Tom Kelley's Ghost and Other Stories

By Steven Popkes

Tom nodded. Dan was sitting close to his right. Tom reached for his glass as if he'd forgotten he'd finished it, made a fist and backhanded Dan with all his strength. Dan fell back off his chair. Tom followed up the blow with a vicious kick to Dan's groin. Dan doubled up and the breath came out of him in a faint shriek. Tom pulled open Dan's coat and found the pistol he knew was there and a small glittering knife he didn't.
"Kids." Tom put the barrel of the pistol against Dan's throat. "Where do you think Derek is?"
"Trolley," Dan croaked. "A street entrance to the underground."
"Thank you."
"Tell me," said Dan as soon as he was able to breathe. "Do you know she's not your daughter?"
"Yes." Tom hid the pistol in his jacket pocket and left the tavern.

—From Tom Kelley's Ghost

• Language: English
• Publisher: Steven Popkes
• Release date: Dec 26, 2023
• ISBN: 9781636322056

Steven Popkes

Steven Popkes lives in Massachusetts on two acres of land where he and his wife garden, grow bananas and breed turtles. His day job consists of writing support software for space and ballistic systems. He insists he is not a rocket scientist. He is a rocket engineer.

Book preview

Also by Steven Popkes

Caliban Landing

Slow Lightning

Welcome to Witchlandia

God’s Country

Nuthatch County

House of Birds

Danse Mécanique

Jackie’s Boy

Simple Things: Collected Stories

Winters are Hard: Collected Stories

The Long Frame

A New World

Copyright © 2023 by Steven Popkes

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

This is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Cover design by Wendy Zimmerman

Cover illustration © 2023 by Wendy Zimmerman

Published by Walking Rock Publications in association with

Book View Café

304 S. Jones Blvd, Suite #2906

Las Vegas NV 89107

www.bookviewcafe.com

ISBN: 978-1-63632-206-3

The following stories were published previously:

Another Perfect Day, Fantasy and Science Fiction, 2008

The Birds of Isla Mujeres, Fantasy and Science Fiction, 2003

Stovelighter, Isaac Asimov’s SF Magazine, 1987

Love in the Company of Ghosts, Murmurs in the Dark, 2021

The Ice, Isaac Asimov’s SF Magazine, 2003

The Rose Garden, Isaac Asimov’s SF Magazine, 1987

This Old Man, Isaac Asimov’s SF Magazine, 2004

Agent of Change, Fantasy and Science Fiction, 2011

Bread and Circus, Fantasy and Science Fiction, 2008

Two Rivers, BVC 2020 Holiday Collection, 2020

Deathwitch, Isaac Asimov’s SF Magazine, 1985

Hellcatcher, Night Cry, 1986

The Butterfly Man, Realms of Fantasy, 2001

Tom Kelley's Ghost, Fantasy and Science Fiction, 2001

Breathe, Fantasy and Science Fiction, 2012

To the Cambridge SF Workshop

Introduction

This may be the last collection of stories for some time.

About ten years ago, I shifted from short stories to novels. This wasn’t for any particular esthetic reason. It was more a recognition of mortality. The sort of, well, if you don’t do it now, you may never get them all finished.

This was triggered by an author on a Boskone panel who said she was just trying to get them all out before the inevitable.

So, I shifted.

Not too long after that, I moved into self-publishing. Again, not because of any esthetics or marketing, but because of time. At that point, I had been bombarding publishers with material for some time. It took years to get a publisher to look seriously at my work. I suddenly realized I could end up in the situation where I would not outlive the experience.

But I do like these stories.

Most of this material has been published elsewhere. A special note of appreciation to Sheila Williamson and Gordon Van Gelder for picking up more than a few.

But, as I mentioned in an earlier collection, some of these show their age. One story takes place during the George W. Bush administration and references the Bush presidency. Clearly, that story didn’t happen. Another story references Ronald Reagan—people don’t talk about him much these days except as devil or saint.

Sensibilities have also changed. One story has two Native American main characters—which I would not do now or, at least, not do in the same way. Still, that’s the way I wrote them at the time. I think the story still has merit. Native Americans haven’t changed but my sensitivities have.

So, here they are, warts and all.

Another Perfect Day

Sam Prokofiev woke up with the sun. For a moment, he watched the light grow across the ceiling. Golden. He could imagine it shining first over the Atlantic, then up across the fine Florida sand to the old Hollywood Beach Hotel, lingering over the pink stucco and then flashing down Hollywood Boulevard into his window. The palm trees rustled, faintly. He could hear the gulls. It was too early for the cars.

Another perfect day in paradise.

He took a shower, shaved, walked past the small grand piano, drawing his fingers over the top, past the closed door of Lina's room, to the kitchen.

 After breakfast, he looked at today's entry in the datebook. It was a habit Lina had instilled in him when they first met, back when she was still Joe's secretary. Lina had died three years ago but after he had tracked gigs, practice sessions, dates with different girls, payment dates from managers, dates with one girl, payment dates to pawn shops, an engagement date, a marriage date, birthdays, vacations, anniversaries, doctor's appointments, prescription refills, medication schedules and finally funeral arrangements, he wasn't about to give it up. He had a drawer full of these little date books, each as neatly labeled as notes on a staff.

Cleaning the pistol was first. Then, it was gardening in the back yard and an afternoon of fishing. All things he liked. Damn. It was the first of the month again. Penciled in at the bottom of the page was the single word compose. Once a month, he stared at the keys to see if something would come to him. Just like he promised Lina.

He sighed and got up from the table, pulled out the pistol box from the sideboard, and took his cup of coffee to the patio outside. He sat down and opened the box, pulled the heavy .38, and set it in his lap. He pulled out the other items from the box: cleaning solvent, wiping rags, the box of ammunition—

A huge, fat man jumped the fence and ran pounding across Sam's garden, screaming "Don't do it! Don't do it!" Before Sam could react he yanked the pistol off his lap and stood, obese and wheezing, ten feet away.

Sam stared at him. The young man was grossly heavy—maybe three hundred pounds—pale, wearing shorts and a light shirt. Over the shirt, he was wearing a harness with various boxes and meters. He tried to speak but couldn't catch his breath.

Sam brought over a chair and eased him down into it. The chair creaked ominously but didn't break.

Are you all right?

I'll be— He stopped to pant for a moment. —okay in a minute. Asthma.

I see. Sam sat back in the other chair. He felt a little nonplused. What am I not supposed to do?

Shoot—yourself.

Ah. Do you have a name?

Wilson. Wilson's breathing gradually came under control. Wilson Taylor.

Well, Wilson, began Sam. I wasn't planning to shoot myself. I was cleaning the pistol. I do it every month.

You were going to shoot yourself over the death of your wife. Wilson seemed able to breathe without difficulty now. She died last year. I came to save you.

Are you sure you have the right house? asked Sam hopefully. I'm Sam Prokofiev.

You're Sergei Prokofiev. Born in the Ukraine in 1891. Spent a lot of time traveling and composing before settling in Moscow in 1929. Met and married Mira Mendelssohn. Favorite composer of Stalin until the guy died in 1942. Khrushchev didn't like you so you and Mira emigrated from Russia to the United States in 1939, just before World War II. Mira contracted cancer in 1944 and died a year later. You killed yourself out of grief today, March 15, 1945. Wilson looked at Sam with triumph. Except you didn't. I saved you.

Sam stared at him. World War... Two?

Well, yeah. It's not like you could have left Russia after the war started.

Of course, Sam said, recovering himself. Thank you. The phone was inside. Maybe Sam could get to it without drawing attention to himself. Would you like a glass of lemonade?

Wilson frowned. You said you weren't going to kill yourself.

Maybe I was about to.

Maybe it was murder, then. Many conspiracy theorists have thought you were never the type to commit suicide. They insist you were assassinated by the NKVD.

My very thoughts.

Wilson looked around the yard. This isn't Queens.

Are you sure?

Wilson ignored him. You don't see palm trees in Queens.

Sam gave up. No, you don't.

Wilson thought for a moment. I must have overshot. Quick, man. What's the date? I could still reach him.

February 1, 1947.

Wilson fell silent for a moment and stared at the ground. Sam stood up. I'll get some lemonade.

Where is this? California?

Hollywood, anyway. Hollywood, Florida.

He's already dead. What am I going to do? Wilson buried his head in his hands.

Sam patted his shoulder sympathetically and deftly snagged the gun as he went inside. He locked it in a drawer in the bedroom and then returned to the kitchen. He found Wilson frantically searching the room.

I hid the gun, Sam said softly.

I need a pad of paper. And a pencil. It must have been the Uncertainty Principle. Wilson stared up at him. Do you think it was the Uncertainty Principle?

I'm certain of it. Sam found a pad and pencil and gave it to Wilson.

Wilson sat at the table. You said lemonade?

Sam pulled the pitcher out of the refrigerator and poured for both of them. He looked at Wilson's pudgy hands and unfocussed eyes. This boy wasn't dangerous. Hell, when Sam and Strav were playing gigs up in New York they dealt with much worse than this.

Wilson looked up suddenly. What were you doing in Florida with a gun in 1947?

"Son, North Miami is three blocks south of here. Of course, I've got a gun."

Was North Miami that bad in 1947?

It's been bad ever since the Dominican Republic fell under the control of Haiti. Every refugee refused entry by Batista ends up here.

Wilson seemed nonplussed. I guess I don't know much Florida history. He went back to scrabbling on the paper. He stopped again. I didn't know you were in Florida.

Sam sat down across from him. I was born in 1891. But everything else you said about me was wrong. I studied in the Saint Petersburg Conservatory until 1921 when the revolution closed it down. I composed and gave concerts until things went to hell after Trotsky followed Lenin. I fled first to Paris and then to America. I played jazz clubs and bet at the racetrack and bluffed at poker and met and married Carolina Codina—she sang under the name, Lina Llubera. This is the house I bought her. She loved living somewhere warm all year long. Lina got sick five years ago and died three years ago. Now I live here by myself. So: I'm not who you think I am.

Wilson stared at him, his face heavy. He turned back to his pad of paper.

Sam leaned back. He could use another cup of coffee. Wilson made him feel tired.

Okay, then, Wilson said, his lips pursed. He stared at the pad of paper. I'm from the future. I invented a time machine to come back and save you from suicide. Except this isn't where I aimed and you aren't him.

That's a time machine? Sam pointed at the harness.

Wormhole generator, anyway. You walk through the wormhole back in time.

Sam could see now the dials. Looks like date and time. Latitude and longitude?

Yeah, admitted Wilson. But those aren't the controls I used. I used this part. He pointed at a slim device plugged into a socket on the side of the bigger box on his chest. "This finds you—Sergei Prokofiev—and determines your closest chronological point to me. Which I figured was when you died. That would be the latest point in your life and therefore closest to me. But, clearly, it doesn't work. Wilson turned back to the pad and paper. It's a proof of the many worlds hypothesis, anyway."

It doesn't look complicated enough to be a time machine. It's just a set of numbers, a couple of dials, and a big red button.

Why make every thing complicated? The computer does all the work. It figures out the best path, makes sure I don't end up inside a wall.

Computer?

Wilson shrugged. ''Never mind."

''What's the big red button?"

''Automatic return. But it's only good for a few hours. Then, I have to dial in my return. Safety factor in case I got hurt." He returned to his figures.

Was I famous where you come from? Sam asked after a few moments.

Absolutely. Wilson looked up. Everybody thinks about you the same way they think about Mozart: cut down in the prime of life. Who knows what you might have produced?

I would have been fifty-six. Hardly the prime of life.

You never know. Wilson shrugged. "All right, I thought you were cut down in the prime of your life. The first piece of music I ever heard in my whole life that I actually liked was Suite for Three Oranges. And the scraps you left of Ode on the End of the War are really, really good. I wanted to hear the rest."

You're a sweet boy.

Wilson stared at the pad. That's not what most people say.

What do they say?

That I'm crazy.

Sam looked over. Wilson was writing some kind of equations. Sam noticed the thickness of his arms. The strength in his fingers. Suddenly, he felt old and vulnerable.

Care for another lemonade?

That would be great.

Sam took his glass, filled it, and set it down next to him. Wilson gulped it down, starting to sweat. Is it always this hot?

It's Florida.

I guess. Wilson looked up at Sam. "I could have come using lat, longs, and time. But I didn't think that was precise enough. I could miss your death. You could be out shopping. Walking the dog."

I don't have a dog.

Instead, I zeroed in on distance.

Distance?

"It's a complex function—I call it distance. I wanted to find the closest approximate chronological point from me, in the present, to you, in the past. Then, I'd be close to you near the moment of your death. Wilson threw up his hands. I have no idea how this happened. Instead of California, I get Florida. Instead of Prokofiev wracked with grief over the death of his beloved Mina, I get you, pretty much over the death of Lina."

Not completely over, Sam commented dryly.

And instead of 1945 I get 1947!

It'll come to you. Sam tried to sound soothing.

I guess. Then, Wilson held the pencil in the air and looked at it carefully. Then, he gently put it down on the table. He put his arms on the table next to it and slowly eased his great head down on them. In a moment, he was snoring.

Wilson? called Sam. Wil-son?

Wilson didn't move.

Sam nodded to himself. He stood up and returned to the kitchen. He replaced the bottle of chloral hydrate in the cupboard. Sam wasn't surprised it had taken two glasses. Wilson was a big man and Sam had been careful with the dosage.

Wilson began to snore. Sam patted his shoulder. He hadn't lost his touch. This was the way he and Strav had rolled sailors and queers back when that was the only way to make a gig pay. Of course, he had chloral hydrate.

Sam wrestled the harness off of Wilson so he could handle him. Wilson was too heavy to get to the floor—the safest place for an unconscious person. Sam made sure Wilson's head was turned so that if the boy vomited in his sleep, it wouldn't choke him to death. He never wanted to relive that moment again. Sam shivered.

Holding the harness, Sam picked up the phone to call the police. The phone in his hand, he held the harness up and scrutinized it. The controls were clearly visible and looked just as simple as Wilson had described them. Sam put down the phone. He stared at the harness for a long time.

oOo

Wilson snorted in his sleep and suddenly sat up. It's the Pauli Exclusion Principle!

Sam, sitting across from him, sipped his coffee. Beg pardon?

The Pauli Exclusion Principle says that no two electrons in an atom can have the same quantum number. He shaped something vaguely spherical in the air with his hands. Sam presumed it was an atom. Or maybe it was a quantum number. Or both.

Wilson stared at him for a moment. "Forget about that. What happens if I go into the past and change it: I change my present—possibly enough to prevent me from going into the past in the first place. Therefore, my Prokofiev isn't the closest Prokofiev at all. It's the only Prokofiev that's, in fact, infinitely far away. I can never reach him. I can only find Prokofievs that can't paradox me."

His voice fell and he looked at the table. "Maybe 'nearness' can only be determined by the Prokofiev least similar to mine rather than the most similar. He shook his head. There's no reason that the different realities have to be in any kind of lockstep with regard to time. Maybe I've got it all wrong and time travel isn't possible. Maybe there isn't any such thing as past at all—just alternate realities that are close enough to one another that one could resemble the past of another. He held up both his hands. You can't have time travel. You can only have a simulation of time travel. Wilson looked at Sam desperately. What do you think?"

I think there's definitely such a thing as a past.

Wilson nodded absently. Man, my head hurts. He sat up and looked around, shook his head. "My neck is stiff. And I'm really thirsty. How long was I asleep?"

''Almost twenty- four hours."

"Really? Wilson rubbed his face. I'm not hungry. Usually, I'm really hungry in the morning. Do you have any more lemonade?"

Apple juice.

That'll do.

Sam brought the bottle and glass and passed them over to Wilson.

Wow, Wilson said wonderingly. "Time—alternate world—travel really takes it out of you."

Sam picked up an envelope he'd placed on the floor next to his chair. He passed it over the table to Wilson.

Wilson picked it up. What's this?

A present. For not letting me kill myself.

Aw, man. Wilson grinned at him. He opened the envelope and pulled out the paper. This is music. He squinted at the title. "This is Ode on the End of the War. Slowly, he put it down. You died before you could finish it."

I'm not dead, Wilson.

"But you're not him."

Sam traced the pattern of the wood in the table. His hands ached. They were still swollen from the night before. I'm a composer, too. Maybe it will be close enough.

This is handwritten, man. Wilson carefully slid the music back into the envelope. Did you do it while I was asleep?

Yes. I thought you should have something for coming.

Wilson held the envelope reverently. Thanks. Thanks a lot, man. He sipped his juice. Man, I dreamed of this moment for years. When I could talk to Prokofiev face to face. He laughed shortly. ''But now that I'm here, I can't think of a thing to say."

I'm not your Prokofiev.

You're as close as I'm ever going to get.

Fair enough. Sam watched the obsessed young man thoughtfully. How about you tell me about who I am in your world and I'll tell you about who I am here while I cook breakfast. Do you like eggs?

Wilson's expression grew serious. Man, I love eggs.

It was late morning when Wilson leaned back from the table. He stood up and stretched. I better be getting back. He picked up the harness from the sofa and put it on.

Sam stood up. I'm glad you came, Wilson.

Me, too. Wilson held out his hand to shake good-bye. Sam took it.

Thanks, man, Wilson said. ''Thanks for everything."

Wilson fastened the harness and started the machine.

Don't forget to dial it in, Sam said. You said the return button would only work for a few hours.

Wilson nodded. Right. He adjusted the controls on the harness. The lights glowed and the dials jumped. The fans in the back whirred. Stand back, he said.

Wilson waved as he flicked the switch.

His hair seemed to wave in the static electricity. There was the smell of ozone and a pop—he was gone.

Sam cleaned up the plates, the bottle of apple juice, and the glasses and put them in the sink. Then, he went to the closet and brought out a pile of books. Each one was labeled The Complete Works of Sergei Prokofiev, 1891-1953. There were twelve fat volumes of scores, commentary, and analysis.

Sam pulled out the volume containing the completed Ode and took it to the piano. He went through parts of it again. Just as it had the night before, playing this piece felt exactly like playing something he had composed but had never seen before. It wasn't quite what he would have written, but it was something he could have written. He could see ideas, variations—suggestions of different works.

He could milk just this collection for years, dribbling it out, publishing here, performing there. It could be a career in itself. But he didn't have to. As he had found last night while he was copying out Ode, this was like having an interesting conversation with somebody he knew very well: what was coming out was completely his, inspired by something he'd never done. Sam wondered how many more of him were out there. All of them similar in one way or another—or maybe there was only one of him but with a thousand faces.

After an hour, his hands were finally too swollen and painful to hold even a pencil. He went to the sink and ran cold water over them until the pain lessened. He picked up the phone and called a familiar number.

Joe? he said into the phone. Listened for a moment. Yeah, it's me. Back from the grave and ready to party. Pause. Heart attacks are badges of honor in your business, aren't they? You don't have a soviet empire but agents have an empire all their own.

Never mind, he said after a moment. Just a joke.

Sam looked at the clock. It was after noon. He poured himself a high ball. I've been working. Yeah. Three years worth. Want to start something up? The first taste of a high ball is the best, he thought. Like the first notes of a concerto. Like the first hints of a fresh start. Here's to you, Lina, he thought. And to you, Wilson. You would have liked each other.

Of course, Joe wanted in. They started bouncing ideas off of one another.

Sam leaned against the counter as he listened. The sun made all the bright colors of the flowers and the bees stand out. He could smell the fragrances as they drifted in.

Another perfect day in paradise.

Omega

I have written two—count them, two—time travel stories. This is one. The other one has never been published. Neither is really a time travel story in the strictest sense of the term.

I haven’t because I consider them a failure of imagination.

With all of the possibilities in front of a writer—aliens, physics, biology, deep time, artificial intelligence, the nature of the future human race—and the best effort yields a story going back to the American Civil War?

So, like some of my stories, this is a reproof.

The Birds of Isla Mujeres

Afterward, it was never the people she remembered, never faces or bodies or voices—even Alfredo's. It was always the wind, blowing from the west side of the island, and the frigatebirds, balanced on their wingtips against the sky. They flew high above her, so black and stark, they seemed made of leather or scales, too finely drawn to be feathered.

oOo

It was March, the beginning of the rainy season and she had come to Isla Mujeres to leave her husband. That she had done this some half a dozen times before did not escape her and she had a kind of despairing fatalism about it. Probably this time, too, she would return. Her name was Jean Summat. Her husband, Marc, lived the professor's life in Boston. She, it was supposed, was to live the role of professor's wife. This was something she had never quite accepted.

Isla Mujeres. Island of Women.

She sat in a small pier cafe that jutted out into the water waiting for her first meal on the island. In a few minutes, it came. A whole fish stared glassily up at her from the plate. Delicately, she began to carve small pieces from it and ate. She glanced up and a Mexican man in a Panama hat smiled at her. She looked away back to her food, embarrassed.

Boston was cold right now and covered with a wet snow as raw as butcher's blood. But here, in Mexico, it was warm. More importantly, it was cheap and people's lives here were still enmeshed in basics, not intricately curved in academic diplomacy.

She left the restaurant and stood on the pier watching the birds, feeling the warm heavy wind, sour with the hot smell of the sea. The late afternoon sun was masked with low clouds and in the distance was a dark blue rain. She had a room, money, and time.

oOo

The Avenida Rueda was clotted with vendors selling Mayan trinkets, blankets, pots, T-shirts, and ice cream. Several vendors tried to attract her attention with an "Amiga!" but she ignored them. A Mexican dressed in a crisp suit and Panama hat sat in an outdoor cafe and sipped his drink as he watched her. Just watched her.

Lots of Mexicans wear such hats, she told herself. Still, he made her nervous and she left the street to return to her room. On the balcony, she watched the frigatebirds and the people on the beach.

oOo

Jean swam in the warm water of Playa de Cocoa. When she came from the water she saw the man watching her from one of the cabanas as he sipped a Coke. She walked up to him.

Why are you following me?

The man sipped his Coke and looked back at her. "No entiende."

She looked at him carefully. That's a lie.

There was a long moment of tension. He threw back his head and laughed. "Es verdad."

Why—what the hell are you doing?

"You are very beautiful, Señora."

Jesus!

You need a man.

I have a man. Or half a man. Or maybe more than a man. Do I still have him? Do I want him? Did I ever?

With specifications?

She stared at him.

oOo

Héctor led her through the rubble at the end of the Avenida Hidalgo to a small concrete house nearly identical to all the other concrete houses on the island. It was surrounded by a wall. Set into the top of the wall were the jagged spikes of broken soda bottles. She looked down the street. The other houses were built the same. There was a burnt-out car leaning against one wall and a thin dog stared at her, his eyes both hungry and protective.

Inside, it smelled damp. It was dark for a moment, then he turned on a blue fluorescent light that lit the room like a chained lightning bolt. Leaning against the wall was a tall, long-haired, and heavily built man with Mayan features. He did not move.

What am I doing here?

This is Alfredo. Héctor was looking at her with a considering expression.

She shook her head. The air in the room seemed thick, lifeless, cut off from the world. Alfredo?

Alfredo. I show you. Héctor opened a suitcase and took out a box with a complex control panel. He flipped two switches and turned a dial and the box hummed. Alfredo pushed himself away from the wall and looked around.

Good God. She stared at him. Alfredo was beautiful with a high forehead and strong lips. His body was wide and taut, the muscles rippling as he moved. Héctor touched a button and he became absolutely still.

You like him?

She turned to Héctor startled. She'd forgotten he was there. What is this?

Ah! An explanation. He spoke in a deep conspiratorial whisper. "Deep in the mountains north of Mexico City is a great research laboratory. They have built many of these—andros? Syntheticos?"

Androids.

Of course. They are stronger and more beautiful than mortal men. But the Church discovered it and forced them to close it down. The Church is important here—

That's a lie.

Héctor shrugged. The Señora is correct. Alfredo was a prisoner in the Yucatan. Condemned to die for despicable crimes. They did not kill him, however. Instead, they removed his mind and inlaid his body with electrical circuits. He is now more than a man—

That's another lie.

The Señora sees most clearly. He paused a moment. You have heard of the Haitian zombie? The Mayans had a similar process. My country has only recently perfected it, coupling it with the most advanced of science—

Jean only stared at him.

He stopped, then shrugged. What does it matter, Señora? He is empty. His mind does not exist. He will—imprint? Is that the correct word?—on anyone I choose.

This is a trick.

You are so difficult to convince. Let me show you his abilities. Héctor manipulated the controls and Alfredo leaped forward and caught himself on one hand, holding himself high in the air with the strength of one arm. He flipped forward onto his feet. Alfredo picked up a branch from a pile of kindling and twisted it in both hands. There was no expression on his face but the muscles in his forearms twisted like snakes, the tendons like dark wires. The branch broke with a sudden gunshot report.

Héctor stopped Alfredo at attention before them. You see? He is more than man.

She shook her head. What kind of act is this?

No act. I control him from this panel. The—master? maestro?—would not need this.

Such control.

Héctor seemed uncertain for a moment. You wish to see still more? You are uncertain of how he is controlled? He thought for a moment. Let me show you a feature.

In the stark light and shadows, she had not noticed Alfredo was nude. The Mayan turned into the light.

There are several choices one could make when using Alfredo. Héctor manipulated the box. "Pequeno."

Alfredo had a normal-sized erection.

She wanted to look away and could not. The Mayan face was before her, dark, strong, and blank.

"Medio," said Héctor softly.

She looked again and the erection was twice as large, pulsing to Alfredo's breathing.

"y monstroso!" cried Héctor.

Alfredo looked fit to be a bull, a goat, or some other animal. There was never any expression in Alfredo's eyes.

"y nada," said Héctor. And Alfredo's erection wilted and disappeared.

She couldn't breathe. She wanted to run, to hide from Alfredo but she didn't want to be anywhere else.

You are pleased, Señora? Héctor stood beside her.

Jean tried to clear her head. She looked away from both of them. No man could fake this. It was real. A marvelous control. A total subjugation. Was this what she wanted all this time?

A very nice show. She took a deep breath. How much do I owe you?

You owe me nothing, Señora. Héctor bowed to her. But Alfredo is for sale. When she did not answer immediately, he continued. "He imprints on the owner, Señora. Then voice commands are sufficient. He will show initiative if you desire it, or not. He is intelligent, but only in your service."

But you have the controls.

They do not operate once imprinting occurs.

Crazy. Ridiculous.

How much? she heard herself asking.

Alfredo followed her home, mute, below the birds and the sky. She could smell him on the evening wind, a clean, strong smell.

Do you speak? she asked as he followed her up the steps to her room.

Alfredo did not answer for a moment. Yes.

She asked him no more questions that night.

oOo

His mind was like a thunderstorm: thick, murky, dark, shot through intermittently by lightning. These were not blasts of intelligence or insight but the brightness of activity, the heat of flesh, the electricity of impulse. He was no more conscious of what happened or what caused his actions than lightning was conscious of the friction between clouds. Occasionally, very occasionally, a light came through him, like the sun through the distant rain, and things stilled within him.

He was a chained thunderbolt, unaware of his chains.

oOo

She copulated with Alfredo almost continuously the first three days. It was as if a beast had been loosed within her. If she wanted him to stroke her thus, he did so. If she wanted him to bite her there, it was done. Something broke within her and she tried to devour him.

It was only when she fully realized she owned him, that he would be there as long as she wanted him, did this abate. Then, it was like coming up from underwater and she looked around her.

Alfredo had cost her almost everything she had, nearly all the money she would have used to start a new life. She could not go back to Marc now. Perhaps buying Alfredo had been an act ensuring that. She didn't know. There were jobs on the island for Americans, but they were tricky and illegal to get.

At the end of the first day of a waitress job, she came to their room tired and angry. Alfredo was sitting on the edge of the bed staring out the window. It was suddenly too much for her.

You! I do this to feed you. She stared at him. He stared back with his dark eyes.

I can't go home because of you. She slapped him. There was no response.

She turned away from him and looked out at the sea and the birds. This wasn't going to work.

Wait.

Jean turned to him. Can you work?

He ponderously turned his head towards her. Yes.

"You do speak Spanish?"

"Sí."

Come with me.

She looked through her toilet bag and found a pair of scissors. They were almost too long for what she wanted but they would do. The fluorescent light in the bathroom glittered off the steel as she cut his hair, a sharp, pointed light. After a few moments, she turned his head up towards her. The hair was nearly right. His cheek was smooth against her hand. Impulsively, she kissed him and he moved towards her but she pushed him back down in the chair. All right, she said finally. Take a shower. He started the water and she watched him for a long minute. After that, she thought, after that, we'll see.

oOo

Alfredo found a job almost immediately and made enough to keep them both alive. Now, Jean lay on the beach and tanned. Alfredo worked hard and his strength was such that he could work through the siesta. He had only to watch a thing done and then could do it. The workers on Isla Mujeres grumbled. Jean shrewdly noticed this and sent him across the bay into Cancun where the wages were higher.

Two weeks after this they had enough to move into the El Presidente Hotel.

That night she looked at him. Ever the sophisticate, she murmured. Go get clothes fit to wear here.

Alfredo did and she went to dinner in the Caribe on his arm. He looked so strong and dignified the other women in the room looked at him, then away. Jean felt a thrill go through her. Over dinner, she murmured instructions which he executed flawlessly. She felt quite fond of him.

Over coffee, the waiter brought them a message from a Lydia Conklin and friend, inviting them for cocktails.

She read it. Alfredo did not—yet—read and stared away towards the open doorway of the bar.

What are you looking at? she asked.

He turned to her. Nothing.

Look around the room regularly like a normal person.

He did not answer but instead watched the room as if bored or waiting for the check.

Jean read the note again.

She shrugged and signed the check. The two of them went to the bar for a drink.

Excuse me. A woman stood up in front of them. I am Lydia Conklin.

Jean looked first at her, then at Alfredo. I'm Jean Summat. I got your note—

I was dying for American speech. As she spoke she only glanced at Jean. Her eyes were full of Alfredo. You don't know what it's like. Now, she turned to Jean. Or perhaps you do.

I've been here a few weeks.

Señora Summat.

That voice Jean knew. Behind and to her left was Héctor. Good evening, Héctor.

You know Héctor, too? Lydia said idly. How wonderful.

Sit with us, Señora. Please. Héctor pulled out a chair for her. Jean looked at Alfredo. Alfredo paused a moment, watched her closely, then sat across from her at the table.

Héctor sat next to Jean. He leaned towards Lydia. Señora Summat, Alfredo, and myself were business partners.

'Were'? Lydia raised her eyebrows.

The business is accomplished. It is of no matter.

Jean interrupted. Are you down for a vacation, Lydia?

Lydia shrugged. In a way. I'm down for my health. This last year I went mad.

Héctor laughed. Jean smiled uneasily. Lydia shrugged again.

Señora Conklin makes a good joke.

It was, I suppose, Lydia said as she sipped her drink. I came down here two years ago and fell in love with a Mayan. I'm back to see if lightning can strike twice.

Something in her face was hard to look at for more than a moment. Jean looked away. What was the Mayan's name?

Alberto. Héctor is helping me find another.

Héctor seemed nervous. He turned to Jean. I introduce Señora Conklin to eligible men—

"He