The skull made a show of waiting for his reply, mock-listening for words that did not come. The old man cackled merrily. “Cat’s got your tongue, I see! Understandable. You’ve come such a long way. I will confess, it has been many years since I visited New Amsterdam—I hear it is much changed. Harlem Village is now home to the cream of Negro society!” Another chuckle. “I’ve never met a Harlemite of such substantial means before. You must forgive us, Mister Locke, if our country manners here in Carolina seem rough and quaint by comparison.”
The wheelchair squealed and the skull retreated from view, moving along the length of the table.
“Where are we?” James grated out the words as the old mummy rolled away, teeth clenched with pain. “Where have you taken us?”
“Why, this is my home, Mister Locke!” The wheels rolled on toward Tommy. “You may not know it, but the Baird family has run the finest funeral home in Buncombe County since before the Civil War.”
James turned his head, trying to look over to Tommy. The Baird family? Is this person related to you?
“This old place was once my residence and my place of business. I have not practiced the mortuary arts since the turn of the century, of course, but… these old rooms still have their uses!”
Tommy tried to speak. “Eeaz, zuh. Eeeaz zeh ick oh.” Please sir. Please let him go.
The old man laughed again. “I’m afraid that’s out of the question, young Thomas! But I’ll tell you what. If you’re fond of this one, we’ll keep him. You’ll need a place to stay, after all, when you take me in!”
Tommy gagged in a deep breath and wailed in denial, flexing and twisting on the table. There was something crazed and mindless about his struggle, like a fish flopping in the dry leaves.
“Wait,” James rasped, trying to distract the old man. He knew instinctively that whatever he was about to do to Tommy would be horrible. “My family has money. I’ll pay you.” He coughed blood, swallowed it grimly, and tried again. “I’ll give you a thousand dollars to let us go.”
“Will you now?” The skull wheeled about, leering over the humped shoulder like a Halloween mask. “Is that what your life is worth, Mister Locke? Your body, your soul? Ransomed for a few portraits of Benjamin Franklin on cheap green paper?”
Confused, he tried again. “What do you want? Whatever it is, I’ll give it to you.”
The skull grinned. “Why, yes. I believe you will, Mister Locke. Young Thomas certainly gave me everything I asked, and more! I’ve missed him since he ran away, more than I can say.”
The old man turned back toward Tommy’s table. “I cannot thank you enough for returning my beloved nephew to the fold, Mister Locke. If not for you, I don’t believe he would have come within a hundred miles of here. Why, without your very special relationship… I might well have died.”
A withered hand reached out toward Tommy’s face. The old man ran a palsied fingertip over the drool-slick chin and trailed it along Tommy’s lower lip. He bent forward, bringing his face in close to Tommy’s, shoulders hunched.
“Stop it! Don’t touch him.” James felt his mouth fill with red copper as he struggled against the straps, trying to work his arms free.
The old man ignored him. “Now then,” he crooned to Tommy. “Let’s get reacquainted, shall we?”
Tommy shuddered and squirmed at every touch, desperately trying to prevent contact with his skin, but it was no use. One gaunt hand closed around his throat, the other stroked his sweating, weeping face tenderly. “There’s a lad.” He sounded almost gentle. “You remember. Breathing in… breathing out.”
Tommy’s eyes rolled up into his head, the whites showing stark as his muscles locked into rigor and began to shake. His whole body trembled, an earthquake ripping through muscle and bone. His breath roared in and out of his chest in huge gusts, like a bellows.
“Stop it!” His shout was an agonized gasp. He was crying now himself. “You’re killing him!”
Tommy lay flat on his back on the table, his chest rising and falling, the blood visibly pounding in his temples. The old man unbuckled one of his wrists and tilted his head back, like a doctor trying to clear the airway of a patient having a fit.
The horrible liquid gurgling sound began, coming now from Tommy’s open mouth, as if some invisible thick slime was pouring down his throat. His tremors increased in strength one last time, his heels drumming the table top like fists on a tin roof. Then he was quiet—his breath had stopped.
James held his own breath, paralyzed with horror, until Tommy’s lungs filled with a sudden clear whoop of air. The old man slumped back in his wheelchair as Tommy breathed in deep.
“Tommy?” James whispered. “Are you… okay…?”
Tommy answered with a low, deep groan of pleasure.
One hand had been unbuckled from the leather cuff. He reached up now with that free hand, slipped the retaining band of the dental gag up over the back of his head, and carefully removed the appliance from his face. When he had teased it out of his mouth, he tossed it casually on the metal tray beside the table.
“Woo! God Almighty, what a thrill. It never pales.”
James felt his breath catch in his throat, going shallow and rough. Tommy always had a Southern accent. He’s playing with you. Doing an impression.
Tommy’s movements were swift and sure as he unbuckled the strap around his chest, then rolled to free his right hand, and sat up to unbuckle his legs.
He tried again. “Tommy?”
Tommy looked over at him, his eyes blazing brilliant blue as he swung his bare legs off the side of the table. “Never fear, Mister Locke! Tommy Baird is right as rain.” He ran his hands over his naked anatomy with almost gluttonous delight. “Tommy Baird…will do very nicely indeed.”
He hopped down lightly, stood on his tiptoes, and threw up his arms in a long, balletic stretch. At the peak of the movement he laughed out loud, so full of triumph and joy that James almost wanted to smile with him—he had never seen Tommy this happy before.
“Tom…” James hesitated. “Can you help me with these cuffs?”
Tommy dropped his arms to his sides and smirked. “No…I’m afraid you’ll have to sit tight for a bit longer, Mister Locke. I have some business to attend to.”
“What…?” James flexed his hands into fists. “Are you kidding? Let me out of these straps, Tom!”
Tommy chuckled. “Might do, yes.” He spoke lightly. “Eventually. But not before I’ve applied myself to a fine steak, a bottle of brandy, a pitcher of good cream and a nice, big slice of pecan pie.” He licked his lips and smiled. “One must have priorities!”
He strode to the door, confident and careless in his nudity as a Greek statue. “Be a peach and wait patiently, won’t you?” He turned to look back over his shoulder. “If you need something to occupy your mind, Mister Locke, I’ll tell you a secret. The rats in this basement get mighty bold, when the lights are out. Back in my undertaker days, I used to keep a nigger down here at night to guard the bodies. Keep them from chewing on my clientele.” His eyes danced with humor. “Those coloured boys carried a broom and a coal shovel, but they were always getting bit.”
Then he flipped the light switch and closed the door, leaving James in darkness.
He waited a full minute before he closed his eyes, and let the tears of rage flow freely. Even in the midst of those tears he struggled for control, breath hissing between his teeth, trying to calm himself and think, damnit. Think.