David Robbins - Seattle Run

He collapsed without uttering a sound, onto his back, the Bowies jutting toward the ceiling.

“I can not abide liars,” Tiger said softly. “And you were a liar, my dear Oakes. You departed by the rear exit when you heard the firing in front because you were afraid. You feared for your life. So you fled without bothering to confirm if the stranger who fell over the railing was dead, without bothering to check on the men you posted in the lobby, without even having the decency to wait for Gar and Fab. You were a coward, Oakes. A blustering, swaggering coward. I could not retain you as my lieutenant.” Tiger sighed. “I suppose the blame is mine. I elevated you above your station in life. I gave you responsibilities you were unable to handle. At least now, on the other side of the veil, you are released from those responsibilities.”

None of the other men in the room had moved.

Tiger knelt alongside Oakes’ body. He proceeded to yank the Bowies from Oakes’ sockets, then to wipe the knives on his lieutenant’s shirt, all the while quoting, of all things, a poem: “On this home by Horror haunted— tell me truly, I implore—Is there— is there balm in Gilead?—tell me—tell me, I implore!”

Blade suddenly recognized the quote from his schooling days at the Home and he finished the refrain: “Quoth the Raven, ‘Nevermore.’”

Tiger looked up at the Warrior with an expression of shock on his features. He rose. “You know Poe?”

Blade nodded. “He was one of my favorites in literature class. I always regarded him as a genius.”

Tiger seemed to be stunned. “Can this be?”

Blade’s mind was racing. Tiger, evidently, was the leader of those who had captured him, the Sharks. If he could impress Tiger, if he could win the leader’s confidence, he might be able to enlist the Sharks as an ally against Manta. He hadn’t read any Poe in years, but he dimly recalled a passage he’d liked. “Wasn’t it Poe who wrote that all life exists by virtue of the Spirit Divine?”

Tiger’s face lit up. “Yes. Yes. In Eureka . One of his most underrated works.” He raked the Warrior from head to toe with a probing gaze. “I can see I must amend my plans for you.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. I intended to interrogate you to ascertain the reason for your presence in Seattle. But a crude interrogation would be unthinkable now. You—wonder of wonders!—appear to be an equal, and as such I must accord you the respect your status deserves,” Tiger said.

“Thank you,” Blade responded, not quite sure if he understood.

Tiger extended his right arm, the Bowies in his hand. “Here. I believe these are yours.”

Blade stared at his knives, surprised. He quickly took them before the Shark leader could change his mind. “Thank you.”

“I want you to feel comfortable here, to enjoy your stay,” Tiger stated.

“We have so much to discuss.”

“That we do,” Blade agreed, thinking of Manta. Then his thoughts strayed to Hickok and he closed his eyes, the memory wrenching at his soul.

“Are you ill?” Tiger inquired solicitously.

Blade opened his eyes. “No. I’m okay.”

“Excellent.” Tiger indicated the room with a sweep of his left hand.

“Would you do me the courtesy of remaining here until I return? I must attend to a formal dinner in your honor—”

“There’s no need,” Blade said, interrupting.

“But there is,” Tiger said. “I insist. Except for Gar and Fab, I dwell in an intellectual wasteland. I look forward to our discourse. I crave conversation with an equal.” He started to leave, then stopped. “How rude of me! As you have undoubtedly surmised, I am called Tiger. What is your name?”

“Blade,” the Warrior answered.

Tiger’s forehead furrowed. “How unusual. Is there any correlation with your choice in weaponry?”

“Yes,” Blade verified, admiring the Shark leader’s perception.

“You must tell me all about it over our meal,” Tiger said. “It might interest you to know my real name is Blake. My father and mother named me after William Blake, a genius the equal of Poe. Ironically, I later acquired as my nickname the same appellation as one of Blake’s more famous works. Perhaps you are familiar with it?”

“ The Tyger ,” Blade said.

Tiger grinned. “Outstanding. Until our repast.” He hurried from the chamber.

Blade slid his Bowies into their sheaths. He was fascinated by the Shark leader; the man was a curious blend of literary connoisseur and murderous psychopath. He speculated on whether, realistically, he could hope to persuade Tiger to join in the fight against Manta. Would Tiger make a stable ally or be a treacherous stumbling block? The man had seemed so sure of himself, positively reeking with confidence. But what had been all that business about equals? Did Tiger consider himself superior to most others?

Two men, both lean, both in shabby attire, entered the room and walked to Oakes. They lifted his corpse, one by the ankles, the other by the arms, and carried the body away.

Blade thought of Tiger’s exchange with the hapless Oakes, reviewing their words concerning Hickok’s demise. Oakes had not seen the gunfighter’s body. Was there a chance, however remote, that Hickok was still alive? In his mind, Blade saw Nathan go over the railing again. They had been on the fourth floor. How could Hickok have possibly survived?

He had learned never to put anything past the gunman, but the prospect of his friend being alive was a dim one.

Enough morbid recollection!

Blade shook his head, then examined the furnishings in the room. They were exceptional, literally works of art. Magnificent paintings adorned all four walls. The furniture was in superb condition, polished and immaculate, and each piece, including the huge bed, was an antique.

Where had Tiger obtained such a collection?

A minute later footsteps pounded in the hallway outside. A young woman of 15 or 16, with blond hair and brown eyes, wearing jeans and a lavender blouse both past their prime, ran into the chamber. In her left hand was a book.

One of the four men stared at the woman in annoyance. “What are you doing here?”

The woman nodded her head at the Warrior. “Tiger sent me.”

“Go on, then,” the man said.

Sheepishly, the woman walked up to the Warrior. “Here.” She offered him the book. “Tiger sent this. He said you might enjoy reading it while you wait.”

“Thank you,” Blade said, taking the volume, “And thank him.”

The woman nodded and dashed from the chamber.

What was this? Blade gazed at the purple cover. The Portable Poe .

There was a bookmark protruding above the pages. He opened the book to the appropriate page and found several photographs had been underlined in blue ink. Blade started reading.

“I have sometimes amused myself by endeavoring to fancy what would be the fate of any individual gifted, or rather accursed, with an intellect very far superior to that of his race. Of course, he would be conscious of his superiority; nor could he (if otherwise constituted as man is) help manifesting his consciousness. Thus he must make himself enemies at all points.”

Blade straightened, frowning. So that was it. Tiger did believe he was some sort of superior man. He resumed reading.

“And since his opinions and speculations would widely differ from those of all mankind—that he would be considered a madman, is evident.

How horribly painful such a condition! Hell could invent no greater torture than that of being charged with abnormal weakness on account of being abnormally strong.”

Blade recalled the sight of his Bowies sticking from Oakes’s eye sockets, and then he read the sentence written in the margin of the book, evidently in Tiger’s handwriting.