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Tea with the Black Dragon

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He stood on the cold grass and yawned. “De profundis clamor ad te,” he growled to the cross on the empty tower—,”Out of the depths a call to you.” He was not certain to whom he was speaking. The effort made him cough. He moved away from the street, crossing through the churchyard.

The direction of his progress was against the clock, or widdershins. To cross a churchyard widdershins is not auspicious, as he knew, but in the churchyard of Trinity Parish no one was buried. All the ground was paved over by concrete.

Behind the church lot stood a hedge of yew. He passed through the omen of its furry branches and found himself beside a noise of waters. The fountain was lit from below, and its shower sprang up in an arcing circle to fall again with silver lights upon the backs of sleeping seagulls.

Cold spray beaded on his face. He stepped among the gulls, who stood on one leg or with head under wing, and they did not stir. He circled the fountain, avoiding light, and reached the white stone walk which wound between the gleaming buildings. No sound came from within the condominiums, not even the mumble of television. He came to Liz Macnamara’s residence and stood beneath the window he had climbed through earlier in the evening.

Had it been just this evening?

The window was still open. Good. Had Elizabeth closed it he would not have been able to make the ascent. Not with one arm.

Drink, sleep or pray, he had said. According to your nature. What was Elizabeth’s nature? He would discover something of it soon.

He leaped lightly against the wall, wedging his left foot into the crack between two foundation blocks. Before his impetus failed he kicked upwards and grabbed the window sill with his good hand. The off center support disturbed his balance and his left side struck the wall with a dull thump. Pain tightened rather than loosened his grip, and he swung up through the window. He rolled head first into the room, favoring his wounded shoulder, and came to rest flat on his back on the plush carpet.

Liz Macnamara was awake. She sat curled on the sofa, as he had seen her before, and her face was white and frightened, again as before.

But her hands and feet were bound with tape and her mouth covered with a length of it. The terror in her eyes was immediate and deadly, for Floyd Rasmussen had one hand wound into her yellow hair and a squat black pistol pressed against the side other head. His small, colorless eyes regarded Long. The wounded man lay still as a bronze statue.

“You shook my confidence earlier tonight, fella,” remarked Rasmussen. “But at this distance I think I can’t miss. Her, that is.”

Long’s eyes met Elizabeth’s, and found within them an endless apology.

“Why? What is the purpose of this?” asked Long. His seemingly casual attempt to rise was checked by a movement of the gun. “I know about your financial enterprises, but between theft and murder there is a certain difference… They are crimes of different quality.”

Rasmussen relaxed onto the couch, holding Liz’s hair in a brutal fist. “True, but that bridge has been crossed,” he stated. “Not by me, but that doesn’t matter now.”

The young woman’s eyes closed in sick grief. Long’s face was expressionless. “Mrs. Macnamara is dead?”

“My—partner—couldn’t use her. He lost his temper.” Rasmussen’s words were resentful.

“Are you sure?” pressed Long. His frown was vaguely puzzled.

“Beat her up and throttled her,” snapped Rasmussen. “I walked in just too late. Face all black and limp as a fish. Ugly.” Liz Macnamara reeled and sagged in his grip. He ignored her.

“How unfortunate for all concerned,” whispered Long.

“Yeah. I hadn’t intended to kill anyone. I only wanted to keep Lizzie here incommunicado for a few weeks while I cleaned things up and got out. But life doesn’t work right; Lizzie wrote a terrible letter and then she called her mother. And Doug, my partner: he’s a vicious little asshole and he blew the simple job he was supposed to do. But all that’s put me in a bind. So did you, leaving blood all over my house. Now I’ve got to get rid of both of you before I split.”

“Where are you going?”

Rasmussen snorted. “Why should I tell you?”

“Because it doesn’t matter,” answered Long gently, looking away from Elizabeth’s face. “If you’re going to kill us it can’t hurt you to tell.”

He stared through the darkened dining area, where the Swedish glass shone like an assembly of ghosts. There was no sign of a struggle in the immaculate decor. The security chain on the front door hung unbroken. But then, Liz Macnamara had thought herself safe.

The white tape concealed half her face, but Long saw that Liz’s jaw was clenched. Her blue eyes stared straight ahead of her. She. appeared hard and angry. Remembering the words she’d spoken the previous evening. Long thought she was probably very much afraid.

The big man shrugged. “Okay. I got a yacht—the Caroline—remember the model in my office? And Threve’s got a Cessna, hangared out in Marin. We’ll be in Mexico this afternoon, and Sao Paulo tomorrow. Even with their inflation, two million dollars tax free makes it worthwhile learning another language.”

“Why not simply leave us tied, then?” inquired Long, dispassionately. “You will be safe by the time we can free ourselves.”

“Oh will I?” Rasmussen’s voice was thick with sarcasm. “Fella I don’t believe it. I saw what you did to the light switch in the bedroom, and how you tore apart the door. With the amount of blood you left in my plasterboard you ought to be dead—I’ve gutted enough deer to know how much a body holds.”

“Then you must know I’m not about to dismember any more doors,” sighed Long. Regardless of Rasmussen’s gun, he sat up. “Not tonight.”

“I don’t know that at all,” the blond man growled. He wound his fingers more tightly in Liz Macnamara’s hair. “You’re one weird cat. I don’t know what it is: meditation, karate, hypnosis—but I have no idea what your limits are. I don’t trust you. Also, you made me kill Blanco. I don’t like you.”

Mr. Long’s smile expressed reciprocity. “But Miss Macnamara—you know she is no yogic adept. You needn’t kill her.”

Rasmussen laughed. Her head was twisted around by his beefy hand. “Liz? Liz has been living dangerously for months now. She’s been having qualms of conscience. Besides, I know little Lizzie here. She carries a grudge. She’d follow me to hell, she would, simply to help the devil stoke the coals.”

He sighed. “No. I’m not up for leaving behind either bodies or witnesses. Not after what Doug did.”

Long’s eyebrows rose. “How will you avoid that?”

“Simple. We’re taking you along. On the Caroline. Part way.

“Get on your feet.” He stood up, dragging the young woman with him. She thrashed against him, screaming muffled curses, but without her arms she could do nothing. Long regarded him without moving.

“Why should I cooperate with you?” he asked. “You offer me no incentive.”

Rasmussen smiled and prodded the barrel of the gun against Liz’s temple. “You’ll do what I say because while you are alive there’s a chance you might find an opportunity to get away. It’s that simple. Of course I got no intention of giving you that opportunity, but you’ve got to bet the team you’re on.”

Long stood. The two men confronted one another in the yellow lamplight. “Do you think you could shoot the both of us before I could reach you?” he asked mildly.

“I don’t have to,” answered the heavy man, and his laughter rumbled through the rooms. “If you had the guts to sacrifice little Lizzie you would have gone for me long ago. That much we know about each other, Mr. Long. You know I’m able to kill her. I know you’re not. That’s why I’m the one in power.”

Long’s armour of composure broke momentarily at Rasmussen’s last words, and a fire neither subtle nor civilized shone out of his narrow eyes. The burly blond flinched. He gestured with the gun.

“Walk. Out the back way, through the garage.”

The fire vanished as though the furnace door had slammed shut. Long turned and preceded Rasmussen through the length of the house. They passed through a door in the kitchen.

The garage was so clean and empty as to appear unused. There were no cardboard boxes stacked against the wall, no broken Venetian blinds. Not even a stepladder.

Liz Macnamara had no old possessions: nothing of the sort one can’t use and refuses to throw away. Until recently, she had been accustomed to owning nothing.

Within the garage the Mercedes sat in solitary splendor. Rasmussen tossed the keys to Long.

“Open the trunk,” he commanded. Mr. Long did so.

“Get her in.”

Long stood motionless, keys in hand. “No.”

Rasmussen’s hand slid from Elizabeth’s hair to her throat. It slowly tightened.

Liz opened her eyes wide as the pressure grew, but she did not look at Mayland Long. Her breath whistled in her nose and then that noise ceased.

“Stop,” said Long. “There’s no need for that.”

Rasmussen was smiling broadly. He loosened his grip as Mr. Long bent to help to ease the bound woman into the trunk of the Mercedes. In a single, smooth motion he whipped the pistol around and struck Long on the back of the head.

The trunk door slammed shut on both his captives. “Goddamn,” he said to himself. “Let’s see what hypnosis can do about that!”