Ted Kosmatka - Prophet of Bones

There were men in Martial’s shoes who did not sweat the details, who ran their companies like drivers raced cars, foot on the gas, aware only of the output of their machine rather than the intricacies of its inner workings. Martial prided himself on looking under the hood. To be any other way made no sense, considering the circumstances.

“I was hoping for good news,” he said.

“Sorry, sir. The new trials are scheduled to begin next month.”

Martial shook his head dismissively. “The price of progress. There’s an old saying, If you want to achieve the impossible, you must first accept that you may fail.”

They took the stairs down to the third floor. At the doorway, Martial paused and turned toward the smallest man. “Ekman, I’d like a word.” The others continued down the stairs. Only Ekman followed Martial into the hall.

“The problem I tasked you with,” Martial said. “I’m told you took care of it.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And the mess?”

“Cleaned up as best we could.”

“Did you talk to him first?”

“Yes. We sat in the kitchen and had a chat.”

“And your opinion?”

“My opinion, sir?”

“Of Manuel. His state of mind. His motive. Why did he do it?”

“I think he was crazy.”

Martial nodded. “It seems to be an occupational risk.” He stopped at the door of his private quarters. “And our property was recovered?”

“Yes. Deceased. The autopsy will take place at the same time as the others.”

“Excellent work. I appreciate the efficiency with which you handled the situation.”

Ekman dipped his chin slightly in response.

“Is there anything else I need to know?”

Ekman gestured toward the door. “She’s waiting for you, sir,” he said.

“Wait outside.”

“Yes, sir.”

Martial stepped through, and Ekman closed the door after him.

Martial kept apartments at several of his facilities. It made the travel more bearable. They were small and functional and clean. Everything his life wasn’t. He wandered into the kitchen and mixed a drink. A tall one.

In his office, he found Sacha. She was standing at the window. She’d lost weight. They kissed awkward hellos on the cheek. “Joseph,” she said, using his middle name. His Christian name. She wrapped her arms tightly around herself and pulled away.

“How have you been?” he asked.

She smiled. “As you see.”

“You’re looking healthy.”

“Ah, the glow of docetaxel. They should market it to all the girls. Also, it keeps you thin. A wonderful purgative. And if you’re lucky, the burst capillaries in your eyes give you that perfect come-hither look.”

“You’re particularly sarcastic tonight.”

“Particularly?”

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

“Nothing that a few months won’t cure.” She stared out the window for a moment before continuing. “I saw it again.”

“Why do that to yourself?”

She stayed silent.

“I told you not to go down there again.”

“But still I went, didn’t I? Imagine that. A world where not everyone does what you say. The thought of it must keep you awake at night.”

“Why did you go?”

“I heard it was sick.”

“It was. It got better. And how about you?”

“I’m fine,” she said. Though of course she wasn’t. “That thing,” she whispered, “it’s not natural.”

Martial took a sip of his drink. “Are any of us anymore?”

The words were out before he could stop them. Sacha had tried to kill herself three times already. Three times in seven years, each attempt more serious than the last. So when cancer had struck, it came to her as both a shock and a relief. The medical team told him before they told her. A thin medical report on his desk that explained exactly how she would die. Later, she’d found him in the cell lab, and he’d given her the news.

“If I’d only known,” she’d said. And he’d understood that she was talking about the three wasted attempts. That last one a nightmare of blood and razors. When all she’d had to do was wait.

And then, with genuine surprise in her voice, she’d said, “But I thought only the good died young.”

Now Martial took a seat on his couch.

“It’s been a while since you’ve visited the lab,” she said.

“Three months. Not so long.”

“Time isn’t the same here. I think you’re avoiding me.”

“Don’t be silly.”

She sat next to him on the couch. She laid her head in his lap, and he touched her hair.

“I worry about what will become of you when I’m gone,” she said.

It was sarcasm again, he thought at first. But when she stayed silent, he was no longer sure.

Sacha had been a call girl once. Then something more. Then something less.

She had two months.

“You collect things,” she said. “These fascinations. And then you never let them go.”

“I let things go.”

She shook her head. “One day you will be solely comprised of what you hoard.”

“You can go anytime you wish.”

“Is that what you tell yourself? You have always been a great liar. Even to yourself.”

She was the only person who could speak to him like this. She was the only person with nothing left to lose. Soon, she would be gone. Perhaps this is what she’d meant when she’d said she worried what would become of him. That there would be no one left to tell him what he didn’t want to hear.

“We’re doing our best to keep you comfortable.”

“The drugs are good, Joseph, if that’s what you’re asking. It’s my memories that aren’t comfortable. Can you do something for those?”

She stared at him, ice coming off.

He knew that she hated him. She’d hated him for a long time—for at least as long as she’d felt anything else toward him. This felt fitting to him. It felt deserved.

“Have you seen it yet?” she asked.

“Not yet, no. I just landed.”

“It’s changing.”

“What do you mean?”

She was about to say something but stopped. He studied her. An oval face, pretty but too thin. She might have been a model once, if things had gone differently. She had the bones for it. There was a look in her eyes now that he’d never seen.

“I don’t think you have any idea what you’ve done,” she said.

“I know better than anyone.”

“Better than me?”

Martial took another sip of his drink.

“You can’t quite bring yourself to claim that, can you?” she asked.

“Everything happens for a reason.”

“If you really think that, you’re a fool.”

There was a time when hearing those words, spoken in that tone, would have driven him into a rage, but now it elicited only the beginnings of a tired irritation. Still, she’d pushed him far enough.

“Your mouth is not the ocean,” he said. “But still it can drown you.”

The phone on his desk rang. He didn’t move. He tried to remember if he’d ever heard that phone ring before. He hadn’t realized the apartment even had a phone. After five rings, it stopped.

A moment later, an alarm began to sound. It came from somewhere in the distance. It wasn’t a fire alarm. The phone rang again.

“I better get that,” he said.

He stood and crossed the room.

He picked up the phone. “Yes?”

“There is a problem.” It was Scholler.

“What kind of problem?”

“You better get down here.”

“On my way.” Martial hung up and turned to Sacha.

Just then, a new alarm sounded. Louder, closer.

Sacha’s smile made Martial think of bitter almonds. “It’s changed,” she said again. “You’ll see.”

Martial walked out of his quarters. In the hall, a strobe light flashed red. He broke into a run, thousand-dollar shoes on tile floors. He panted as he ran. Within a hundred feet, his lungs spasmed, breaths coming in a series of high-pitched whistles. He slowed but didn’t stop. When God wants you, he will take you.