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Tea with the Black Dragon

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Floyd Rasmussen stood before him, braced against the cabin wall. The barrel of the pistol that he held was shaking.

Long caught his eye. “You know better than that.” He spoke gently, chiding. He heard behind him Martha crawl out of her rutch of oilcloth.

Rasmussen licked his lips and slid down against the wall. “God! Can’t you be killed?”

“Oh yes,” answered Long. “But not disposed of. If you kill me you will have me with you forever.”

“Hypnosis,” stated Rasmussen without conviction.

“No one has been killed, here, except this man. Who is my responsibility.” Long’s voice was measured and reasonable. It held the blond man pinned against the wall. “Now you have the opportunity you thought was lost forever. No past murder forces you to shoot. If you do, it will be a fresh decision, and will seal your future once again.”

Waves slapped against the pilotless craft, turning it out of its course. Wind whistled in the rigging.

“No one is dead? The mother…” Rasmussen looked wildly about. Long stepped aside to reveal the empty wrappings. “She is risen. She is not here,” he whispered.

Rasmussen dropped the gun and put both hands to his head. Instantly Long dived for the cabin wall and brought Rasmussen down. The big man clawed ineffectually against the single lean brown hand which closed upon his throat. He gasped and choked. Long’s face was set and deliberate. He reached his thumb under Rasmussen’s jaw.

“Oolong. No.” Martha Macnamara spoke with authority. “All you said to him is true. I don’t want you to carry him as a burden for the rest of your life.”

He raised his face to hers. His eyes flared yellow: feral, merciless. Her own eyes were half closed in a puffy face.

“It’ll be nothing new to me.”

“No!” she repeated, unwavering. Blue eyes and gold eyes met: two colors of flame. “Everything is new, forever,” she stated. “It is always the first time.”

The gold eyes dropped and the black head bowed. Martha’s hands went gingerly to her head. She winced, groaning.

Mayland Long cleared his throat. “Then, Martha, I suggest you search Mr. Rasmussen’s pockets for the adhesive tape he carries… And there will be a small hunting knife by it. Be careful.”

She bound Rasmussen while Long held him down by the neck, feeling panic pulse beneath his hand. When Martha was done they both stood and walked to the stem.

“Can you handle a boat?” inquired Martha.

“Not at all,” was the prompt answer.

Her broken lips tried to smile. “I can’t believe there is something you can’t do.” Her hands sought out a tangled, fallen braid and began to work it free.

“I have avoided travel by water,” answered Long, as a swell pitched the Caroline sideways.

“Because of another prophecy?”

“Because I get sick,” he replied. Only a narrow band of dark iris was visible as a smile spread from his eyes to his mouth. “And because I’m afraid of water. Can you, Martha? Handle a boat? The question is of more than academic interest.”

She shrugged. Her blue dress was creased and stained. It had lost half its buttons. “I can turn the wheel.”

Liz Macnamara sat at the sergeants desk as the officers of the day patrol came on duty. She was acutely aware of her dishabille. The sergeant himself sat in another room, behind a glass door, talking on the phone. He had been in there for the last ten minutes.

She heard that door open. “Miss Macnamara,” he began. “That’s M-a-c-n-a-m-a-r-a?”

“Yes, yes! You have all that.”

“Don’t get excited. Miss.” He picked up a pencil and bounced the eraser end a few times against the desk blotter.

“What do you mean?” Liz wailed. “They’ve killed my mother! They’re going to kill…”

“Mr. Long. Mayland Long, M-a-y-1-a-n-d,” interjected the sergeant. His eyes were sleepy, his girth considerable.

“Yes, that’s his name.”

“And your mother’s first name is Martha?”

“Oh God, yes, what of it? Do something.”

“We have,” the policeman said. “Two days ago a Mr. Mayland Long reported your mother missing. He didn’t have anything more for us to go on, so there wasn’t much we could do, but an hour ago a kid walked in on the Palo Alto police with a crazy story about this man Long. And a tape. Since then all the departments on the Peninsula have been on the alert. ’Course, we hadn’t thought to check the Bay until you came to us with your information. Miss Macnamara.

“Thrown into a tree?” He dropped the pencil.

The young woman before him wriggled in her seat. There was a leaf sticking out of her hair, a long slender leaf like a donkey’s ear. Her arms were scratched and that bathrobe deserved an R rating.

The sergeant was a fan of old movies. He couldn’t decide whether Liz Macnamara looked more like Marlene Dietrich or Greta Garbo, but despite her tangled hair and grease smears she sure looked like something.

“Tree or bush. A laurel. In Golden Gate Park. What does it matter?” Liz folded her arms tightly, hugging herself.

“I’m sorry about your mother,” the sergeant said.

Liz nodded miserably.

“And considering what you’ve said about your relationship with these two kidnappers I think you need a lawyer.”

“Hell with that,” moaned the young woman. The sergeant’s mouth twitched sympathetically.

“Still, there’s not much more I can say to you until you’re represented by counsel…”

At that moment the outer door opened and Fred Frisch walked in, carrying his tape recorder and tugging on his moustache. Seeing Liz, he escaped the guiding hand of the officer who had brought him in, and he picked his way among the desks to her.

“I’m sorry, Liz,” he began. “I tried… I mean, do you remember me at all?”

She stood, examining him closely. Loose jointed, with limp blond hair, and eyes like a Bassett Hound: was this the fellow who had saved Long’s life? “Of course, Fred. Mr. Long talked about you tonight. He said you… kept him going.”

“You’ve seen him since? Is he…”

She shook her head. “I’m afraid they’ve killed him by now. They killed my mother.” She sagged back into the chair. “And it’s all my fault.”

Fred swallowed. “Hey. It’s not that way. I know all about it. I found your disk file at RasTech and printed it.”

She glanced up in amazement and Fred shifted from foot to foot. “He wanted me to. Mr. Long—the Black Dragon.”

“The what?”

Ignoring the sergeant behind his desk, Fred dragged a chair across the floor and sat. “His name is really Black Dragon, in Chinese. I really admire the guy, you know?”

“He liked you,” responded Elizabeth, blinking away tears.

“Did he say that?”

“Yes, and that he loved my mother. But they’re going to kill him. Even he thought so, when he threw me out of the car.”

“I don’t know,” said Fred, frowning and blowing out his moustache. “He’s a hard man to kill.”

Liz turned to him with the dawning of real curiosity. “Have you always had that moustache?” she asked.

“Hummm,” snorted the sergeant behind his desk.

Martha held the glossy, many-spoked wheel, leaning against it. The fat red sun had climbed a few degrees into the sky, and she had turned the nose of the Caroline toward it. Daylight touched the cold water, making the air milky with fog.

Mayland Long stood beside her with a glass of water in his hand. She started, for she had not heard him approach. Gratefully, she took the glass and drank from it.

“Oh yes, that’s better,” she said. He stood behind her and said nothing.

“Talk to me, Mayland. My head hurts.”

His answer came slowly. “I can’t think of anything to say.” With great care he ran his finger through her loose hair, combing it. Martha’s battered features eased into a smile. “I can’t braid it for you without my other hand.”

“That feels wonderful,” she murmured, peering into the pale obscurity at small dark shapes that had not been there a minute ago. Were they rocks?

She shivered. “I think I’ve been cold forever.”

“There I can help,” chuckled Mayland Long, and he put his arm around her waist as he pressed her body against his.

“Oh my!” she exclaimed. “You’re a furnace!” She touched his bare arm wonderingly. It was smooth, with no trace of the sticky tape. It radiated heat. He bent his face over hers. It, too, was very warm.

“So hot! You’ve used yourself up,” she said.

He raised his head and stared out. “No, I’m not quite used up. But I thought I was, early this morning.” Frowning, he added, “My understanding was… imperfect.” A movement on the water distracted him.

“Look.” She did so. One of the dark shapes in the fog had become a boat, a Coast Guard cutter. It veered by the bow of the Caroline, which bobbed in the faster boat’s wake.

Mr. Long strode to the stem to turn off the engine, that being the only action in their power to assist the boarders, while Mrs. Macnamara smoothed her dress. With old-fashioned courtesy and a certain degree of self-satisfaction, they welcomed their rescuers aboard.

Chapter 17

The door opened to Martha’s triplet knock. In Long’s sitting room rain beat against the windows, but a tall lamp was lit, and soft light drew a circle around the antique gold chairs.

“I just called the hospital and they said you checked out. You weren’t supposed to do that; the doctors said you weren’t ready.”