Impossible Places (8 page)

Then, with his entire staff alerted, he sat back and waited.

Nothing happened the next day, or the day after that. He began to relax.

On the third day, he was stepping out of the limo outside one of Miami’s finest seafood restaurants, where he was to meet for dinner with an extraordinarily beautiful and admirably ambitious new editorial assistant, with whom he anticipated discussing little having to do with newspaper work of any kind. Spike wasn’t with him.

Bedford, the chauffeur, opened the door to let him out. It was warm but not overly humid, a gorgeous night that he expected to end rather steamier than it had begun. He took a step toward the mahogany-and-leaded-glass doorway of the restaurant.

His feet spun him around to face the sidewalk and hustled him irresistibly forward.

He opened his mouth, but nothing came out. What could you say when your feet suddenly took off with you, utterly indifferent to every mental command and imprecation? No, that wasn’t right. It wasn’t his feet that were running away with him: It was his shoes.

Down the sidewalk he went, flailing wildly with the bewildered Bedford yelling in his wake. Off the curb and out into the street.

Straight into the path of a pumped-up, oversized, bechromed pickup truck thumping out Tupac as deep and low as the pounding of a sauropodian heart.

Rohrbach screamed; oversized all-terrain tires squealed; Bedford gasped. A chrome pipe bumper whacked Rohrbach in the chest, sending pain shooting through his ribs and knocking him down. A trio of terrified teenagers piled out of the truck to gather anxiously around him. If possible, they were more scared than he was.

“Shit, mister, I didn’t see you!”

“He stepped right in front of you, Don! I saw him! Right in front of you!”

“I’m all right.” A shaken Rohrbach climbed to his feet, brushing at his suit. His ribs ached, but it didn’t feel like anything was broken. “Forget it. We’ll all pretend it didn’t happen. It was my fault.”

“Yeah, man,” the third boy blurted. “Damn straight it was your fault! You—!” His friends grabbed him and dragged him away, back into the truck.

Bedford was at his side, at once angry and concerned. “Are you all right, Mr. Rohrbach, sir? What possessed you to dart out in the street like that?”

“I’m really not sure, but I’m okay now. Forget it. Just forget it.” He glanced down at his shoes. When he started back toward the sidewalk they obeyed. Why shouldn’t they? They were just shoes.

Carefully primping his thinning hair back into place, he pushed past the chauffeur and strode into the restaurant.

She was as attractive and eager as he’d expected. Not that she had a lot of choice if she expected to move up the ladder under him. The food was excellent, and the wine made him forget the near-fatal incident out in the street.

They were waiting for dessert when his briefs started to tighten up.

At first it was merely uncomfortable. Smiling across the table at her, he squirmed uncomfortably in his chair, trying to free up the kinks. At first it seemed to work.

Then they tightened afresh. Much tighter.

His eyes bulged, and his expression grew pinched as he jerked forward. His date eyed him with concern.

“Robert, is something the matter? Are you . . . ?”

“Be right back,” he told her hastily. “Something in the stone crab . . .”

He straightened and headed for the men’s room. Halfway across the floor his briefs suddenly seemed to contract to half their normal size. He bent double, a sickly green expression on his face, and fought to keep from grabbing himself. Several well-dressed diners seated nearby looked at him askance. Somehow he staggered the rest of the way to the hall, then slammed through the door into the elegant men’s room.

He didn’t even bother to close the stall door behind him as he desperately unbuckled and unzipped his slacks and looked down at himself. So deeply had his briefs dug into his flesh that blood was showing in several places around the elastic. He pulled at the material. It wouldn’t give.

The pain increased, and he slumped onto the stool, still clawing frantically at his briefs. Just when he thought he was going to pass out, some give finally returned to the elastic. Making no effort to get up, he sat there breathing long and slow in deep, shaky gasps, waiting for the pain to go away.

How long would his conquest-to-be wait for him? How cooperative would she be later if she thought he was suffering from some unknown disease? If he had a hope of salvaging the evening he had to get back to the table.

He rose and pulled up his pants around the torn briefs, hoping they wouldn’t show. The dinner jacket should cover any lines. He stepped out of the stall and took a deep breath.

It was cut off halfway as his tie tightened around his throat.

Wide-eyed, turning blue, he wrenched at the tie. It was very expensive silk, custom made, blue and crimson, and it didn’t fray or ravel. Staggering wildly around the bathroom, he banged off the wall, the sinks, the stalls, his fingers fighting to find some space between the silk and his flesh. Eyes bulging, lungs heaving, he fell to the floor and lay there kicking and fighting. Everything was getting blurry and hot, as if he’d spent too much time in the pool with his eyes open underwater.

Dimly, he was aware of the door opening, of a figure bending over him and yelling. He wanted to respond, to explain, and tried to, but he couldn’t get enough air, not enough air to . . .

They let him out of the hospital the next day, around lunchtime. It had been a near thing, and he was more fortunate than he could imagine. Not every executive in Miami carried a pocket knife to their favorite restaurant. While someone else had called 911, his savior had severed the asphyxiating necktie. The sole reminder of the experience consisted of a small bandage on the publisher’s throat. It covered the tiny nick the knife had made. So constricted had the necktie been that Rohrbach’s rescuer had been unable to slip even the narrow blade cleanly between silk and skin.

He responded to every inquiry that greeted him on his return to the office, even to those from individuals he knew hated or despised him. He didn’t get much work done the rest of that day, or the next.

By the third morning after his release from the hospital he was feeling much more like his old self, and friends commented freely on his recovery. It wasn’t the near strangulation that had slowed him down, he explained. Unless you’ve experienced something like that you can’t imagine what it’s like; the loss of air, the knowing that Death is standing next to you, just waiting to reach down and take you for his own. It’s the mental recovery, he explained, that takes longer.

Awaiting his sage perusal were stories about crop circles in Wales, a two-hundred-pound twelve-year-old in Rio, a woman who had won three sweepstakes by using astrology, a man in Bombay who claimed to grow the only genuine aphrodisiac in the world and who had eighty-three children, a nuclear worker who glowed in the dark, and . . . a freelancer in New Orleans submitted a story about a shrimper who claimed that Elvis Presley had been living in the swamps outside Lafayette and had been working for him for years, and that he’d married a local Cajun gal and lived only on gator meat and red beans and rice.

The assistant editor who’d brought in the story looked expectantly at his boss. “Mr. Rohrbach? I thought maybe page five, opposite the breast enlargement ad? Mr. Rohrbach, sir?”

The publisher only half heard him. Still fresh in his mind was the remembrance of choking, the silken garrote tight as a steel cord around his throat, the wheezing sounds, the screaming in his lungs, the . . .

“No,” he said.

A look of pained disbelief came over the assistant’s face. “Sir? It’s a good story, sir. They can’t check very well back in that swamp country; it just meets our possibility criteria, and the food tie-in offers some intriguing advertising possibilities.”

“I said no.” He blinked and looked around the table. “Kill it. No Elvis stories. Not . . . now. My gut feeling is that Elvis is . . . overexposed. Get me something fresh. Cher. We haven’t had a good lead on Cher for a month. Come on, gang, get on it!”

A few of them eyed him strangely after the story conference, but no one said anything. Feeling slightly queasy, he returned to his office, speaking only to a couple of people on the way back. When he settled down behind his desk his thoughts were more than a little confused.

His researcher buzzed for admittance, and Rohrbach let him in.

“What is it, Danziger?”

“Sir. You remember that man you wanted me to try and trace? Anderson?”

Rohrbach looked up sharply, his mind now crystal clear. “Don’t tell me you found something on him?”

The researcher looked pleased. “Actually it wasn’t that hard, sir. His connection with Elvis is more than peripheral.” While Rohrbach looked on, Danziger glanced down at the notepad he carried. “Apparently he’s quite well known in the business.”

“The ‘business’? You mean, movies?”

Danziger nodded. “Knew Elvis real well. Did ten—no, eleven films with him.”

Rohrbach hesitated. “He’s an actor?”

“Nope. And the operative verb is
was
. He passed away in December of 1991.”

Rohrbach said nothing, just sat there behind the big desk, gripping the edge with unconscious concentration.

“In a way he was probably ‘closer’ to Elvis than just about anybody the King worked with.” Danziger was grinning, pleased with himself. “He was a wardrobe master. Whipped up all of Elvis’s costumes on those pictures, did the fittings, took the measurements, made—” Danziger stopped, mildly alarmed. “Are you all right, sir? Maybe you should think about getting some new shirts. That collar looks awfully tight.”

[
Johnny Anderson and his family were my next-door
neighbors two houses removed when I was growing up
in California. Johnny was a great guy; everybody loved
him. Johnny knew Elvis a long time. They got along
great then, and I expect they do now.

There’s a picture of Johnny on page 144 of the
Elvis Album.]

WE THREE KINGS

I love monsters. You love monsters. Everybody loves
monsters. The literary and movie kind, of course—not
the real ones who unfortunately inhabit our day-to-day
world. It’s interesting that we like to read about invented
monsters because they help us to forget about the real
ones. Kind of like people who watch soap operas because they help them to forget about what they don’t
have in their own lives.

But who do monsters love? Or do monsters love? Is
there inevitably mutual admiration and respect, or must
they of course fear one another? It’s a truly monstrous
matter to contemplate.

Obviously the basis for a Christmas story.

It was overcast and blustery, and the snow was coming down as hard as a year’s accumulation of overdue bills. Within the laboratory, Stein made the final adjustments, checked the readouts, and inspected the critical circuit breakers one last, final time. There was no going back now. The success or failure of his life’s work hinged on what happened in the next few moments.

He knew there were those who if given the chance would try to steal his success, but if everything worked he would take care of them first. Them with their primitive, futile notions and dead-end ideas! All subterfuge and smoke, behind which they doubtless intended to claim his triumph as their own. Let them scheme and plot while they could. Soon they would be out of the way, and he would be able to bask in his due glory without fear of theft or accusation.

He began throwing the switches, turning the dials. Fitful bursts of necrotic light threw the strange shapes that occupied the vast room in the old warehouse into stark relief. Outside, the snow filled up the streets, sifting into dirty gutters, softening the outlines of the city. Not many citizens out walking in his section of town, he reflected. It was as well. Though the laboratory was shuttered and soundproofed, there was no telling what unforeseen sights and sounds might result when he finally pushed his efforts of many years to a final conclusion.

The dials swung while the readings on the gauges mounted steadily higher. Nearing the threshold now. The two huge Van de Graaff generators throbbed with power. Errant orbs of ball lightning burst free, to spend themselves against the insulated ceiling in showers of coruscating sparks. It was almost time.

He threw the final, critical switch.

Gradually the crackling faded and the light in the laboratory returned to normal. With the smell of ozone sharp in his nostrils, Stein approached the table. For an instant, there was nothing more than disappointment brokered by uncertainty. And then—a twitch. Slight, but unmistakable. Stein stepped back, eyes wide and alert. A second twitch, this time in the arms. Then the legs, and finally the torso itself.

With a profound grinding sound, the creature sat up, snapping the two-inch-wide leather restraining straps as if they were so much cotton thread.

“It’s alive!”
Stein heard himself shouting. “It’s alive, it’s alive, it’s alive!”

He advanced cautiously until he was standing next to the now seated Monster. The bolts in its neck had been singed black from the force of the charge that had raced through it, but there were no signs of serious damage. Tentatively, Stein reached out and put a hand on the creature’s arm. The massive, blocky skull swiveled slowly to look down at him.

“Nnrrrrrrrrrgh!”

Stein was delighted. “You and I, we are destined to conquer the world. At last, the work of my great-grandfather is brought to completion.” His voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. “But there are those who would thwart us, who would stand in our way. I know who they are, and they must be . . . dealt with. Listen closely, and obey . . .”

Outside, the snow continued to fall.

In the dark cellar Rheinberg carefully enunciated the ancient words. Only a little light seeped through the street-level window, between the heavy bars. Seated in the center of the room, in the middle of the pentagram, was the sculpture. Rheinberg was as talented as he was resourceful, and the details of his creation were remarkable for their depth and precision.

An eerie green glow began to suffuse the carefully crafted clay figure as the ancient words echoed through the studio. Rheinberg read carefully from the copy of the ancient manuscript in a steady, unvarying monotone. With each word, each sentence, the glow intensified, until softly pulsing green shadows filled every corner of the basement studio.

Almost, but not quite, he halted in the middle of the final sentence, at the point when the eyes of the figure began to open. That would have been dangerous, he knew. And so, fully committed now, he read on. Only when he’d finished did he dare allow himself to step forward for a closer look.

The eyes of the Golem were fully open now, unblinking, staring straight ahead. Then they shifted slowly to their left, taking notice of the slight, anxious man who was approaching.

“It works. It worked! The old legends were true.” Unbeknownst to Rheinberg, the parchment sheet containing the words had crumpled beneath his clenching fingers. “The world is ours, my animate friend! Ours, as soon as certain others are stopped. You’ll take care of that little matter for me, won’t you? You’ll do anything I ask. You must. That’s what the legend says.”

“Ooooyyyyyyyy!” Moaning darkly, the massive figure rose. Its gray head nearly scraped the ceiling.

Within the charmed circle something was rising. A pillar of smoke, black shot through with flashes of bright yellow, coiling and twisting like some giant serpent awakened from an ancient sleep. Al-Nomani recited the litany and watched, determined to maintain the steady singsong of the nefarious quatrain no matter what happened.

The fumes began to thicken, to coalesce. Limbs appeared, emerging from the roiling hell of the tornadic spiral. The whirlwind itself began to change shape and color, growing more manlike with each verse, until a horrid humanoid figure stood where smoke had once swirled. It had two rings in its oversized left ear, a huge nose, and well-developed fangs growing upward from its lower jaw. For all that, the fiery yellow eyes that glared out at the historian from beneath the massive, low-slung brow reeked of otherworldly intelligence.

“By the beard of the Prophet!” al-Nomani breathed tensely. “It worked!” He put down the battered, weathered tome from which he had been reading. The giant regarded him silently, awaiting. As it was supposed to do.

Al-Nomani took a step forward. “You will do my bidding. There is much that needs to be done. First and foremost there is the matter of those who would challenge my knowledge, and my supremacy. They must be shown the error of their ways. I commit you to deal with them.”

“Eeeehhhhzzzzz!” Within the circle the Afreet bowed solemnly. Its arms were as big around as tree trunks.

Stillman was cruising the run-down commercial area just outside the industrial park when he noticed movement up the side street. At this hour everything was closed up tight, and the weather had reduced traffic even further. He picked up the cruiser’s mike, then set it back in its holder. Might be nothing more than some poor old rummy looking for a warm place to sleep.

Still, the vagrants and the homeless tended to congregate downtown. It was rare to encounter one this far out. Which meant that the figure might be looking to help itself to something more readily convertible than an empty park bench. Stillman flicked on the heavy flashlight and slid out of the car, drawing his service revolver as he did so. The red and yellows atop the cruiser turned steadily, lighting up the otherwise dark street.

Cautiously, he advanced on the narrow roadway. He had no intention of entering, of course. If the figure ran, that would be indication enough something was wrong, and that’s when he’d call for backup.

“Hey! Hey, you in there! Kinda late for a stroll, especially in this weather, ain’t it?”

The only reply was a strange shuffling. The officer blinked away falling snow as something shifted in the shadows. He probed with his flashlight.

“Come on out, man. I know you’re back there. I don’t want any trouble from you, and you really don’t want any from me. Don’t make me come in there after you.” He took a challenging step forward.

Something vast and monstrous loomed up with shocking suddenness, so big his light could not illuminate it all. Officer Corey Stillman gaped at the apparition. His finger contracted reflexively on the trigger of his service revolver, and a sharp crack echoed down the alley. The creature flinched, then reached for him with astounding speed.

“Nnrrrrrrrrrr!”

Stillman never said a word.

His head was throbbing like his brother’s Evenrude when he finally came around. Groaning, he reached for the back of his skull as he straightened up in the snow. Memories came flooding back, and he looked around wildly; but the Monster was gone, having shambled off down the street.

Eleven years on the force and that was without question the ugliest dude he’d ever encountered. Quick for his size, too. Too damn quick. He was sure his single shot had hit home, but it hadn’t even slowed the big guy down. Wincing, he climbed to his feet and surveyed his surroundings. His cruiser sat where he’d left it in the street, lights still revolving patiently.

His gun lay in the snow nearby. Slowly he picked up the .38, marveling at the power that had crushed it to a metal pulp. What had he encountered, and how could he report it? Nobody’d believe him.

A figure stepped into view from behind the building. He tensed, but big as the pedestrian was, he was utterly different in outline from Stillman’s departed assailant. Seeking help, the officer took a couple of steps toward it—and pulled up short.

The enormous stranger was the color of damp clay, save for vacant black eyes that stared straight through him.

“Good God!”

Startled by the exclamation, the creature whirled and struck.

“Ooyyyyyyyyyy!”

This time when Stillman regained consciousness he didn’t move, just lay in the snow and considered his situation. His second attacker had been nothing like the first, yet no less terrifying in appearance. He no longer cared if everyone back at the station thought him crazy; he needed backup.

Too much overtime, he told himself. That had to be it. Too many hours rounding up too many hookers and junkies and sneak thieves. Mary was right. He needed to use some of that vacation time he’d been accumulating.

Body aching, head still throbbing, he struggled to his feet. The cruiser beckoned, its heater pounding away persistently despite the open door on the driver’s side. Recovering his hat and clutching the flashlight, he staggered around the front, pausing at the door to lean on it for support. The heat from the interior refreshed him, made him feel better. He started to slide in behind the wheel.

The seat was already occupied by something with burning yellow eyes and a bloated, distorted face straight out of the worst nightmares of childhood. It was playing with the police radio scanner, mouthing it like a big rectangular cookie.

He’d surprised it, and of course it reacted accordingly.

“Oh
no
!” Stillman moaned as he staggered backward and an unnaturally long arm reached for him. “Not
again
!”

“Eehhhzzzzzzz!”

The wonderful profusion of brightly colored street and store lights slowed the Monster’s progress, mysteriously diluted its intent. The lights were festive and cheerful. Even as it kept to the shadows, it could see the faces of smiling adults and laughing children. There were the decorations, too: in the stores, above the streets, on the houses. Laughter reached him through the falling snow: childish giggles, booming affirmations of good humor, deep chuckles of pleasure. Invariably, it all had a cumulative effect.

Memories stirred: memories buried deep within the brain he’d been given. The lights, the snow, the laughter, candy and ebullient chatter of toys: It all meant something. He just wasn’t sure what. Confused, he turned and lurched off down the dark alley between two tall buildings, trying to reconcile his orders with these disturbing new thoughts.

He paused suddenly, senses alert. Someone else was coming up the alley. The figure was big, much bigger than any human he’d observed so far that night. Not that he was afraid of any human, or for that matter, any thing. Teeth and joints grinding, arms extended, he started deliberately forward.

There was just enough light for the two figures to make each other out. When they could do so with confidence, they hesitated in mutual confusion. Something strange was abroad this night, and both figures thought it most peculiar.

“Who . . . what . . . you?” the Monster declaimed in a voice like a rusty mine cart rolling down a long-neglected track. Speech was still painful.

“I vaz going ask you the same qvestion.” The other figure’s black eyes scrutinized the slow-speaking shape standing opposite. “You one revolting-looking schlemiel, I can tell you.”

“You not . . . no raving beauty yourself.”

“So tell me zumthing I don’t know.” The Golem’s massive shoulders heaved, a muscular gesture of tectonic proportions.

“What be this, pbuh?” Both massive shapes turned sharply, to espy a third figure hovering close behind them. Despite its size it had made not a sound during its approach.

“Und I thought you vaz ugly,” the Golem murmured to the Monster as it contemplated the newcomer.

“Speak not ill of others lest the wrath of Allah befall thee.” The Afreet approached, its baleful yellow eyes flicking from one shape to the next. “What manner of mischief is afoot this night?”

“Ask you . . . the same,” the Monster rumbled.

The Afreet bowed slightly. “I am but recently brought fresh into the world, and am abroad on a mission for my mortal master of the moment.” It glanced back toward the main street, with its twinkling lights and window-shopping pedestrians blissfully unaware of the astonishing conclave that was taking place just down the alley. “Yet I fear the atmosphere not conducive to my command, for what I see and hear troubles my mind like a prattling harim.”