Ted Kosmatka - Prophet of Bones

Blood coated the blue wallpaper in a fine mist. A crushed filing cabinet lay on its side in the corner.

In that moment, Charles’s throat convulsed, releasing a gout of blood. An outward burst of air guttered through the open wound.

Paul dropped to his knees as the throat worked again, sucking air this time, collapsing in on itself. A horrible gurgling as the lungs rattled with fluid.

At first Paul didn’t understand what he was seeing. And then he realized: traumatic tracheotomy.

They thought they’d choked him to death on his own drawing, but the body still lived. Sucking air through the ruined throat.

Paul reached out but couldn’t bring himself to touch the dented, crushed-in skull. Wherever Charles was, it wasn’t here. There was no room for him in what remained.

The gasps came and went over the next few minutes, the space between them growing longer. The final breath happened in a slow rattle. Only then did Paul reach to touch his hand.

A rage built inside him, that such a thing could have been done to so gentle a man. That a mind such as his had been snuffed out. Paul felt a sudden crushing guilt, because he was not worth a Charles. His life did not balance the loss of the life taken. It was too much to bear. Better that he’d left it alone. Better that he’d died back on Flores.

For a moment, the rage outweighed the fear, and Paul did not turn away. He didn’t run. He went to the dead man, who hadn’t been his friend but had been a person he respected.

“I’m sorry, Charles,” he whispered.

Charles’s face was turned away. There was no forgiveness there.

“If I had known this could happen…”

But hadn’t he? Hadn’t he known?

“That was in Indonesia,” he said out loud, talking to himself. “I didn’t know it could happen here.” A part of him, however, didn’t believe that he’d ever believed that. That it would be different just because they were no longer in that wild place.

Maybe it was all the same. Everywhere. And you just told yourself stories so you could sleep at night.

Paul bent toward the man he’d known mostly through stories. He pulled the bird drawing from Charles’s mouth. It came with a dark clot of congealed blood, leaving his broken mouth still slack and open. This was somehow worse, and Paul couldn’t take it anymore.

This attack had happened hours ago. They’d come here first, before they went to Alan’s. Charles must have given them Alan’s name. Paul realized that Alan was probably dead, too, by now.

“I’m sorry,” Paul said.

Then he turned and fled. He took the time to wipe his fingerprints from the doorknob, closed the door, and ran.

Gavin stood in Martial’s office. The old man glared at him from across an expanse of polished mahogany desktop.

“There has been an unfortunate series of events,” the old man said. His flat gray eyes bore into him.

Gavin had learned to keep his face blank around the old man. It was best to show no emotion. Martial had summoned him from bed in the middle of the night and now they stood in his office, watching the tail end of a tropical depression lash at the windows. For Gavin, the last several weeks at the compound had been anything but comforting. He’d become more and more convinced of the old man’s mental instability. He’d seen evidence of it all around him—in the emotional outbursts, the irrational beliefs. Then there was the bizarre state of the facility itself. A thing no sane man would helm. But more disturbing than his craziness was the terrifying reach of the man’s power, a thing he’d also borne witness to in his time at the old man’s side.

“How unfortunate, exactly?” Gavin said, keeping his tone perfectly neutral.

“People have died,” Martial said. “More people are going to die.”

Gavin sat down in the red chair facing the desk.

“You brought Paul in on this,” the old man continued.

“I know.”

“I’ve tried to be… tolerant. Circumstances now force my hand.”

“What do you mean?”

“Events have conspired to leave me no choice.”

“There’s always a choice.”

“What would you have me do?”

“He could be of value to you,” Gavin said.

The old man shook his head. “He’s a liability.”

Liability. That was a word you never wanted pointed at you. Not by Martial. Liabilities had a way of disappearing. Of being neutralized. Erased from the equation. It was how Martial conducted business. Gavin had worked for Martial for the last twenty years, but for most of that time he’d been at the periphery. Just another cog in the grand machine, doing his part at a safe remove from the more unpleasant aspects of the business. Here at the compound, however, he’d gotten a firsthand glimpse of how Martial ran his empire.

“That’s only because you haven’t tried to make him into an asset,” Gavin said. He swallowed hard. Saying this was a risk. Saying anything contrary was a risk.

“We’re beyond that now,” the old man said.

“You don’t know that for sure. Considering what happened with Paul’s father, do you really want this on your head? The father and the son?”

“You yourself said we couldn’t trust him.”

“There are ways he can be made worthy of trust.” This was a thing Gavin understood far too well. It could be done by a dozen different methods, over the course of several years. You don’t sell your soul all at once. You do it in parts, so that when you wake up and look in the mirror one day it’s gone, and you’re not even sure where you lost it.

“It is a tricky business,” the old man said, but there was hesitation in his voice.

“No trickier than the alternative.”

“What’s your alternative?”

“I can talk to him. I can reason with him.”

“And what makes you think we can reason with him now?”

“We take away all his other options.”

The old man sighed. “This thing that should be so very simple has grown so very complicated. And you want me to complicate it further?”

“Out of complexity comes nuance. Maybe he deserves a chance. Considering who he is.”

The old man coughed into his handkerchief. The handkerchief was red. The old man used red handkerchiefs now so the blood wouldn’t show.

“So be it.”

Here Gavin’s face betrayed him. Surprise.

“You won’t regret it,” he stammered.

“Don’t speak to me of regret. I’ve a lifetime of regret.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Don’t thank me yet. It is a final chance. But I’m not sending you alone.”

The old man hit the buzzer on his desk. “Send her in.”

There was a moment’s pause, and then the door opened.

Margaret walked in.

“Sir,” she said, speaking to the old man. Then she turned to Gavin. “Hello, Mr. McMaster.”

Gavin closed his mouth with a snap. “It’s good to see you’re well,” he said. He hadn’t laid eyes on her since Indonesia. He’d heard she’d made it out all right, but beyond that, nothing else. He wondered if she’d been working for the old man all along, or if she was a new convert to the cause.

“Margaret has already been briefed on the situation. She’s agreed to accompany you.”

Gavin realized then that their conversation had been theater. Martial had already made the decision before Gavin had stepped into the room. It had all been artifice—part of the old man’s plan to get Gavin behind the objective.

“You’ll have your chance to get him on board,” the old man said. “But if he hesitates… if he shows the slightest inclination toward refusal. Then he’s a problem that will be solved in the quickest, easiest way.”