Read Online Second Skin by Eric Van Lustbader - Free Book Online
Authors: Eric Van Lustbader
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out from its prow.
Nicholas, deep in Akshara, heard voices coming over the water almost as if the two men were directly beside him.
‘Okay,’ McKnight said, ‘this is as private as it gets in Tokyo. Now tell me –’
Nguyen, stepping carefully down the center of the boat, struck him hard in the carotid nerve plexus at the right side of his neck. McKnight fell into Nguyen’s arms as if he had been poleaxed.
While the Vietnamese went methodically through McKnight’s pockets, Nicholas sprinted down the quay. He was still a good distance away, and it was now not a matter of getting there in time but just how late he would be.
Nguyen was an expert, and McKnight had not been particularly clever. The Vietnamese found the stolen TransRim data encoded on a minidisc within moments of rendering the American unconscious. It had been hastily pushed into the lining of one shoulder of McKnight’s tuxedo jacket, hidden by the padding.
Nguyen pocketed the minidisc, then hauled McKnight by his jacket. Spreading his legs to brace against the inevitable rocking, he dropped McKnight’s head and shoulders into the water.
Nicholas felt a cold ripple of recognition through his psyche and redoubled his efforts. He ran along the quay, passing through the reflections of lamplight that looked like a handful of tiny moons that had been thrown down from the sky.
Ahead, in the Sumida, Nguyen kept one hand on the back of McKnight’s neck and began to whistle a low tune, a snippet of a Jacques Brel song. Nicholas recognized it – it encapsulated all the dehumanization the world underwent during the war in the image of the whore, lying on her back, her legs spread, calling, ‘Next!’ to the soldier client.
The melody served as a tangible line in the darkness, an umbilical cord linking him to the terrible act in progress. Closer now, he felt the imminence of death – not his own, but McKnight’s. It was eerie and unsettling to be a fly on the shoulder of death as it advanced to claim another victim. He was at once aware of McKnight’s psyche and the essence of what was coming to claim him. He could feel the cold and the dark as if they were moving toward an unseen void.
There was a resonance in the air as of a winter wind blowing through a forest of icicles. This note combined with those Nguyen was whistling to create an entirely different melody that unexpectedly expanded into a dark symphony.
This was, Nicholas knew, the moment of McKnight’s death, when something inside him screamed or sighed, in any case breathed its last, evaporating out of the corpus like light freed from a labyrinth. Nicholas’s heart clamped so tight he felt a pain in his chest. All the breath went out of him, and for a moment, he slumped limply, his eyes squeezed shut.
The purity of the sound was absolute, and it continued to fix him in his tracks, his boat gliding silently across black, purling water, past huge facades that looked with blank-eyed stares at the death that had stolen silently across the water.
When the sound vanished without the hint of an echo, Nicholas felt diminished. Perhaps it was only that the psychic connection had been abruptly severed, but he suspected there was something more. McKnight was gone and there hadn’t been a thing he could have done about it. Frustration mingled with the thought that even a bastard like McKnight did not deserve that kind of death.
Now there was only the Vietnamese Nguyen, who, having ascertained that McKnight had breathed his last, tied him down with blocks of concrete, launched him over the side, and was on the move again.
Nicholas had to deal with Nguyen. But how? Instead of returning to the dock by Tsukiji, he was continuing down the river. This further reinforced Nicholas’s suspicion that Nguyen had planned this all along. He had taken a taxi to the Kabukichō, he’d had this boat with the concrete blocks in its bottom ready and waiting. Nicholas felt certain that if McKnight hadn’t forced
Nicholas, deep in Akshara, heard voices coming over the water almost as if the two men were directly beside him.
‘Okay,’ McKnight said, ‘this is as private as it gets in Tokyo. Now tell me –’
Nguyen, stepping carefully down the center of the boat, struck him hard in the carotid nerve plexus at the right side of his neck. McKnight fell into Nguyen’s arms as if he had been poleaxed.
While the Vietnamese went methodically through McKnight’s pockets, Nicholas sprinted down the quay. He was still a good distance away, and it was now not a matter of getting there in time but just how late he would be.
Nguyen was an expert, and McKnight had not been particularly clever. The Vietnamese found the stolen TransRim data encoded on a minidisc within moments of rendering the American unconscious. It had been hastily pushed into the lining of one shoulder of McKnight’s tuxedo jacket, hidden by the padding.
Nguyen pocketed the minidisc, then hauled McKnight by his jacket. Spreading his legs to brace against the inevitable rocking, he dropped McKnight’s head and shoulders into the water.
Nicholas felt a cold ripple of recognition through his psyche and redoubled his efforts. He ran along the quay, passing through the reflections of lamplight that looked like a handful of tiny moons that had been thrown down from the sky.
Ahead, in the Sumida, Nguyen kept one hand on the back of McKnight’s neck and began to whistle a low tune, a snippet of a Jacques Brel song. Nicholas recognized it – it encapsulated all the dehumanization the world underwent during the war in the image of the whore, lying on her back, her legs spread, calling, ‘Next!’ to the soldier client.
The melody served as a tangible line in the darkness, an umbilical cord linking him to the terrible act in progress. Closer now, he felt the imminence of death – not his own, but McKnight’s. It was eerie and unsettling to be a fly on the shoulder of death as it advanced to claim another victim. He was at once aware of McKnight’s psyche and the essence of what was coming to claim him. He could feel the cold and the dark as if they were moving toward an unseen void.
There was a resonance in the air as of a winter wind blowing through a forest of icicles. This note combined with those Nguyen was whistling to create an entirely different melody that unexpectedly expanded into a dark symphony.
This was, Nicholas knew, the moment of McKnight’s death, when something inside him screamed or sighed, in any case breathed its last, evaporating out of the corpus like light freed from a labyrinth. Nicholas’s heart clamped so tight he felt a pain in his chest. All the breath went out of him, and for a moment, he slumped limply, his eyes squeezed shut.
The purity of the sound was absolute, and it continued to fix him in his tracks, his boat gliding silently across black, purling water, past huge facades that looked with blank-eyed stares at the death that had stolen silently across the water.
When the sound vanished without the hint of an echo, Nicholas felt diminished. Perhaps it was only that the psychic connection had been abruptly severed, but he suspected there was something more. McKnight was gone and there hadn’t been a thing he could have done about it. Frustration mingled with the thought that even a bastard like McKnight did not deserve that kind of death.
Now there was only the Vietnamese Nguyen, who, having ascertained that McKnight had breathed his last, tied him down with blocks of concrete, launched him over the side, and was on the move again.
Nicholas had to deal with Nguyen. But how? Instead of returning to the dock by Tsukiji, he was continuing down the river. This further reinforced Nicholas’s suspicion that Nguyen had planned this all along. He had taken a taxi to the Kabukichō, he’d had this boat with the concrete blocks in its bottom ready and waiting. Nicholas felt certain that if McKnight hadn’t forced
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