"Thank you, sir."
"You're welcome. You've earned it. Now shoot this son of a bitch, will you?"
Fournier, who'd suffered his second severe shock in less than a minute, didn't seem to know quite what to make of our business discussion, although he was clearly not amused by it. Still, the expression on his triangular face was almost comical. He kept blinking very rapidly, as if in disbelief, and his thin lips were again pressed together so tightly that white, bloodless lines had appeared at the corners of his mouth. His bright, expressive eyes swam with both rage and confusion as he abruptly pressed the blade back against my jugular and moved closer to me to where he was almost lying across my chest. "Drop that gun, Francisco," he said, his deep voice quavering ever so slightly. "If you don't, this man dies right now. I'll slice his head right off."
"Then you'll die too. I'll give you both barrels right in the gut."
Francisco's tone was perfectly even, steadier than Fournier's. I was impressed. I said, "Just shoot him, Francisco."
"I can't do that without risk of hitting you, sir. The shells are loaded with buckshot. I don't know much about guns, and I didn't want to take a chance on missing the target if I did have to shoot."
"If you'll pardon the expression, Francisco, I can live with that risk. He won't back off because he has everything to lose, and we can't hang around here all night. That's what he wants. He knows that the longer you stand there holding that big gun, the heavier it's going to start to feel. The muscles in your hands and arms will begin to cramp. He figures that sooner or later you'll lose your aim or drop your guard. Then he'll slit my throat and try to duck away behind the tables. So drop the bastard now while you've got the chance, before your muscles start to get sore. I'm your boss, and I'm ordering you to stop worrying about me and pull the fucking trigger."
"Belay that order, Francisco," my brother said quietly.
"You didn't have to tell me that, Garth," Francisco said dryly. "Now that I'm a permanent associate investigator, I have to make critical decisions like that myself."
I watched Fournier's Adam's apple bob up and down. "He's as insane as the two of you," he said in a strained whisper.
I grunted. "Must be something in the air at the brownstone."
"He makes clever remarks when you're about to die!"
"No, he makes clever remarks when you're about to die."
The pressure of the knife blade against my throat increased ever so slightly. "Make him put the gun down, Frederickson," he whispered hoarsely, his mouth close to my ear. "Otherwise, I'll slaughter you like a pig. If he does put the gun down, I'll leave here without hurting you."
"Go fuck yourself, Professor. First of all, you lie, and even if you weren't a liar I don't want you going anywhere. You're the voodoo master; you make him put the gun down. Cast a spell on him. If you were really a voodoo master instead of a weirdo who jerks off thinking about dead bodies, that's what you'd do. Go on, Fournier; voodoo him."
Fournier lifted his head away from my chest and stared down at me. Strange shadows moved in his midnight eyes, and his expression changed. I couldn't tell what he was thinking, but the razor edge of the knife blade remained pressed snugly against my carotid artery.
"Be careful, shithead," Garth said, chuckling. "Watch out for my brother. I'm telling you he's a silver-tongued devil. He can talk people into anything, and right now he's trying to talk you into getting yourself killed."
"Shit, Garth," I said. "There you go again, letting the cat out of the bag. You take all the fun out of things."
"I just like to see you fight fair, Mongo. You're the only sorcerer in this room, but this shithead doesn't realize it. I just thought he should be given fair warning of who he's up against."
"You're such a spoilsport."
"Fournier, I'm warning you that you'd better think twice before you do anything my brother suggests, because, even strapped to that table, he has more personal power and will than you've ever had, or will have. All you've got is a knife, a hard-on, and a line of bullshit. Let him into your head, and you're a goner."
"Spoilsport, spoilsport."
"So let's stop fucking around here, Fournier. As things now stand, two of us are going to die here tonight-Mongo, when you think the time is right and you suddenly cut his throat, and you when Francisco shows you what a mistake you've made and blows a hole through your chest. That will leave just Francisco and me to put an end to this assassination business and then spread the word that Dr.
Guy Fournier, renowned hero to millions of Haitians, was never more than a flunky murderer for the CIA and a corpse-fucker, and really stupid to boot. There's no point in killing my brother, because it means instant death for you. What's the point? Give it up. You'd have saved yourself all this extra aggravation if you'd just followed my brother's suggestion in the first place and surrendered. Like Mongo said, we'll see that you're safely tucked away somewhere. Just think of how much fun you'll have testifying before Congress and curling the toes of all those pompous, chickenshit politicians."
Somewhat to my surprise, the Haitian appeared to be giving it some thought. "It's too late to stop the assassinations," he said at last in a throaty whisper. "There won't be any congressional committees to testify to. They'll kill me."
I cleared my throat. "Oh, don't be such a pessimist, Professor. I think Garth has made some excellent points. The president and vice president may already be dead, but don't forget that William P. Kranes isn't going to remain in office very long once Garth and Francisco leave here and the whole story comes out. Maybe I won't talk you into killing yourself after all. Why don't we all just walk out of here together, and Garth and I will introduce you to some of our FBI acquaintances. Garth's right; they'll fall all over themselves when they hear the dirt you have to dish on the CIA. And we promise not to tell anyone you're just a silly old corpse-fucker. What do you say? Ollie Ollie in come free?"
He didn't have anything to say, at least not for some time. Finally he leaned close once again and whispered in my ear, "You and your brother make fun of me. You don't think it can be done, do you?"
"Uh … I don't think what can be done?"
Fournier, still keeping the knife blade pressed to my throat, straightened up and turned toward Francisco. "You're Roman Catholic, aren't you?"
"Yes," Francisco replied evenly.
Fournier very slowly reached across my body with his free hand, pressed my right arm back down on the marble, closed the leather strap around my bleeding wrist, and buckled it tightly. "Do you know that I'm a Roman Catholic priest, Francisco?" His voice was once again confident and steady, low and soothing.
"You were a priest. I don't think the Holy Father would approve of your activities."
"Once a priest, my son, always a priest. No matter what your reason, kill me and you'll burn forever in the fires of hell. You'll have committed a mortal sin in killing me, a sin made even more grievous by the fact that the man you murdered was a priest. There can be no forgiveness."
Incredibly, Guy Fournier-prodded by Garth's masterful, if off-the-wall, goading-seemed to be taking up my challenge to persuade Francisco to put down the shotgun.
"Watch out, Francisco," I said through clenched teeth, drawing in my chin as far as I could in an effort to ease the pressure of the knife blade on my carotid artery. "He's making a run at your head."
"I'm aware of that, sir."
"Shoot him, don't talk to him."
"Not yet, Francisco," Garth said softly. "He's still too close to Mongo."
"I know, Garth."
"Do you want to burn in hell, Francisco?"
"You're to drop the knife, release those restraints, and then move away from the tables. Then nobody has to die."
"You're also homosexual, aren't you?"