Far Side of the Shadow Screen by M. Thomas Champion - HTML preview

The desk clerk, a meeker younger man wearing the standard issue black slacks, white shirt, black tie, pasted smile, polished wing-tips, etc; expected of the over-seas Hilton staff quickly deferred to his supervisor's authority. Stepping back from the desk he melted into the hush fallen over the lobby.

"You, sir," the manager repeated pointed directly at Grant, "what seems to be the problem?"

"The problem is your dim-witted employee here," Peter yelled. "I asked him to ring Professor Ronald Miller's room for me and he says there is no Professor Miller registered at the hotel. I start up to my room and he demands to know where I'm going. I answer, like it is any of his business to begin with, and he says I'm not registered in my room. Now, I come to these backward third world countries and expect to see a lot of that, but not at the Hilton. You people are supposed to be more like us, at least trained to be. So, I'm very tired. I am going up to my room, take a shower, and crash for the rest of the week. I don't expect to be bothered. And I want Professor Miller notified that I've returned."

"But, sir, you are not registered in Room 302. The head of your party, Professor Miller, I believe, checked you out when he left this morning."

"Shit! He checked me out of the hotel! Why? Did he say why? Where did he go?"

"He left instructions to forward all correspondence to an address on Bali. He gave me an envelope to give to you, if you returned.”

"If I returned! Fucking head hunters, snake infested jungles, wizards, warlocks... If I returned…  Returned his ass… When I get my hands on that bastard….  Checked out to go to Bali… Gayle….That old son of a bitch… Give me the damn envelope; and a room."

"I am sorry Mr. Grant, but all our rooms are full."

Peter reached in his back pocket and withdrew the Armani billfold his mother had sent for Christmas. He pulled out his American Express Platinum Card, laying it on the desk without a word. When nothing ensued he yanked off his left Nike and slammed the Franklin next to the credit card.

"Except for the Sukarno Suite," the manager said picking up both items. "Front, show Mr. Grant to his room."

*****

The packet Peter had been given contained travel vouchers, an address on Bali, and a brief letter of explanation. Miller's growing concerns about Gayle demanded a swift course of action. It seemed she might have been placed in a dangerous position, so he wrapped up his own project on Java and flew out to check up on her. If Peter needed them, they were staying at the home of Gayle's Balinese guide, a man named Njoman. If not, his next assignment involved studying pig farmers on Sumatra...

Grant imagined the dangerous position Miss O'Connor might have been placed in. Missionary came to mind, but not in any religious sense. Sumatra? Isn’t that where the man eating dragons lived? No way am I going to Sumatra.

A commercial island hopper operated between Jakarta and Bali with a flight later that same afternoon. Americans and Europeans made up most of the traffic, living out their South Pacific fantasies. Grant didn't share in the excitement. Lost in his own nightmares he saw a frightened and bewildered Gayle comforted in the arms of Ron Miller. There lay an innocent, naive, vulnerable young woman in need of protection. Not the latex rubber kind, mind you; and with her a putrid, vile old man doing all the things Peter Grant longed to be the first to do. It made him sick thinking about it. The flight stretched on forever.

*****

We can teach these people to build A-bombs, Grant thought in disgust, but we can't show them how to put numbers on the front of their houses. This must be the UPS man's idea of Hell. "Hey, kid," he shouted at a boy of ten or twelve chasing chickens in a yard. "You speak English? No? Nobody speaks English in this damn country unless they want a Hershey Bar. You want a Hershey Bar? Look, American girl? You see American girl?"

The boy laughed when Peter cupped his hands to imitate female breasts.

"Njoman? You know where this Njoman dude lives, kid?"

The laughter vanished and the child began to back away. Peter grabbed him by the arms realizing there had been recognition with the name.

"Njoman? Where? Come on, kid, I'm not going to hurt you; just point. This way? That way?"

The child raised a hand and indicated a compound just visible in the distance. Grant dug into his pockets extracting a shiny new quarter which he pressed into the child's palm and then, releasing the youth, he ran toward the far off house.

An eerie silence blanketed the compound. With no one around to give permission or take offense Grant slipped quietly through the gate and walked toward the largest residence. The kris in his waistband burned against his skin. He knew it was silly, but he felt more confident with the knife there close at hand rather than in his flight bag. Power.... Moving onto the porch he called out a tentative greeting. No response. The dagger stung him.

"Hello," he called and lightly rapped the door frame. The door swung inward of its own accord inviting, enticing him to enter. The knife seared his flesh and he pulled it from his back, sheath and all.

There is a tiny voice all humans are blessed or cursed with residing deep in the primal conscience hidden beneath the cerebral cortex where it sleeps only to rise on those occasions when it must remind us that we know better. The voice whispers to us how foolish it would be to touch the red and black wires simultaneously, the kettle resting on the stove has most likely just been used, lost dogs aren't all friendly, never take candy from a stranger, and there is no such thing as slightly spoiled milk.

A thousand millennia we heeded this tiny voice for we were small, weak creatures who only survived because we tasted as bad as we smelled. The world was fraught with danger. Meekness gave us our evolutionary edge over the powerful. We inherited the earth. And now we know better. We ignore the little voice, don't we?

"Gayle, are you in there? Mr. Njoman? Professor Miller, can you hear me? If anybody's in there, I'm coming in so don't shoot. I'm unarmed and just looking for two American friends. Moving through the door he pulled the kris from its sheath, dropping the rest of his gear in the corner. The silent search, dagger gripped firmly in his right hand, continued from room to room. Near the back of the house he heard a long low guttural groan off to his left. He knew that sound. He had heard it in the Death house, the last release a dying spirit made escaping a human body. The sound existed beneath the conscious level of words, a noise on the edge of life and death, a cry of despair and ecstasy. Peter readied his knife and plunged through the drapery covering the doorway.

"Holy Shit! Holy fucking shit. Gayle?" he stammered. "Professor Miller? Oh, shit. How could you? And with him? Holy fucking shit."

"Grant, would you mind leaving so we might at least get dressed?" Miller asked.

"You can fuck behind my back, but you can't get dressed in front of me?"  The dagger sparked, flamed; its pusaka thirsting. "I can't believe you. That shit you wrote, coming over here to check on her problems. You set the whole thing up, didn't you? You had me running my ass off all over Indonesia while you waited for her to get homesick and lonely. Then you rush to the rescue like Superman, like a big hero. You're pathetic."

"I don't have to listen to that, young man," Miller said rising from the mat. "My affairs are none of your concern."

"Excellent choice of words, Professor," Peter replied. "Kind of wish I'd said it. But I'm making it my concern. I'm a few years younger, but you're in pretty good shape and we're about the same size. So let's step outside and settle it man to man; unless you're scared, Miller."

"Oh, Peter," Gayle said rising and wrapping a blanket around herself, "Ron's old enough to be your father."

"Does everybody have to steal my lines," Grant demanded.

"It takes two men to fight man to man and you are acting like a child. Stop it," she retorted.

Grant threw the kris at the floor. "Right here, man; come on, you son of a bitch, right here. Fight me now, damn it."

"Kid," Miller said dropping his hands, "I won't fight you. I never meant for this to happen. It just did. I can't explain it; don't really think I have to. I don’t understand it. I'm confused about the thing myself. But we are all just going to have to deal with it. That's all. I hope you aren't too upset."

"Upset? Me? No, I'm ecstatic. Why shouldn't I be? I bust my butt in the jungle so we win a Nobel Prize and how do you thank me? You jump the bones of the woman I love. I don't believe it. I saw it with my own fucking eyes and I still don't believe you two did this to me."

“You didn't see anything, Peter," Gayle said.

"I saw him naked on top of you. I know what comes next."

"We were just kissing, not that it's any of your business," she answered. "Ron knows better than to start groping and prodding a woman. He's no drunken schoolboy."

“Christ, Gayle, he's old enough to be your father. Okay, we already established that. But, Christ, he's old enough to be your father. You like them wrinkled and dry? And the bastard seduced you. You don't even look like you. Are you on ’X’? I know that flush, the rush, the wide eyes. He got you stoned."

"Ron doesn't need drugs or deceptions, he's a real man. He knows..."

"Hey, you two; knock it off. I don't relish having my love life or sexual techniques bantered about for public debate. Gayle's right, Peter, this isn't any of your business. But you feel an explanation is due. I came here worried about Gayle. Something happened. I'm not sure what. I’m not sure how. But we haven't been having a long drawn out affair behind your back. This is the first time. There is nothing sinister or underhanded going on, just two people who found each other and hope we find some happiness. We haven't even talked about the future. I am sort of an old fashioned type. I believe in love and marriage, truth and honesty. I would never lie to you, Grant, or take advantage of Gayle."

"That's supposed to pacify me?" Peter shouted. "The fact you haven't fucked her yet makes everything okay? I’m supposed to be happy that you are going to stand up and do right by her? Don't bet on it. I'll wager the Board of Regents will be interested in your little fairy tale. As will Ms. O'Connor's dear old mother."

"Don't threaten me, kid. I've tried to explain. I didn't have to, but it doesn't matter. It's none of your concern now anyway. Get out. Get out of my sight before I forget you are only a stupid punk kid and treat you like the man you wish you were."

Miller walked nose to nose with Grant, staring into the younger man's eyes. "Out," he screamed shoving the youth backwards. As Grant stumbled he tried to punch. Miller avoided the blow and shoved again. Off balance, Peter fell crashing into a low table. Rolling off, he righted himself and ran at the older man. Miller deftly dodged the attack, spinning Grant around and throwing him through the thatched wall into the outer room.

"You're a running back, Grant. You never could make a tackle. Give it up. I'm going to hurt you if you don't quit."

Wiping the trickle of blood from his nose, Grant rose and charged again. He caught Miller around the waist and tried to drive him to the ground. The professor stood fast, braced for the attack, and slammed his cupped hands down over Grant's ears, then brought his knee up into the boy's chest. Peter dropped to the floor, all the breath knocked out of him.

"Quit," Miller pleaded. "You are never going to lay a hand on me. You can’t learn to fight watching episodes of Ultimate Fighter on cable TV. While you were watching Sesame Street I was learning hand to hand combat in the military. You spent your youth learning to beat linebackers one on one. I learned to kill people. You don't stand a chance in Hell. Give it up, Grant. Quit."

Peter struggled to his feet and stumbled outside. Falling to his knees in the dirt he fought for breath, for dignity against the tears.

"I'll get you," he screamed. "I'll get both of you. Miller, you hear me? You are a dead man. I'm not through. Hear me, Miller? Nobody does this to me and gets away with it."

*****

An insistent fist banged at the hotel room door. It had been a fitful night and the last thing Grant wanted was company. The bruises on his face still ached. His ego smarted. Again, and this time the knock demanded a reply.

"Go away," he shouted, "I don't want any."

"Police, Mr. Grant, please open the door. If you do not open it we will have the manager open it for us.”

Police? Definitely don't want any. Miller wouldn't? Shit, I’m the one that got beat up, not him. I'm licking the wounds while he's back there licking...

"Mr. Peter Grant?" came again with a determined tone.

"What's up guys?" Peter asked with his best Cheshire cat grin. "You caught me on the toilet and ..."

"I am formally requesting that you please get dressed, Mr. Grant. We have a warrant for your arrest and are taking you into custody," the officer replied. Both the policeman and his companion were dressed in short-sleeved blue shirts and knee length blue walking shorts. They wore hats that resembled the kind American airplane pilots wore and aviator sunglasses. Neither weighed more than130 pounds and Grant was sure he could outrun either since they both were shod in heavy black oxfords. Neither policeman carried a firearm. But swimming back to L.A. didn't seem like a practical idea either. There are times when it is time for diplomacy.

"Arrest? You got to be kidding me. Hell, I didn't know they were in there fucking. How could I? I got a little bit crazy. You would too if you saw your mama san naked with some other man. Maybe I said a few things I didn't mean. I got upset. You understand? So what have we got; invasion of privacy or disorderly conduct? I wasn’t creating a public spectacle because I was indoors until he threw me out.  That’s not such a big deal. Look, let me talk to Miller. I'm sure we can straighten this whole thing out without a lot of trouble. Okay?"

"Professor Ronald Miller is dead. We found him stabbed in the back with a kris identified as belonging to you. Peter Grant, I arrest you for the murder of Professor Ronald Miller. "

"No, no, no, no. No way. That's crazy man. I didn't kill anybody. Get away from me. Stay back, I mean it. Ask Gayle. Gayle was there. She can tell you. Sure, we fought, but he beat the shit out of me. Ask her. Look for yourself. You think these are self-inflicted bruises?"

"We are looking for Miss O'Connor. She has disappeared and we expect foul play."

Foul play? The man's not talking baseball here. He thinks I offed Miller and probably Gayle too. Oh, shit, my kris? Addressing the policeman again he said, "Miller was alive when I left, or rather when he threw me out. I dropped my knife in the house before the fight. I left it there. Anybody could have found it. Did you check it for fingerprints?" Peter asked frantically.

"The handle had been wiped clean. Now, please get dressed."

"I want a lawyer… "

"Sir, you may call your embassy from the station house after you are processed. I'm sure they will arrange counsel for you. Now, dress. We wish to avoid force, but will use it if necessary."

*****

They booked Grant on an open charge of murder and threw him in a cell with a cast of characters who could have been the stand-ins for Motley Crew. Sitting in the corner, Peter tried to look like the two-time loser he now was and hoped his previous experience with the correctional system and penal institutions made him look tougher than he felt.

A year ago he had been visiting friends in Santa Monica spending a pleasant day smoking pot and downing tequila shooters. Driving home the munchies had kicked in and the sight of a Sonic Drive-in promised relief; a Sonic double meat, double cheese and a side of tater tots with a 44 ounce cherry limeade; heaven in a paper bag and a waxed cup. Pulling up to the speaker to place his order there was a momentary brain fart resulting in confusion between the motor neurons governing the lower extremities. As a result the Porsche shot forward and came to rest between the deep fat fryer, a large fat fry cook, and the shake machine. Several pressurized soda lines were severed and Peter's first response was a frantic attempt to raise the convertible top and avoid the suddenly inclement weather. Returning to the driver's seat he found the passenger side filled with a lifetime supply of tater tots. Frantically punching the button on the shake machine to report that someone had forgotten his burger and limeade, Peter only succeeded in burying the Carrera's front-end in a chocolate-vanilla swirl.

When the police arrived and demanded his license and registration Peter awoke and politely requested, "How much do I owe ya? Here, you keep the change."

He spent 48 hours in the Santa Monica jail before one of his father’s corporate lawyers arranged bail. His private cell had a single bunk, a stainless steel sink and commode, air-conditioning and color television with cable. It was actually a lot nicer than a few motels he'd used by the hour on social occasions.

The jail on Bali was less commodious. The shirtless, toothless fellow sitting on the bare concrete floor next to him appeared to be an ex-entomologist fascinated in both the appearance and taste of the three inch long cockroaches infesting the cell. Next to the gourmandizing bug-man were two men lying prone. Although unconscious they still held vice-like grips on each other's bloodied forms. Across the cell was a passably attractive female hooker somewhere in her mid-thirties. Passably attractive until she pulled her knees to her chest and a full set of hairy male genitalia was exposed beneath the neon pink mini-skirt. Three men engaged in a spirited argument concerning the transsexual who occupied the other corner.

Bug-man kept offering Peter samples of the night's entrees. The hooker, now sporting a raging erection openly offered Peter an inviting smile. The argument escalated to pushing and shoving. Having regained awareness, one of the combatants from the floor searched his opponent's inert form for cigarettes. A steel door slammed in the distance and hollow steps reverberating in the hallway grew nearer.

"Peter Grant, my name is Mike Davenport. I am with the State Department. It looks like you've gotten yourself in some deep shit, son." A hand extended through the bars and Peter rose to shake it.

 "I didn't do anything, Mr. Davenport, except put faith in the wrong people and show up at the right time."

"Did you kill them?"

"What the hell kind of a question is that? I thought you were supposed to be on my side."

"I am, but I need to know the truth. It won't change my job, maybe the way I go about it. So, did you do it?"

"No!”

"Fine, I believe you. Let's see if we can convince the judge of that and we will have you out of here real quick. Tell me everything you remember. Don't leave out any detail."

Over the next two hours Peter related his story to Davenport in all the rich graphic detail he recalled. The agent took notes, nodded in acceptance, called for explanations. Peter finished and the room fell silent. He held his breath, not wanting to break the older man's concentration.

"We're up shit creek unless you can give me more than this, son."

"But I'm innocent. I didn't do it."

"We can't prove that. They have neighbors who witnessed the fight."

''Nobody set foot inside the hut but the three of us."

"They heard and that's good enough. And they heard you threaten him, call him a dead man. Hell, boy, they found your knife buried to the hilt in the man's back, stuck clean through him, severing his spinal column in the process."

"That's all circumstantial evidence. They can't convict a man on that."

"You've been watching too many Perry Mason reruns, kid," Davenport said with a sad chuckle. "Besides, this isn't the good old USA. They don't get many murder trials here. You are going to prison unless we can prove you didn't do it. Or we have to give them something they want more to let you go. You understand what I mean by a carrot?"

"My dad's company, Grant Electronics, has an assembly plant in Singapore. It probably does three, four hundred million dollars worth of business a year. Is that something like what you had in mind?"

"Pete, I see the heart and soul of a politician in you. Or their absence," Davenport laughed. "That might give us just enough leverage to have the charges waved and get you deported as an undesirable alien. You would be off the hook, but you could never come back. Best I can do under the circumstances."

"Do it. Get me out of here. I don't care if I never see this place again."

"I'll get you moved too. You'll be okay. Just sit tight, ya hear?"

*****

Grant spent another sleepless night in the holding cell. He had been housed separately from the other prisoners in deference to State Department requests. But it was still a jail and he refused to relax or lower his guard for a second.

"Damn it, Davenport," Peter screamed as the embassy man approached, "I don't pay you to leave me in here all night."

"You don't pay me period," Davenport laughed. "Relax, you're home free. I have a car waiting to take you to the airport. It seems like your family name carries a good deal of weight in certain political circles. The Malaysians were most anxious to use their influence in this area when our government contacted them on your father's behalf. Something about a new semiconductor plant coming their way? They had their ambassador fly here to Bali and speak with the local governor, persuading him to release you in the name of better relations with the west. The locals were pretty dazzled. Now we have to get you back on U.S. soil before they get the star dust out of their eyes."

"I'm all for that. The sooner I put some distance between me and this hell hole the better. Do I need to pack?" Peter asked as they headed outside.

"We gathered up your gear on the way over, next stop for you is Manila and then back to the States. So get a move on. These people have been known to change their minds."

The limo bearing diplomatic plates raced off toward the airfield. The countryside blurred past the windows as the events of the previous two days whirled in Peter's mind. Who killed Miller? Why? Where is Gayle? I'm going home. It's none of my concern. Probably had something to do with him sticking his nose where it didn't belong; or something else in some local's daughter. That dirty old son of a bitch. They deserved each other.

"Is Gayle getting out too?" Peter asked.

"We haven't found her yet, Peter. To tell you the truth, we are starting to think she may have been the one who killed the professor. There's been no word, no trace of her since his death. We are operating on the scenario that she couldn't handle the situation and opted for a lover's murder-suicide. Odds are she took a long one-way swim in the clear blue Pacific. That's what the locals do and she was getting pretty deep into the local culture."

"Who came up with that shit? That's stupid. No way. There is no way she killed Miller," Peter protested. "She was the most stable person I've ever known. She would never kill herself. And not in the ocean, not drowning. We used to surf together. She swims like a fish. She did marathons, man. She'd hit Hawaii before she gave out."

"Then why not come forward?" Davenport asked.

"Did it dawn on you guys maybe she witnessed the killing? She's probably being held prisoner. Isn't anybody looking for her?"

 "The Bali police have conducted an extensive search of the island..."

"Great, an American citizen is in mortal danger and you buttheads send in the Keystone Cops."

"Our hands are tied, Peter. If she shows, we can act. Until then, we have no jurisdiction. There's nothing we can do."

As they rounded a corner Peter pushed Davenport away, grabbed the door handle and tumbled out of the car. The driver skidded to a halt, but the youth disappeared into the underbrush.

"God damn it," Davenport roared. "Grant, get back here. I saved your ass once. I can't guarantee it again. Grant! Peter? There's nothing you can do. Shit." Shoving the driver and slamming his hands on the roof Davenport shouted," Well, don't sit there, let's go." Under his breath he mumbled glumly, “This isn't going to look good on my record.

*****

If I were an Indonesian terrorist who had just killed an American college professor and kidnapped a beautiful, naked American co-ed, what would I do next? No, don't even think that. Deductive reasoning is what I need now. God, I don't know anything about what was going on, who they came in contact with. I'm up Shit Creek. I should have gone home...Home... contacts... They were s