Made Men (20 page)

That was right.

Nodding,
she added, “He looked as though he could bite a broomstick in half.”

The German’s,
Henna’s
end of the line, burst into chaotic chatter.
Alvar leaned his
head close to the tabletop.

“Henna?
Henna dear? Let me say something. I—” It seemed likely that Alvar wanted
to say something reassuring, but the dial tone hummed before he could. Her
husband stood to pace and patted his pockets for his long-ago relinquished
pipe.

 
“They’ll call back,” he mumbled. “Don’t
you think?” Akka didn’t venture a guess, so Alvar soothed himself. “I do. I
think they’ll call back.”

But
they didn’t.

I
t was not a bean.

And there wasn’t just one.

Osgar
gazed through the glasses serving as his computer screen and swapped out
earpieces.

The
assassin steered, deft and confident, around potholes and sweeping bends,
descending the mountain.

“Gaze
engagement, now live,” announced a digital voice from his smartphone. He
blinked, preparing the screen.

With
eye movements he tuned the forty-meter dish in Nevada then wind speed
tolerances on the windmills at a wind farm in Oregon. His eyes juddered,
hacking power grids, overriding encrypted programs, enabling roving blackouts.
With brutish electronic force, he focused governmental satellites on a certain
building in New York City.

“Drone
protocol,” he said.

“Enabling,”
the digital woman answered. “Enabled.”

Drones
sped toward the target from Newark. Formations, prepositioned pockets of drones
in surrounding areas—Buffalo, Toronto,
Philadelphia
—were
placed on standby. In one earpiece the computer narrated recent emails
originating from the address then streamed a live message across the inside of
the lenses of his eyewear.

“New
York, New York,” he said, humming the rest of the tune.

United States’ largest
city.
Oh how he loved the
hunt.

“Visuals
available.” The woman’s voice triaged the others, the emails, to the hold
queue.

 
Osgar winked his left eye and changed his
focus, causing a drone to break from the clouds above Manhattan to record a
black Toyota SUV speeding toward Henna Maxwell’s location. Encrypted
information streamed, the elegant firewalls guarding the target program causing
nearly a fifteen-second delay.

“Plane
four.”

“Calling
plane four,” promised the computer. A
click
then a
buzz
, as the call was routed
through Helsinki.

“Sir?”
a human voice.

“Kamchatka
peninsula, Yelizovo, non-stop. Meal options eight and four.”

W
as it
morning?

Bonn
couldn’t tell.

The
bed was soft. Heavy, velvet curtains separated him from nearby voices. His eyes
began to focus. The thread holding together the garish gold and purple panels
of the divider was a deep, distinguished red. Nearby, a small lamp cast a warm
glow on the rich wooden walls.

Curved walls
?

With
the creak of a chair, the room rocked. The familiar sounds of rusty leaf
springs came from below.

Was he in a trailer?

He
studied the wood and dimensions around him then the shapes of the windows.

A Spartan Manor
.

He
and Manny, the machinist who had been like a father to him, had seen one at a
car show once.
Gleaming aluminum outside, shiny wood inside.
This one had been refurbished; renovated with obvious pride and attention to
details … a
Manny special.

Better than new.

Sore,
body aching, he rolled onto his side to look past a flimsy lace window curtain.
Maples framed a small clearing. A low
stone wall
ran
behind a weathered picnic table. Rain pelted leaves. A gust blew drops against
the glass and the leaf springs groaned—the world outside reduced to streaking
rivulets. Lights strung on a few of the branches winked and swayed, and Bonn
felt queasy. The trailer felt like a boat in a swell, and he wasn’t ready for
that.

Rolling
to his back, he moaned like the suspension.

He’d never felt so sore in his life.

Shaking,
the chill cut deep. Closing his eyes, Bonn pulled the soft bedding to his
shoulders and could smell the woman.

It was her bed
.

The
scents of beeswax and sea salt, fresh cut pears and lemon peel and dill. The
smell grounded him and his nausea ebbed. Although the effort was painful, he
pulled the other pillow to his face, crushing it to his nose.

Familiar
.

Relaxing,
his eyes drifted shut. He dozed until the door of the trailer creaked
open,
banging shut a moment later to rock the shelter on its
axles. Light spilled past the heavy curtain room divider and a dry hand felt
his forehead. He gazed up, curious and confused. The beautiful woman—his
rescuer—held her palm to his cheek, gazing at him with what looked like a
mixture of adoration and resolve. “You are awake.”

“I
am.” His voice was raspy and distant in his own ears. “Where am I?”

Unzipping
her dress, shorter than the one he’d seen from the litter, she didn’t take her
eyes from his. “There is time for that—time to answer all of your questions.”
The garment fell away. She slid in with him and put her head on his chest.

“You
seem much better. How do you feel?” She draped a leg over him.

Sore.

“Ok.”

Tell her.

“Sore.
And weak.”

Her hair smelled nice.

“I
don’t feel one hundred percent.”

“Good.”
She clung to him, her hand on his chest.

Huh?

“Just
be …
be
sick again … for a little while longer.” Her
touch was firm. It, too, seemed familiar.

“That
sounds bad, doesn’t it?” She laughed. “I don’t care.” Kissing the corner of his
mouth, she ran her fingers through his hair. “You’re in such a hurry to die,
but give me this.”

Was he dreaming?

 
“I’ve waited so long to be with you.”
Bonn’s head swam with her smells. She curled closer, her breast on his ribs.

They fit.

It
felt natural.
He relaxed, stroking
her shoulder. He’d never been this close to anyone before.

If she was crazy, at least she didn’t
seem violent.

Urgently
and with embarrassment, Bonn became aware that he, too, was naked.

“I’m
sorry,” he offered.

She
kissed him more squarely, her lips full and soft, then moved her hand lower,
eyes smiling. “I’m not.”

Another
gust rocked the fortune-teller’s little home in the woods, and he kissed back.

Outside,
the storm let up, but they made up for the stillness. Things rattled in jars
and drawers … dried bundles of herbs hanging from hooks on walls swung. The
smells of marmalade and cork and sweet, dark tea came from her. Earthy roots
and freshly shucked sweet corn, saffron, pine,
cloves
.
The smell of skin was the best of them all.

Collapsing,
they were still. He reached up for her face, holding her to see her better.

“Who
are you?”

Instead
of answering, she kissed him more. She seemed overwhelmed, crying, lips
trembling, salt from her tears rolling into their mouths. She felt along the
edges of his mouth with her fingers. She cupped his face. He pulled her closer
and breathed her breath, never wanting to move, then needing to move, again,
inside her.

His questions could wait.

T
hey slept. When he
awoke, it was dark. He felt for her, but she wasn’t in bed. He rolled to look
past the circus curtain.

Tired, but much less sore.

She
bent to feed dry, perfumed logs into a decorative stove, closed it, and
adjusted the damper. Flames flickered behind the glass and the interior of the room
brightened. A teapot on the stove threatened to whistle, but she caught it
early, glancing back at him. It appeared that she’d been up for a while.

Bonn
stretched tentatively, thinking of the scar near his eye, his
iris—bleached white—by a bullet from his mother’s gun.

What did she think of the scar?
Was it ugly to her?

“Hi,”
he offered.

She
smiled but was silent, her lips parted, her features even and smooth.
Approaching like a vision, she carried a small tray of food, her movements sure
and graceful.

“Hi
to you too.” She sat down the food and slid out of her jeans, then pulled her
T-shirt off over her head. Bonn slid to make room. She brought the tray into
bed, seemed to search for him with her legs, and gathering her thick, long hair
together, dropped her soft mane over one breast, out of their way. On the tray
sat bottle-green bowls with baked apples, toasted almonds, buttery, poached
eggs, and thin slices of pan-toasted bread covered with cheese shavings and
rosemary.

“I
intend to seduce you every moment I can…” she handed him a cup “…but I promised
you something.”

What had she promised?

“What
did you—
”

“Not
just earlier…” she placed her own cup on a small table “…before you ever knew
me.”

Bonn
caught the reflection of his white eye reflected in the silver tray. Absently,
he held his hand up to cover it.

The white shock of hair at his temple
from the bullet wound had begun to grow out.

She
tilted her head, seeming to sense his unease with the scar. “I took out your contacts.
I had to make sure it was you.” A pause. “That, and you shouldn’t leave them in
for so long, so they say anyway.”

“Who
are you?” he blurted. “How do you know me?”

Sliding
closer, tangling her legs up with his, she pulled the pillow he’d slept on to
her face and breathed deeply. “I’m Vai.”

Vai.

Quiet,
a long moment passed. Vai held her tea below her chin, amber streaks in her
eyes mirroring the flames from the stove.

She seemed comfortable in the quiet, and
he didn’t feel rushed to talk.

Her
hair slid heavily off of her shoulder, down her back. Vai’s breasts were small.

And round and
beautiful
.

Bonn
glanced away, aware that he stared.

She
laughed. “I took my clothes off for you…” Held her hands out, her tea level and
balanced “…I want you to look. The fire is nice, but it’s still cold. I’d have
my shirt on if you weren’t here. I’ve already told you my intent. If you were
just another hiker coming to have his fortune told, I’d be buried in clothes,
but you aren’t just another backpacker.”

Bonn
took her in, admiring the curve of her hip then her breasts again. “It is kind
of chilly.” Vai slapped his arm playfully, laughing. She put her feet on his
legs—they were cold—and he put his hand on top of them to warm her.

“You’ve
always done that…” sipping her tea “…in my dreams. You’ve always warmed my
feet.”

He
held his own cup to his lips.

The tea was sweet.

Like Earl Grey with heavy cream, but better.
“Do you know my
name?” Vai closed her eyes and shook her head. “No, but I know who you are.
Don’t tell me yet.” Her eyes danced. “You are my strongman. I’ve been dreaming
about you for twenty years.” Vai sat her cup on the tray, slid closer, and ran
a finger along the back of his hand. “A car fell on you here.” Frowning at the
mark, it seemed like she disapproved of the pain he had felt, but not the
imperfection.

“Your
friends brought you to the hospital. A married, black couple—”

Manny and Linda. How could she know
that?

“And
your father, a lawyer…” almost apologetically, she glanced at him sadly, as if
somehow aware of the pain his father, a crook, had caused him—
them
—their whole family. “…
he
was in a rush to leave.”

She
raised her eyebrows, more playful. “You frightened the doctor.”

Stretching
out beside him, she kissed the old crush wound, resting his palm on her thigh,
and reached behind his arm. “This one, a knife…” he studied her face, drawn to
her, fascinated, as she continued “…you were in a dangerous neighborhood where
you killed many men.” This time she bit him, lightly, on the patch of odd
flesh. “You are an idealist and thought you would clean things up.”

Vai
reached her hand down, taking his from her thigh, to hold it. “It was reckless,
but you did it. You made a difference and different friends sewed you up in
your massive concrete building.”

Then
she waited, watching his face to see when he was ready for more.

“Wow.”

What else could he say?

Dropping
his hand, she sat up. Then straddled his stomach, pushing him back on the
pillow, her elbows by his ears, neck close to his mouth, then pressed her lips
to his temple and slid down, wrapping her arms around him. “That one was a
bullet,” she whispered, her breath on his chest, “from your mother’s gun.”

Bonn
felt his heart drum against her cheek for a while then trusting her, he reached
up to stroke Vai’s hair.

“I
cried for two days when that happened to you,” she announced softly. “And I
finally told my own mother what I’d been dreaming.” Vai lifted her head, her
eyes glistening and wet. “She told me all the women in our family had them …
the dreams, I mean.” She reached up, touching his forehead softly. “But never,
she’d said, just about one thing. My dreams and premonitions have always been
about you, or related to you … to someone you know.” Bonn believed her.

What should he say?

“You
don’t need to say anything.” She reassured, smiling at his lips.

Had he said that out loud?

“You’ve
hidden your eye from everyone for years. You don’t have to with me. I’m used to
it. I’ve been there all along.”

T
hey made love again,
then dozed, whispering. Stretching, stirring, they sat up to share the cold
food on the tray.

Her
mother was Irish. Her father danced flamenco.

“They
are somewhere in Greece now,” she reported.

Bonn
told her about Manny and Linda and the Germans. About Henna and Stephan; about
how Henna had destroyed a hate group, white supremacists,
who
had battered her friend.

And
she told him stories. She’d stolen a pony in Scotland when she was twelve and
rode it into the city trying to find him. It rained more, but the trailer felt
like an island: dry and warm—a
time-capsule
.

Nothing outside mattered
.

H
is muscles began to
cramp. “I need to get up. To move.” She helped him near the stove and worked at
a tiny counter, making batter while he stretched and got his bearings. He
marveled at the power of venom.

A spider did this.
To
me.

Vai
baked muffins heavy with carrots and fruit then sliced sausages thinly into a
pan with a wicked-looking knife, mixing in some onion and
bread
crumbs
and herbs and more cheese. She fed him with her fingers, licking
them wherever his lips had touched.