Man with No Name: A Nanashi Novella (9 page)

My nerves weren’t always so frayed; once, I was too dull to fear anything but the Master’s voice and his lash. I was incurious until my fifth or sixth birthday and thick as a brick physically and intellectually. Anymore, I read anything that doesn’t have the covers glued shut. I devour talk radio and Oprah. Consequently, my neuroses have spread like weeds. Am I getting fat? Yes, I’ve got the squat frame of a Bulgarian power lifter, but at least my moles and wens usually distract the eye from my bulging trapeziuses and hairy arms.

I also dislike the dark, and wind, and being trussed hand and foot and left hanging in a closet. Dr. Kob used to give me the last as punishment; still does it now and again, needed or not, as a reminder. Perspective is extremely important in the Kob house. The whole situation is rather pathetic, because chief among his eccentric proclivities, he’s an amateur storm chaser. Tornadoes and cyclones don’t interest him so much as lightning and its capacity for destruction and death. Up until his recent deteriorating health, we’d bundle into the van and cruise along the coast during storm season and shoot video, and perform field tests of his arcane equipment. Happily, those days seem to be gone, and none too soon. It’s rumored my predecessor, daughter
numero
uno
, was blown to smithereens, and her ashes scattered upon the tides, during one of those summer outings.

*   *   *

Time has come for action.

My birthday was Saturday. I’m thirty, a nice round number. By thirty, a girl should have career aspirations, picked out a man, that sort of thing. I stuck the white candle of death in a cupcake, said my prayers, and ate the damned thing with all the joy of a Catholic choking down a supersized holy wafer. Then I doused my sorrows with a bottle of Glenfiddich and watched a rerun of the late night creature-feature.

I’ve decided to record my deepest thoughts, although I’m young to be scribing even this outline of a memoir. Some bits I’ve written in spiral notebooks with ponies and unicorns on the cover.

*   *   *

We live in a big Gothic mansion on a hill outside of Olympia. We being Dr. Kob, Pelt, and me. Pelt came to the U.S. with the Master. The old troll doesn’t talk much, preferring to hole up in his backyard tree house and drink Wild Turkey and sharpen his many, many knives. I call him Uncle, although so far as I know he’s no more my uncle than the good Doctor is my father.

Dr. Kob’s workshop is the converted attic in the East Wing. He’s got a lordly view of everything from Olympia to Mt. Rainier. When he’s in his cups, he refers to the people in the city as
villagers.
  That’s exactly how he says it—with a diabolical sneer. I think he reminisces about the Motherland more than he should. His skeletons are banging on the closet door. He just keeps jamming in new ones. I wager it’ll bite him in the ass one of these fine days.

The housekeeper, chef, and handyman stay in bungalows in the long shadows of the forest on the edge of the property. The gardener and his helpers commute daily. They tend the arboretum and the vast grounds. Yet despite their indefatigable efforts to chop back the vines, the brambles, and the weeds, the estate always seems overgrown. It looks a lot like the thicket around Sleeping Beauty’s castle in the classic cartoons. Some rooms in the mansion leak during rainstorms. Like the grounds crew, our handyman and his boys can’t replace rotten shingles and broken windows fast enough to stay ahead of entropy that’s been gathering mass since 1845. There’s not enough plaster or paint in the world to cover every blister and sore blighting this once great house.

But Dr. Kob doesn’t care about such trivialities. He’s obsessed with his research, his experiments. Best of all, there are catacombs beneath the cellars; an extensive maze chock full of bones. Beats digging up corpses at the graveyard in the dead of night, although he waxes nostalgic about those youthful excursions.

I’m careful in my comings and goings despite the fact Dr. Kob crushes the servants under his thumb and virtually saps their will to live. He imported most of them from places like Romania and Yugoslavia. They’ve united in tight jawed dourness and palpable resentment. None speak English. They’re paid to look the other way, to keep their mouths shut. They know what’s good for them.

I worry anyway. I’m a busy bee, fetching and toting for the Master; coming and going, sneaking and skulking at all hours. Capturing live subjects is dangerous, especially when you’re as conspicuous as I am. There can be complications. Once, I brought home three kids I’d caught smoking dope in the park. The chloroform wore off one of them, and when I popped the trunk he jumped out and ran into the woods, screaming bloody murder. Luckily, Pelt was sober enough to function, for a change, and he unleashed a pair of wolfhounds from the kennel. Mean ones. We tracked the boy down before he made it to a road. The little sucker might’ve escaped if I hadn’t cuffed his hands behind his back.

*   *   *

In unrelated events:

A circus rolled through town one week in the fall; in its wake, consternation and dismay due to a murder most foul. An article in the
Olympian
documents the spectacular and mysterious demise of Niall the Barker. The paper smoothes over the rough edges, skips most of the gruesome facts. The reporters in the know talked to the cops who know this: While hapless Niall lay upon his cot in a drunken stupor, some evil doer shoved a heavy duty industrial strength cattle prod up his ass and pressed the button. His internal organs liquefied. A blowhole opened in the crown of his skull, and shit, guts, and brains bubbled forth like lava from a kid’s volcano exhibit at a science fair. His muscles and skin hardened and were branded with the most curious Lichtenburg Flowers.

Sometimes I go back and watch it again, just to savor the moment.

*   *   *

Dr. Kob requires that we take supper together on Fridays. We sit at opposite ends of a long, Medieval-style table in the dining hall. The hall is gloomy and dusty and decorated in a fashion similar to Dracula’s castle in the Bela Lugosi, Christopher Lee films. God, how I adore Christopher Lee, especially the young, B-movie incarnation. His soliloquy to carnal delights in
The
Wicker
Man
stands my hair on end. Dr. Kob doesn’t know anything about cinema or actors. He says there’s no television where he comes from, no theatre. That’s likely an exaggeration—the Master is fond of hyperbole. Read a few of his interviews in the
Daily O
and you’ll see what I mean.

Dr. Kob’s father was an eminent scientist until some scandal swept him and his family into the shadows. After his expulsion from whatever prominent university, Kob Sr. conducted his research in the confines of home sweet home. I think of the dungeons and oubliettes in those ancient European keeps and feel a twinge of pity for the peasants moiling in the fields beneath the Kob estate. Ripe fruit, the lot of them.

Snooping about the Master’s quarters, I unearth a musty album full of antiquated photographs of Dr. Kob and various friends and relatives. Many feature the redoubtable Pelt. Has the hunter always been Kob’s henchman? Perhaps they are fraternity brothers or blood cousins. Today the good Doctor bears a strong likeness to Boris Karloff, which is also pretty much how he looks in his baby pictures.

On the other hand, the Pelt I know scarcely resembles the man posing with a pack of hounds, his curls long and golden, his bloodthirsty grin as sweet and guileless as Saint Michael’s own. What a heartbreaker (and likely serial killer) he was! One of the pictures is dated 1960. Now, he slumps over his plate and goblet. His hooked nose, his sallow cheeks are gnarled as plastic that’s been melted and fused. Oh, and he’s pot-bellied and bald as a tumor. It’s all very sad—he’s like a caricature of a Grimm Brothers’ illustration. Maybe this is how Rumpelstiltskin ended his days.

“Mary had a little lamb,” Dr. Kob says, and titters as he downs another glass of port. That Mary business annoys me more than he can imagine. He doesn’t realize I caught on to his stupid inside joke and its antecedent years ago.
I
read
classical
literature
too
,
you
pompous
ass
. I’ve Melville, Dickens, and Chaucer in the bedside cupboard. And Shelley, that bitch. On the other hand, perhaps I should be grateful. He could’ve named me Victor or Igor.

“—Mary had a little lamb—”

“—then she had a little mutton,” Pelt says in an accent so thick you’d need one of his pig-stickers to cut it. I don’t think Pelt likes me, our occasional drunken coupling notwithstanding. It’s not exactly easy to find a good screw in this pit. I wonder if Dr. Kob knows about Pelt and me. The Old Man is cagey—I wouldn’t be surprised if Pelt reported the results of our trysts as part of some twisted experiment like the Apted documentaries that appear on PBS every seven years. Man, I’d love to get in front of a camera and monologue about some of the shit I’ve seen. Yeah, there’s a frustrated actor in here. A frustrated nymphomaniac as well—sorry Pelt.

*   *   *

Midday now and I taste the ozone; my joints ache. From the parapet of the attic tower I can see way out across the water to where the horizon has shifted into black. It’s coming on fast, that rolling hell.

The trees start to shake. Leaves come loose and flutter past my face. This is going to be a hummer. My hair is already frizzing. High elevations are bad places to be at times such as these. This particular roof is even worse than most because of all the lightning rods. Well, they aren’t exactly lightning rods in the traditional sense. They serve other uses, primarily transferring electricity to the Doctor’s lab equipment. Like a good gopher, I’ve come to make certain everything is shipshape—the array is rather delicate and must be aligned precisely. There’s nothing more complicated about the job than jiggling a television antenna until the picture clears, but it has to be right or all hell might break loose.

I make the adjustments and then retreat inside and head for the kitchen. One of the chef’s minions, a cook named Helga, fixes me cocoa and marshmallows. I’m sitting on one of the high stools, swinging my feet and sipping my hot chocolate when Dr. Kob comes around the corner, his usually slicked hair in disarray, his tie loose and shirt untucked.

“Mary,” he says. “You double checked the array, I presume?” He scarcely acknowledges my answer; his mind is already three jumps ahead, and besides, my loyalty is unquestioned. “One of my specimens expired last night—but all is not lost. My revivification project awaits!”

“Remember not to talk on the phone during the storm,” I say. “I just saw an account of a woman who was fried doing dishes. Ball lightning exploded from the sink and set her on fire. It traveled through the pipes.”

Dr. Kob stares at me, his beady eyes narrowed. He rubs his temples as if experiencing a migraine. “You’re watching the talk shows again. You know how I frown upon that, my dear. Less daydreaming, more physical exertion. Remind me to have Pelt assign you additional duties. Idle hands and all that.”

“Sure, gimme a pitchfork and I’ll swamp out the stables.”

“Never mention pitchforks again!”

“Or torches.”

“Out! Before I lose patience for your belligerence. And tomorrow, take the rod into our lovely village for quality assurance testing. I’ve altered the design. It possesses more jolt than ever.”

“As you command,” I say sweetly. After he wanders off, I chew my cup and swallow it piece by piece. It kind of frightens me that my Pavlovian dread of the Doctor has ebbed, replaced by an abiding irritation. This is very dangerous. He’s a middle-aged megalomaniacal child—an
L’
enfant
Terrible
. We know what rotten children do with their toys, right?

He gave me a puppy, once. I loved her, and often imagined how she had crept into the caves of my ancestors to escape the cold and the dark. I accidentally broke the puppy’s neck. It’s probably a good thing he didn’t hand me the little brother I always wanted.

*   *   *

Some people mow the lawn, others take out the garbage, or walk the pooch.  Among similar menial tasks, I kidnap and kill whomever the Doctor says to kidnap or kill. I enjoyed it during my formative years. My rudimentary self was a glutton for the endorphin rush, the ecstasy of primal release. As my brain evolved, I developed, if not a conscience or morals, at least the semblance of ethics. The glamour has faded, alas, and now this too bores me to tears. Frankly, it’s about as stimulating as tearing the limbs off dolls.

Usually I do the deed with this device Dr. Kob invented that’s something on the order of an unimaginably powerful cattle prod. This prod is capable of emitting a charge much greater than the lethally electrified fences one might encounter surrounding a top secret military installation. It fits in my coat pocket and telescopes with the flick of my wrist, like those baton whips cops use to pacify rowdy protesters.

There are two basic methods of killing with the rod. (Dr. Kob encourages ample experimentation.) I jumped out of a hedge and zapped the last one, a banker in a suit and tie, from a distance of six paces. He shuddered and dropped in his tracks. Sometimes the energy exits from the temple or forehead and leaves a small hole like a bullet wound. I prefer to discharge from beyond arm’s reach as a safety precaution, but it’s not always feasible.

The second method is rather awful. The rod is thick at the base and gradually tapers to a point the diameter of a darning needle. A few weeks back I ministered to those two pole dancers who made such a sensation when the cops discovered them. And hell no, that particular job didn’t bother me a whit. I’m not altogether fond of the pretty ones, and when they’re haughty little bitch queens to boot…well, I consider it justice served. Anyway, their housemate walked in on the proceedings. I recognized him as a bouncer from the club where the girls worked—a powerfully built guy tattooed front and back, head to toe chains and piercings, and yellow, piggy eyes that burned with a love of violence. He almost got his hands on me before I stabbed him in the chest with the rod and dialed up the juice. The force hurled him end over end into the wall, where he sprawled, limbs flailing
grand
mal
style. His eyes sizzled like egg yolks and sucked into his skull; his teeth shattered, his hair ignited, and all that miscellaneous metal reduced to slag as his skin charred and peeled. I’m no weak sister, but the greasy smoke, its stench, always gets me. I ran to the window and puked into a flower box. Then I got the hell out.