going there when I finish working
here in Hawaii.  My father is getting older.  He wants to see me more often."

"That's the awful thing about living far away.  Even
here in Hawaii, it's like you're at the end of the earth when birthdays and holidays
come around."

As they talked, Michelle was struck by how easy it was
to speak to this man, in comparison to Omar earlier this evening.  She showed him
pictures of her brother, Bobby, and of her parents and their home in San Francisco. 
Suddenly they both stopped.

"You're wondering what was so important that I had
to speak to you alone?"

Michelle nodded.

"Actually, it's in way of an apology."  He shifted
uncomfortably, then looked her straight in the eyes.  "I was playing with the
gadgets in Tom Mitsuto's office earlier this evening.  You know, the television
which emerges out of the hidden cabinet.  And the video games.  He has an absolutely
amazing collection of porn hidden away.  I shouldn't tell you that, but you wouldn't
say anything.  It's just kind of interesting.  Anyway, I was playing with his listening
device..."

Michelle nodded.  "The phone?"

"You knew?"

Michelle smiled at him.  "It's not so terrible that
you have to come over and apologize."

"Yes, it is.  I thoroughly disprove of it myself. 
I should have stopped listening, immediately.  I had been jumping from office to
office and each one was silent, except yours.  I don't know why I was compelled
to eavesdrop.  It was shocking, and I couldn't turn it off.  I really am sorry. 
For listening.  And for what you had to endure all alone that night."

Michelle looked at him seriously and nodded thoughtfully. 
There was no doubt that here was a man who totally believed her. At that moment
she would have killed for him.  She knew he needed her to accept his apology.  She
said she understood, that there was no problem.

As she spoke she saw Nakamura's eyes grow round.  She glanced
to where his gaze was riveted.  Her open purse lay on the living room table.  The
orange flower was visible inside, and crawling on the perfect bloom was a large
black insect with a tail.  As they watched, the bug scuttled off the flower and
deep inside the evening bag.

Michelle clapped her hand over her mouth to abort a shriek.

Nakamura glanced over at her, picked up the purse and snapped
it shut.  "Do you want me to get rid of it?"

Michelle nodded.

"Where's your trash chute?"

Michelle handed him a Kleenex and told him where to go
at the end of the hallway.  "And throw the flower away, too."

When he left she ran into the bathroom and threw up in
the sink.  Well, that reaction was a little extreme, she thought, as she rinsed
her mouth.  But she had been wearing that flower all night.  The enormous, hideous
thing might have been crawling in her hair.  She started gagging again with revulsion
and threw cold water in her face.  Then Michelle shook out her hair, but couldn't
bare to look to see if there was another insect. 

When Nakamura came back she excused herself and went to
change into a cotton running suit in her bedroom.  She smiled at the, change into
something more comfortable, line she had used unthinkingly.  But Nakamura would
understand.  She checked the dress she had been wearing, inside and out, then shook
it violently before putting it on a hanger.

Nakamura was still standing in the living room when she
came back.  "I'm sorry.  I had to get out of those clothes.  And would you
mind looking at my hair, in the back.  Searching it?"

Nakamura walked around behind her and she could feel him
lifting strands and his fingers on her scalp.  She knew she was still trembling
and felt like an idiot, until he stopped, still holding onto a strand, and leaned
over to reach for a Kleenex in the box on her side table.  She squinted her eyes. 
He was doing something to her hair quickly and she felt a few strands pulled out. 
Then he strode rapidly into her bathroom and she heard the toilet flush.

Nakamura came out.  "There are lots of insects in
the Islands because of the humidity.  The one I just got was tiny.  Really small. 
Could hardly see it."

"Check the top."  She knew the insect hadn't
been small.

Michelle stood in front of him with her head bent down
and he looked through the hair on the top of her scalp.

"Just checking the old noggin for lice.  But I can't
seem to find any.  I feel like a monkey, grooming my primate friend.  The top is
fine."

"I really am afraid of bugs.  Its stupid and irrational,
but there you are."

"Everyone has silly phobias.  You should see me when
I'm on the top of a tall building.  And I can't even look out the window in a plane,
I get so dizzy.  I try to hide it.  And try to always travel alone, because once
I was acting cool, with some business friends.  Almost lost my cookies, peering
out the window."

Michelle laughed and nodded.  It was clear to her that
Nakamura had understood perfectly what was happening when she had the anxiety attack. 
He had known exactly what to do then, too.

"I'd like accept your offer to work at Heroshi in
Japan.  As your assistant."

"Well, great."  He had a wonderful smile.  "I'm
glad."

He gave a wink and left.

When Nakamura exited the building, he made sure
the men he had assigned to watch the condominium were doing their duty.  The one
in the garage by the elevators was awake and alert.  The man in the front of the
building also seemed professional. 

Nakamura was not a high profile person, but the president
of Heroshi, a millionaire many times over, was.  He had been kidnaped and held for
ransom once.  Nakamura knew the people to call when he wanted security work done
in any part of the world.

He drove away, confident that he was protecting his new
employee.  He did not understand that securing the outside of the building was futile.

Omar had not been deceived.  The man on the elevator
with Michelle was a red haired, sneaky, Oriental bastard.  He knew because he himself
was a mixture of Chinese, Japanese and Caucasian.  Like recognized like, and bred
the same hatred that Nakamura had experienced as a little boy.  He had learned to
despise anyone who was not racially pure Japanese, even when the hate had been directed
toward himself.  He had felt inadequate and less worthy than everyone else in the
almost ethnically pure Japan of his childhood. 

When Omar grew up his attitudes had changed, and he had
physically changed his own eyes.  The deep, heavy epicanthic folds, which had almost
hidden his brilliant dark eyes, and which also revealed his intriguing Oriental
heritage, had been removed by a plastic surgeon.  Now he looked merely exotic. 
Not like the giant oversized, clumsy Oriental he had been perceived of when he grew
up in Japan.

As he opened his mailbox and looked inside, Omar contemplated
revenge.  His insides were seething, roiling with anger, but emotion had absolutely
no effect on his facial features or bodily tension.  He was a beautiful devil. 
And he never forgot it.  The ugly duckling had grown into a beautiful man-swan.

Strange, Omar thought, this evening, the more charm he
had poured on, the more distant Michelle became.  She had withdrawn deep within
herself and he found it difficult to access her thoughts and emotions.  It was
a unique and slightly disturbing feature of the evening, which pleased him
greatly.  She was a worthy adversary.  That he would win and have control over
the mind and body of this wonderful, perplexing woman was an extremely
satisfying fact; something he took for granted, but like tonight, could provide
some challenges.

Michelle was not at all like the woman-child he had toyed
with earlier this evening.  Suzanne, the pretty college student, had never been
tempered with adversity in her scholarly, intellectual and perfectly programmed
and inhibited life.  She had been pliable, weak, pathetic and predictable.  So he
made sure she would never grow into full adulthood.  Suzanne would be his slave
until he found the perfect time to dispose of her, in the most shocking and satisfying
manner his fertile imagination could conjure.  It would be a satisfactory shock
to the man that had been dogging his footsteps for years

The problem now was Michelle.  And that nasty snotty red
haired Oriental whom she had in her apartment right now.  Unable to have tea and
chat with him, hmm.  Because she had another waiting in the wings.  The rage came
back and the adolescent feelings he had outgrown bloomed with force.

When Omar got into his own apartment he called Ginger. 
She was a satisfactory fuck.  A little dull for all her beauty, but she was a slave
and would do anything he chose.  And she would never remember the next morning. 
Even if he hurt her, with the rage he was feeling now, she would only remember pleasure.

V
incent Middleton awakened in his hotel room with
a headache so intense he groaned, grabbing his forehead in agony.  His eyelids seemed
to be stuck together when he attempted to open his eyes, and behind them he saw
a kaleidoscope of jumbled, naked female parts.  A wet dream at his age!  It would
have been funny if he hadn't been in such pain.  He wondered what had brought on
such a bazaar series of visions.  He could see naked breasts, thighs and buttocks. 
It seemed so real.

He started to lumber out of bed to search for Alka Seltzer,
but paused abruptly in surprise when he threw off the covers.  He was naked as a
jay-bird, as the old expression went.  He shook his head and tried to recall retiring,
but it all seemed to be a  blank.  He was in far too much agony to even try to guess
why he was unclothed, he was merely astonished at the fact.

Vincent rose and staggered to the bathroom, dizzy and unsteady
on his legs as a toddler.  His head felt like a toddler's also, much too big and
wobbly on his neck, as though, if he leaned too far forward with the heavy head
he would crash to the floor.  A slight angle to the right would send him listing
in that direction to slam into the wall.

Vincent held himself erect so his head wouldn't tip him
over and made it to the bathroom.  He fumbled Alka Seltzer out of the medicine cabinet
and watched it fizz in a glass of water, gulping the fuzzy, salty tasting liquid
down in three great swallows.  He felt like crawling back to bed and falling asleep
again, and with the thought he closed his eyes.  Again that flashing strobe behind
his eyelids.  Naked female fleshy parts.

He definitely had some kind of flu.  Vincent called room
service and then staggered to the bed and fell flat forward, face first, still unclothed
and immediately unconscious.

His second awakening a few minutes later, was to insistent
knocking on the hotel room door.  He grabbed his robe, manhandled his way into it
and opened the door a crack.  His coffee had arrived.  Vincent burned his tongue
in his rush to get something warm inside himself because he had definitely caught
a malevolent virus.  He was shivering so much he had to hold the cup with both hands
so it wouldn't spill.  Chattering teeth almost kept him from swallowing.  He managed
a cup of the of strong black liquid and fell asleep in the chair.

Vincent didn't remember much of the day.  He kept falling
asleep and struggling to awaken from nightmares.  But his final arousal, at five
that evening, brought him to the awful, outrageous, disgusting realization that
he had slept with one of his students.

It had come back to him, piece by dreadful piece, in tiny
snippets of clarity.  His memory of the night before.  Each awakening brought the
nightmare nearer and clearer, but it was no dream. 

Vincent contemplated ruin.  Loss of tenure.  His professional
reputation in tatters, drummed from his professorship by outraged colleagues.

Still groggy, holding his head in shame, he recalled that
Suzanne had came back to the hotel from her interview Omar Satinov, the evening
before.  Vincent had met Suzanne at the Royal Hawaiian's outdoor bar to discuss
what she had learned about the man he believed might be the warlock of recent and
bloody repute.  They sat at a small round table overlooking the ocean. 

There was musical entertainment on the balcony Lanai; a
band of Hawaiians with guitars and drums, and some young Hawaiian girls, clothed
in grass skirts and leis doing hula dances.  The swish of the waves accompanied
the music and the dancers.  Flame torches were being lit on the balcony above the
sea, as it was just getting to be twilight time, with a spectacular sunset over
the ocean.  The picture postcard scene was serene.  It truly seemed like paradise.

Vincent ordered tall pink Mai Tais, replete with umbrellas,
and they sipped from straws.  Vincent knew the cherries inside were probably carcinogenic
and fished his out.  Suzanne was in a gay mood, talking non-stop about how handsome
Omar was and how elegant his apartment.  A few times she gave odd grimaces as she
spoke rapidly, unlike the serious student he knew.  She drank the tall glass of
alcoholic fruit juices quickly and ordered another when their waiter came around.

She told him about Omar's kitten, how it seemed to obey
him when he merely lifted an eyebrow.  Vincent knew she was teasing him, hinting
that the cat was a 'familiar.'  Then she grimaced in that odd way and her face became
blank.

Vincent was looking at her with concern when she said,
eyes wide, pupils dilated, "He had big bugs.  They were crawling all over me
after he took my cloths off."

"What!"

Suzanne immediately came out of the staring fit and smiled
gaily.  "The kitten fetched toys when Omar threw them.  The tiny pet would
retrieve them like a dog."

"What about the bugs?  Insects?"

"Insects?  I don't understand."  Suzanne looked
truly perplexed at his question.

"You said he had bugs."

"No, I didn't.  But he gave me some of his wonderful
tea to take home because I loved it so much.  I have it in my purse.  I don't think
Omar's a bad guy, Vincent.  He just believes in witchcraft and a lot of superstitious
nonsense.  Although, if you ask me, that cat could be a familiar, the way it behaved."

Suzanne had laughed then, and got that frightful blank
look when she said, "He made me a witch."

"What!"

"I said, I could almost believe in familiars, the
way the kitten behaved."  The blank look again and she said, "The kitten
sucked my blood."

"Where?"

"Omar told me most of the things we already know about
witchcraft.  He claimed to be a very powerful witch himself, but he was laughing
when he said so, like it was a joke, you know?"

"You said a kitten sucked your blood?" Vincent
asked, thinking that maybe Suzanne was a little tipsy from the drinks.  She was
behaving oddly.  Or maybe she was just romantically inclined toward that character,
Omar, and had developed an adolescent crush.  She was so agitated she almost seemed
manic.  If he didn't know her better he would believe she had taken some kind of
drug, like cocaine or an amphetamine.

"No."  Suzanne rolled her eyes, like he had suddenly
asked a very odd question.  "I said that he gave me tea and talked about witches. 
You know, the magic circle and how witches are inducted and the belief in medicinal
herbs."

Vincent, now really alarmed, said, "I want you to
tell me, word for word, about the interview.  And I'll have that tea in your purse
analyzed."

"Really, Vincent.  You sound paranoid.  It's just
licorice tea.  We'll ask for a tea service after dinner and you can taste it."

"Tell me about the interview."

Suzanne signed and said, "This will bore you, as it's
your field of expertise.  But okay."  She gave another deep sigh, "We
were sitting on the couch in his living room.  Omar told me that witches are called
wiccans.  And witchcraft is called the Craft of the Wise.  The basic tenants are
a love of nature and the sacredness of all life.  The word Witchcraft is derived
from 'wicce,' which means to bend.  They bend reality to their desires—or do magic. 
It's a series of spiritual and magical systems."

Vincent nodded.  Suzanne was a gifted student and she had
a phenomenal memory.

"Do you really want me to go on?" she asked.

He nodded.

"Witches are like the clergy, and the laity are called
'pagans.'  They're derived from polytheist beliefs.  You know, Alexandrian, Druidic,
Danic and Fairy.  Beliefs go back to the 'Hermetic Order of the Golden Dawn.' Vincent,
you have to help me...the witch hunting of the 14th through the 18th century was...

"Stop," Vincent ordered.  "You want me to
help you?"

"Do you want his lecture or not?" Suzanne asked
smiling.

"You just asked me to help you."

"Well, you can if you like.  You know all of this
anyway."

"No, no.  Go on.  I want the whole spiel."  Vincent
watched Suzanne carefully.  Just moments ago she had gone blank again and asked
for his help in the middle of her lecture.  She didn't seem to realize it consciously
when she had those strange staring fits and said odd things totally out of context
to the conversation.  Vincent was beginning to have the alarming idea that her mind
had been tampered with.

"Yeah, well the witch hunts went on for hundreds of
years.  Witches were called the 'sinister sisterhood.'  The damage a witch is believed
to do is called a curse or malediction.  It might be caused by the evil influence
of merely a look, from an invisible emanation from a witch's eyes, called being
'overlooked' or 'fascinated.'  Or its by physical contact if a witch touches her
victim.  The witches were believed to make an image and stick pins or bristles in
it, or write the person's name on a piece of paper and burn it.  Or harm someone
by burning a piece of clothing or a personal item.  Witches believe they can cause
injury by manipulation of hair, fingernails parings, sweat or excrement, which are
supposed to contain an individual's vital spirits."  She stopped, looking blank
again.

"Go on," Vincent urged.

"The Coven is a band or company of men and women who
gather for the practice of religious rites and magical ceremonies.  The covens in
Great Britain had a fixed number, thirteen; twelve witches and their officer."

Suzanne paused to sip her drink and watch the Hawaiian
dancers.  She seemed to go blank again, but didn't say anything.  She was pale and
looked like she might suddenly begin crying, she appeared so sad.

"Is something bothering you, Suzanne?"

She turned and looked at Vincent, nodding yes, "No,
of course not."

"Did Omar say anything about his pets.  Anything about
'familiars?'" 

"No.  But I know all about them.  A witch possesses
an imp or devil in the shape of an animal.  It's usually a cat or a dog.  Sometimes
a toad, rat, or even a wasp or butterfly.  They perform magical services and are
supposed to have been given to the witch by the devil himself.  Or they are purchased
or inherited from another witch.  The 'witch's mark' is a teat, from which the familiar
can suck the blood of the witch as a form of nourishment.  This vampirish blood
sucking was for magical purposes in medieval legend."

"Do you really think Omar's kitten fits this definition?"

"I was just kidding, Vincent," Suzanne said,
but she was nodding yes again.

"Do you think Omar is a witch?"

"He thinks he is.  And by definition he is.  I mean,
he professes belief in the religion.  It goes back to whether one can believe in
any religion."

"Don't go all philosophical on me.  I just want to
know if you think he possesses magical powers?"

"Vincent!  Come on."

"I shouldn't have let you go alone."

"He was very nice, Vincent.  We have another lesson
tomorrow."

"No," Vincent said shaking his head.  "Absolutely
not.  I'm sorry, but you're going home.  Tomorrow.  I'll get you a ticket."

Now she looked like a thwarted little child and Vincent
felt guilty and sorry for what he had to do.  He had promised Suzanne two weeks
in Hawaii.  But he had to get her away from the man, and truthfully, he didn't want
it known he was associated with her, if this really was the warlock reputed to be
so dangerous in the legends.  It would be perilous for Suzanne to stay, and risky
for him too, if Omar found he had planned that Suzanne entice him.

"But Vincent, I want to find out more.  You said it
was important, and that he might be a good research study for my thesis on sociopathic
behavior."

"The guy could be very treacherous.  At the very least
he's probably living off the women who believe in him.  At the worst, well, I don't
know.  You have to leave Suzanne.  Now let's go inside and have dinner."

Suzanne sighed deeply.  "My last night in Hawaii."

All through dinner Suzanne made excuses to stay,
saying she wanted to help him and she would pay for the vacation herself. 
Vincent was adamant and finally told her a little about what he had heard about
the Warlock; the women who became psychotic, those who died in strange
accidents who were associated with him.  Some of his followers believed he was
the God of the Witches, the living incarnation of the leader of the Dianic
Cult, who wore all black and was called the 'Black Man;' a man whom the witches
adored, addressed prayers to, and even dedicated their children to. 

Vincent thought the disturbing truths might make Suzanne
more leery of Omar, but the scary stories just made her more curious.  He wished
he could lock her in her hotel room to make sure she would be safe, but he walked
her to her room and turned to leave, intending to do some research alone in his
room.

At the door Suzanne remembered about the tea.  They would
have a good-night tea toast, for her last night in Hawaii, in his room.  When Suzanne
took out the tea bags Vincent could see they were just a commercial brand that one
finds regularly in health food stores.  He examined the bags carefully before putting
them in the pot, but they hadn't been tampered with.

Vincent remembered just taking a few sips, and that was
when things had begun to seem fuzzy.  Suzanne kept drinking cup after cup, and she
finished telling Vincent about the history of Witchcraft that Omar had related to
her earlier that evening.

"Omar said that witches were still very secretive
about their ceremonies because of the fierce witch hunts.  The Roman Catholic Church
built up a large literature of demonology, outlining the manner in which witches
were believed to conduct themselves.  The doctrine developed into edicts which cumulated
in the Papal Bull; the systematic persecution of witches as devil worshipers.  Crystal-gazing
was considered heresy.  But the tales of mysterious nocturnal revels the witches
conducted went on even during this time.