Memphis Run

Chapter Eight

The King certainly lived in a style consistent with his title. The mansion was huge and immaculately preserved, with a recent coat of white paint and all of its windows intact. Four large marble columns fronted a neatly trimmed green lawn. Access to the estate was through an arched silver gate guarded by ten men in black. A drive curved from the gate to the mansion and looped back again. Flower beds adorned the lawn; hickory trees afforded shade from the summer sun; and robins and mockingbirds foraged for worms.

Rikki glanced overhead at a sign attached to the top of the gate as the general’s jeep drove past the saluting guards. The sign read “Destiny.”

“The King believes in destiny,” General Thayer explained, noticing the martial artist’s gaze. “Specifically, his destiny. He believes he was born to rule.”

“Do you think the Dark Lord is watching us right this minute, sir?” Sergeant Boynton asked anxiously.

General Thayer scrutinized the windows. Heavy drapes obscured the interiors of most of the rooms. “I wouldn’t be surprised.”

“Damn! This place gives me the creeps. Sir.”

“Would you like to know a secret, Sergeant?” Thayer responded.

“Yes, sir.”

“This place gives me the creeps too,” General Thayer confessed.

Rikki saw six more Hounds on the steps leading to the entrance, all standing at attention. He mentally suppressed all nervousness over his impending encounter with the King, emptying himself of all emotion so he could function with all of his senses at their sharpest. The perfected swordsmaster must be ready to seize the advantage at any given moment.

All of his faculties must be focused on the here and now.

“For what it’s worth,” General Thayer said, “I hope the King doesn’t kill you. Another time, under different circumstances, we might have been friends.” He smiled. “Pipsqueak.”

The jeep cruised to a smooth stop at the base of the steps.

“Allow me,” Thayer stated, producing a set of keys from his left front pant pocket and unfastening the cuffs binding the Warrior’s ankles.

“What about the wrists?” Rikki asked, offering his arms.

General Thayer pocketed the keys. “Sorry. Let’s go.” He climbed from the jeep and waited for Rikki and Sergeant Boynton to join him. The noncom appeared slightly pale.

One of the Hounds on guard duty, standing to the right of the wooden door at the top of the steps, saluted. “The King is expecting you, sir,” he announced.

Squaring his shoulders, the general headed for the door.

Rikki-Tikki-Tavi followed slowly, his legs tingling as his circulation was restored. He tensed and relaxed his thigh muscles repeatedly as he climbed the steps, wanting to restore mobility as quickly as possible. His wrists ached, but the flexibility in his arms had not been affected by the lengthy, cramped ride.

The Hound at the top opened the door and stood aside.

General Thayer rested his right hand on the hilt of the katana and walked into the mansion.

Surreptitiously testing the strength of the links securing his wrists, Rikki stayed on the general’s heels.

Sergeant Boynton brought up the rear.

Rikki’s first impression was of a profound quietude. The moment Boynton closed the door, all sound ceased. Dim illumination was furnished by small bulbs spaced at ten-foot intervals in the hall ceiling. The inside of the mansion was at least five degrees cooler than the outside temperature, contributing to the palpable aura of evil the mansion radiated. He stared at the nearest light. “Does the King have a generator?”

“Two,” General Thayer replied. “The only working pair in Memphis. One is always on standby in case the primary fails.”

Rikki surveyed his surroundings. The spacious central hallway ran the width of the mansion. Beautiful paintings, some of landscapes, some of diverse human subjects, and others obviously abstracts, lined the white walls. To the right a wide stairway curved upward to the next floor. Plush blue carpet was underfoot.

“We go up the stairs,” General Thayer said, leading the way.

“Who owned this mansion before the King?” Rikki asked.

“No one,” Thayer answered. “The estate was overgrown with weeds and the house was a mess. No one lived here for decades. There’s a rumor, although I don’t know how true it is, that a real king lived here before the war.”

“America didn’t have a royal family,” Rikki said.

“Maybe it was a king from another country,” General Thayer speculated with a shrug. “I don’t know.” He gazed at the polished gold banister.

“Whoever the hell lived here was a rich mother, I can tell you that. Most of what you see was already here when the King moved in. The rest was scrounged by the Hounds on raids.”

Rikki stared at a life-sized portrait dominating the next landing. The man depicted was endowed with an innate dignity the artist had faithfully captured on canvas: brooding, yet sensitive eyes; black hair coiffured in an oiled pompadour, with bushy sideburns framing the ears; and exceedingly handsome features reflecting an inherent sensuality. The man wore black leather clothing, enhancing his virile image. “The mansion had not been ransacked?” Rikki asked in surprise.

“Nope,” General Thayer responded. “Weird, isn’t it? Every building in Memphis was looted except this one.”

“Why?” Rikki wondered.

“I don’t know,” Thayer said. “Maybe the people considered this place special.” He nodded at the painting. “There are several of him in the mansion. I guess he must have been the owner. Perhaps he was revered by the people, or they were afraid of him. But for whatever reason, the mansion wasn’t touched.”

“There could be another reason, sir,” Sergeant Boynton whispered.

“What, Sergeant?”

“The Dark Lord. No one in their right mind would want to come near him. Or it,” Sergeant Boynton theorized.

“Could be,” General Thayer said. “But I doubt it. There were no reports of the Dark Lord until after the King moved into the mansion.”

Rikki’s interest was stimulated. “Really?”

General Thayer nodded. They reached the landing. “The Dark Lord’s first victim was killed on this very floor.”

“What happened?” Rikki queried.

The general took a right and strolled along another opulently decorated corridor. “The King had been in the mansion about a month. There was a captain in the Hounds, a man by the name of Lewis, who began grumbling about the arrangement. He wasn’t satisfied living at the Headquarters Complex, which we were rebuilding at the time, and he groused to everyone who would listen about the King living in luxury while the rest of the men slept on cots.”

“Lewis should have left well enough alone, sir,” Sergeant Boynton said softly.

“But he didn’t, despite my warnings,” General Thayer stated. They passed a closed door on the right. “One day the King called a conference for all of his officers in his throne room.”

“He has a throne room?” Rikki repeated.

Thayer nodded. “You’ll be there in a minute. Anyway, the King called this meeting for his general staff. He singled out Lewis. Told Lewis that if he wasn’t satisfied with the status quo, then Lewis should file a formal complaint with the Dark Lord. That was the first any of us ever heard the name. Lewis, the fool, took the King up on the offer. So the King escorted Lewis into the Dark Lord’s chamber.” He paused, licking his lips.

“And then what?” Rikki probed.

“We all heard this terrible roar,” General Thayer responded, his words barely audible. “The most awful sound you can imagine. Screeching and wailing like you wouldn’t believe, and it went on and on and on. When the noise stopped, the King came out, and he was carrying Lewis.”

“Was Lewis dead?” Rikki asked.

“As a doornail,” General Thayer answered. “The King ordered us to dispose of the body.” He halted and looked at the Warrior. “And do you want to hear the strange part? We couldn’t find a mark on Lewis. We stripped him and searched him from head to toe, and there wasn’t so much as a scratch. Yet there he was, dead.” He gazed at the floor, frowning. “That was just the beginning. Since then, the Dark Lord has claimed over two dozen victims.”

“Were they all killed in the mansion?”

“No. Most were, but seven or eight were mysteriously disposed of outside the estate. The majority of those killed were Hounds who committed a breach of discipline and were on report. A few were ordinary riffraff. One was a wandering bum. And no one was ever able to find a mark on any of them. They simply keeled over and died.”

“There must be a cause,” Rikki said.

“I’ve tried to discover it, but couldn’t,” General Thayer declared. He glanced up at Rikki. “No one knows when their time will come, and the Dark Lord can strike anywhere. We’ve found victims in locked rooms at the HQ. Once, a Hound went AWOL, and we found his body ten miles from Memphis, slumped in the jeep he’d stolen.” He swallowed hard. “It’s enough to give a person nightmares.”

And suddenly Rikki discerned the motivation behind Thayer’s character. The man lived in fear of the Dark Lord. Was fear, then, the basis for the Spartan’s misguided devotion to the King? Was Thayer deluding himself? Did the fear indicate the reason for Thayer’s expulsion from Sparta? Or was Thayer trying to prove something to himself by working for the King—possibly attempting to prove he could conquer fear?

The general resumed walking down the corridor.

“Does the King have a mate?” Rikki casually inquired.

Thayer snickered. “I told you how the King feels about women. He thinks they’re all inferior. I doubt he’ll ever take a wife, but he does use one of the locals from time to time.”

“Use?” Rikki said.

“Yeah. You know. Use,” General Thayer elaborated. “The Hounds bring one of the locals here, and the King, as he likes to put it, vents his biological urges. The type depends on his mood.”

“He rapes them?”

“Call it whatever you want. He gives them gold in exchange for their services.”

“Tell me,” Rikki said. “Do the men rape the women in Sparta?”

General Thayer looked at the martial artist. “Of course not. A Spartan woman would slit the throat of anyone who tried, and the Spartan men would track any offender to the ends of the earth.”

“Odd,” Rikki commented.

“What’s so odd about that?” General Thayer quizzed.

“Nothing,” Rikki responded. “I was referring to you.”

“Me?”

“Yes. You wouldn’t tolerate anyone trying to force his way on a Spartan woman, but you stand by and do nothing while the King rapes Memphis women.”

General Thayer drew up short and glared at the Warrior. “Damn you! There you go again, trying to turn me against the King! Don’t try my patience.”

“I merely made an observation.”

“Bullshit. I won’t warn you again,” General Thayer vowed. “Stay off my case.”

Rikki said nothing.

“Move it,” Thayer said, grabbing the Warrior by the left shoulder and shoving.

As he stumbled forward, Rikki grinned. He’d struck a raw nerve in the Spartan, found an opening he might be able to capitalize on later. He stopped and straightened next to a door on the right-hand side.

General Thayer moved to the door and knocked loudly twice.

“Enter, General,” called out someone in the room beyond.

General Thayer twisted the knob and stepped within the throne room.

“You, too,” Sergeant Boynton said, prodding the martial artist with the HK-33.

Rikki-Tikki-Tavi walked through the doorway, his senses fully primed, believing he was prepared for anything.

He was wrong.