Hidden Agendas Part 10

But on the nightstand was a red pillow, and upon the pillow was a kris kris inside a wooden and bra.s.s sheath. inside a wooden and bra.s.s sheath.

Toni knew what it was. She had done some reading about Indonesia, curious about the country that fostered the martial art she studied, and while she had never trained with a kris kris, she had played with plenty of knives.

She picked the weapon up. She couldn't tell from the sheath what the shape of the blade was, but the typical Javanese kris kris was a foot to a foot and a half long-this one looked to be maybe fifteen or sixteen inches-and had a wavy, undulating double-edged blade, made of layers of forged, hand-hammered steel. Thus, like the swords of Damascus or the samurai was a foot to a foot and a half long-this one looked to be maybe fifteen or sixteen inches-and had a wavy, undulating double-edged blade, made of layers of forged, hand-hammered steel. Thus, like the swords of Damascus or the samurai katana katana, the final knife had a grain, a pattern in the welded metal itself.

She hurried back into the living room, wanting to hear the rest of Guru's story.

Guru traded the weapon for her empty coffee cup, which Toni quickly refilled.

"My great-uncle Ba Pa had no sons, only daughters, and when it came time for my grandfather to become a man and receive his kris kris, this is the one he inherited. It had been in the family from my great-uncle's father's father's father's time."

With that, the old woman drew the knife from the wooden sheath and held it up.

It was an undulate blade, a ribbon of steel with six or seven curves on either side, narrowing from a wide base under a slightly curved and short pistol-like handle to a sharp point. The metal was black, it had a dull, matte look, and on one side there was a little loop of steel protruding under the inside of the guard, almost like a tiny tree branch. On the other side of the blade were tiny, jagged teeth-like points.

"In the days when spirits were still powerful in Java, this kris kris had much had much hantu hantu-much magic." She waved the weapon. "It has thirteen luk dapor luk dapor, thirteen curves, and the pamor pamor is called is called udan-mas; udan-mas; it means 'golden rain.' Here, you see?" it means 'golden rain.' Here, you see?"

Guru pointed at the pattern in the metal, which looked like little drops of rain had spattered upon dry ground.

"This kris kris was supposed to bring good fortune and money for its owner. was supposed to bring good fortune and money for its owner.

"Some believe a good kris kris could kill slowly an enemy simply by stabbing his shadow-or even his footprints. If an enemy approached, a good could kill slowly an enemy simply by stabbing his shadow-or even his footprints. If an enemy approached, a good kris kris would rattle in its sheath, to warn its owner of danger. The sight of the naked blade would turn a hungry tiger in its tracks. According to my great-uncle's grandfather, this would rattle in its sheath, to warn its owner of danger. The sight of the naked blade would turn a hungry tiger in its tracks. According to my great-uncle's grandfather, this kris kris once flew from its sheath like the once flew from its sheath like the garwk garwk and cut the wrist of a thief trying to enter his house during the dark of the moon." and cut the wrist of a thief trying to enter his house during the dark of the moon."

Guru smiled. "Of course, some of these old stories might have become embellished with the telling."

She returned the weapon to its sheath and held it in both hands on her lap, her coffee now growing cold on the doily upon the small table next to her chair.

"My grandfather gave this to my father when he became a man, and my father gave it to my only brother when he he became a man." She stared into s.p.a.ce, remembering. "My brother died in the war against the j.a.panese before he could begin a family. Many of our young men died in that war. My father had no sons, no nephews after that war. So the became a man." She stared into s.p.a.ce, remembering. "My brother died in the war against the j.a.panese before he could begin a family. Many of our young men died in that war. My father had no sons, no nephews after that war. So the kris kris came to be mine." came to be mine."

They sat quietly for a moment.

"I bore my husband three sons and a daughter. Two of my sons live, and I have six grandsons and a great-grandson, and two granddaughters. My sons are old men, my grandsons are teachers and lawyers and businessmen, my granddaughters are a teacher and a doctor. They are a fine family, successful, scattered all over the country, and they are all good Americans. There is no wrong in this.

"But of all my family, none have studied the arts. Well, no, I do have a grandson in Arizona who plays tae kwon do, and one of my sons does tai chi to keep his joints limber, but none of them have studied silat silat. You are my student, the holder of my lineage, and so now, this kris kris now belongs to you." now belongs to you."

The old woman held the dagger out on the palms of her hands to Toni.

Toni knew this was no small thing for Guru, and she had no thought for refusing. She knelt in front of the old woman and took the weapon in both of her hands. "Thank you, Guru. I am honored."

The old woman smiled, tobacco stains on her teeth. "Well you should say so, child, and a credit to my teaching that you should know know to say so. I could not have wished for a better student. You should keep this on the red silk pillow near the head of your bed when you sleep," she said, waving at the to say so. I could not have wished for a better student. You should keep this on the red silk pillow near the head of your bed when you sleep," she said, waving at the kris kris. "It may make an American lover nervous, though." She giggled.

Toni looked down at the smooth wood of the sheath. Why was Guru giving this to her now? She had a sudden chill.

"Guru, you aren't... I mean, your health isn't...?"

The old woman laughed. "No, I'm not ready to leave just yet. But you have more need of the hantu hantu than I do. I have had a full life, and you are still unmarried. A woman your age needs to think of such things. It is a magic blade, after all, than I do. I have had a full life, and you are still unmarried. A woman your age needs to think of such things. It is a magic blade, after all, kah kah?"

Toni smiled. "More coffee, Guru?"

"Just half a cup. And tell me more of this young man who has yet to recognize your spirit. Maybe together we can find a way to wake him."

Chapter Thirteen.

Sat.u.r.day, December 25th, 6:30 a.m. Alexandria, Virginia Julio Fernandez went to early ma.s.s at St. Gerard's, in Alexandria. He sat in the back of the small church, listening to Father Alvarez drone on in a dull monotone broken only occasionally by a louder "Lord," which tended to rouse the sleepy congregation.

Fernandez was used to being up this early, of course, but usually he'd be moving, doing laps or running the obstacle course or otherwise keeping his blood circulating. Sitting on the hard wooden pew in a too-warm and stuffy building listening to the old priest who could preach this sermon in his sleep-and might well be doing just that-was not a good way to stay alert.

Still, if he hadn't come to ma.s.s, he might have thought about lying to his mother, and he did not want to actually do that. He was on duty and couldn't fly back for Christmas with the relatives. Well, that wasn't strictly true. He could have gotten leave because he had seniority, but there were other men with families locally who needed the time more than he did, so he had volunteered-but he didn't have to tell Mama that. He would call her later today, she would be expecting that. There would be aunts and uncles and at least half of Fernandez's six brothers and two sisters would be there in La Puente at Mama's with their broods, probably b.i.t.c.hing about the El Nino rains forecast to pound southern California. It wasn't as if Mama was going to be rattling around in her house alone; still, she wanted to hear from her children who couldn't get there, and the first question she would ask him after how was he doing would be had he gone to ma.s.s this morning? Mama suspected that her third son was more lapsed than good Catholic, and she was right in that suspicion, but at least he could tell her he had in fact been to early ma.s.s. He could tell her how Father Alvarez, who had once been a parish priest where Mama went to church some forty years ago, looked. Old, Mama, he would say, the man must be at least five or six hundred years old. I kept expecting somebody from the Cairo museum to come in and grab him, to take him back to King Tut's pyramid where he belongs.

Mama would laugh at this, tell him how awful he was, but it would make her happy that he went to ma.s.s, at least on Christmas, and it wasn't too much for a son to do for his mother, was it? One time a year?

So he'd get a few points for this-a.s.suming he didn't doze off on the pew, sleep all day, and completely miss calling home...

Sat.u.r.day, December 25th, 7 a.m.. Boise, Idaho Alexander Michaels rang the doorbell of the house that had once been his. It was a big, wooden, two-story home built in the early 1900's, at the top of a slight rise, with a high front porch at the top of ten broad steps. When the house had been built, it had been just outside what was then the city limits. Boise had engulfed the neighborhood long ago, but the houses along the street were still much as they had been a hundred years past. Outside of a new paint job that matched the old pale blue, and a couple of repaired steps and slats in the porch floor, the house looked the same as he remembered it. The same glider he'd installed when they'd bought the place hung on rusty chains at the south end of the porch, looking out over a somewhat cold rhododendron bush that would blossom a hard pink come the first warm weather. He'd spent some wonderful hours in that squeaky old wooden swing, looking out over that rhoddy bush, listening to the wind play in the big Doug fir trees that shaded the lot.

He heard his daughter's footsteps and her yelling as she raced for the door. "Daddy's here! Daddy's here!"

Susie flung open the door and jumped. With her present under one arm he had to make the catch one-handed, but she helped by wrapping her arms and legs around him and hugging him tight. She wore a pair of red-flannel pajamas and b.u.t.ter-yellow fuzzy slippers. "Daddy!"

"Hey, squirt. How are you?"

"Great! Great! Come in, we've all been waiting on you to open presents!"

Michaels stepped into the house, and what Susie had said registered.

We've all all been waiting for you? Did she mean herself, Megan, and the dog Scout? been waiting for you? Did she mean herself, Megan, and the dog Scout?

Susie slithered down and took off running down the hall for the living room. And sure enough, little Scout, the poodle who thought he was a wolf, came sliding around the corner from the kitchen, scrabbling on the hardwood floor, trying vainly for traction, to greet Michaels. The dog barked once, saw who it was, and wagged his tail so hard Michaels thought he might fall down. Michaels squatted and put the presents down as Scout ran and jumped into his arms.

Two for two, he thought.

As he stood, the little dog licking his face, Megan stepped into the hall from the living room.

Tall and leggy, with long brown hair worn in a ponytail, she was still one of the most beautiful women he had ever known. She wore a black T-s.h.i.+rt and blue jeans, her feet bare. She also looked nervous. "h.e.l.lo, Alex."

"h.e.l.lo, Megan."

"Come on in. Susie is about to pop."

He put the dog down, picked up the presents he had brought, and followed his ex-wife into the living room. Oh, well. Two out of three Oh, well. Two out of three...

They had put up a large tree, an eight-footer, easy to do in a place with such high ceilings. The tree glistened with lights and fake snow and ornaments and tinsel. There was a fire in the wood stove, burning brightly behind the thick gla.s.s. Susie was on her knees under the tree, amidst a pile of wrapped gifts, grinning.

And standing by the old plush blue couch was a stranger, a big man with a full beard. He wore jeans and a blue work-s.h.i.+rt and cowboy boots. He looked to be about thirty, a good ten years younger than Alex, and at least five years younger than Megan.

Megan walked over to the bearded man. She slipped her hand under his arm, smiled at him, then turned back to look at Michaels and said, "Byron, this is Alex Michaels, Susie's father. Alex, this is my friend Byron Baumgardner. He's a teacher at Susie's school."

The big man grinned, showing nice, white teeth, and ambled over to take Michaels's hand. "Glad to meet you, Alex. I've heard a lot about you."

Michaels felt his belly twist into a frozen knot. So. This was Byron. He forced a smile as he stuck his hand out. "Byron."

The two men shook hands. Michaels shot a glance at Megan. She had looked nervous, and now he knew why. Here was a nice surprise on Christmas. Meet the new boyfriend. Your replacement.

"Can I open my presents now, can I?"

"Sure, honey," Megan said.

Michaels smiled at Susie as Byron moved over to stand next to Megan. The bearded man put his arm around Megan.

Michaels felt sick. He wished the ground would open up and swallow him. He wanted to be anywhere on the planet instead of here. Anywhere, for any reason.

Sat.u.r.day, December 25th, 11 a.m. Bethesda, Maryland On his back on the bench, Platt squared himself under the weight, put his hands on the bar in a false grip, and took a couple of deep breaths. Counting the bar, 440 pounds lay heavy in the bench-press cradle. He nodded at the spotters on both sides. "Ready," he said.

The two gym rats, both hard-core steroid boys bigger than he was, moved in a hair and put their hands under the end of the bar, not touching it, but ready, just in case.

Platt gathered himself to lift the weight off the rack. Took another deep breath, and shoved, let part of the air out as he cleared the stand and began to lower the Olympic bar toward his chest.

The first rep went up pretty easy.

"One," the gym rats said in unison. Like he couldn't f.u.c.kin' count.

Second rep was a little harder, but he got it to lockout.

"Two!"

The third rep was hard. He had to blow it up, arching his back, to get it locked.

"Three!"

He knew his limits. "I'm done, take it," Platt said.

The two bodybuilders caught the ends and helped him re-rack the barbell. Platt blew out a big exhalation and sat up.

The guy on the left, who had a shaved head and a purple sweatband above his eyes, said, "Lemme try a few."

Platt nodded and switched places with Baldy. As he squared up on the bench press, Platt glanced around the inside of the place.

They had a pretty decent setup here at the new Gold's Gym. Lotta free weights, a bunch of piston machines, some bikes, rowers, elliptical walkers, and stair climbers. They even had one of the new peg machines in one corner. Mirrors on all the walls. It was Christmas, but there were twenty people in here working the iron. Gym rats, most of them, serious bodybuilders or weightlifters, most of them on the juice. You didn't miss a workout because it was a holiday. You'd never get anything done that way.

You could always tell somebody who was stackin' serious 'roids. They had that crepe-skinned, veiny look, the whites of their eyes got yellowy, they were usually balding, and a lot of 'em had acne on their back and shoulders. In the locker room with their clothes off coming out of the shower, some of 'em had b.i.t.c.h-t.i.ts and little bitty b.a.l.l.s and p.e.c.k.e.rs too. But they were strong, as Baldy on the bench here showed Platt. He did ten reps with four-forty and racked the bar by himself, then sat up, grinning. "Okay, I'm warmed up. Lou?"

The other gym rat traded places with Baldy, then Baldy and Platt spotted him while he did his benches. He only made eight reps, and Baldy called him a p.u.s.s.y.

"Want to do another set?" Baldy asked Platt.

"No, thanks. I got to go do chins and dips. I can come back and spot if you need it."

"Cool. Later, dude."

Platt headed for the chinning rack. Strong, both of the bodybuilders, stronger than he was. Then again, he didn't take anything but vitamins and a few aminos and supplements, and he didn't have to worry about his liver rotting or getting brain cancer or s.h.i.+t like that. Or 'roid rage. Blowing up and killin' somebody who cut him off in traffic. Fightin' for fun was one thing, losin' control was something else. And these guys were so strong they tore muscles and ripped tendons right off the bone sometimes. He'd seen a guy benching six-fifty once rip a pec. The muscle rolled up his chest like a window shade, and the guy was looking at major surgery and a lot of down time. Stupid. Wasn't any point to all this stuff if you weren't healthy enough to enjoy it.

His sweats were already soaked, but Platt figured he could do a couple sets of chins and dips, no weight, alternating, to finish off his pump. Half an hour in the sauna and hot tub, a shower, and he was done.

He wondered if that bento place over on Wisconsin was open today, A couple plates full of grilled chicken skewers and rice with hot and sweet sauce would sure taste good about now. He'd go check it out.

Sat.u.r.day, December 25th, noon Sugar Loaf Mountain, Boulder, Colorado The big fire roaring away pushed the cabin's chill into the room's corners. The place smelled of cedar and woodsmoke and pine. Wonderful. "Merry Christmas," Joanna Winthrop said. She raised her champagne gla.s.s and tapped it against the gla.s.s Maudie held. "Same to you," Maudie said. They drank. "Mmm. This is great," Winthrop said. "It ought to be. It cost eighty bucks a bottle."

"Jesus, you spent that kind of money on champagne champagne!"

"Not me. It was a gift from an admirer. I think he wanted to lick it off my naked body."

"Why didn't you let him?"

"Because we went to a movie and he made a disparaging remark about one of the actresses who was a few pounds overweight."

"Ah. Fat jokes, the squash of death."

"Unless you're fat-then it's okay." Maudie sipped at the champagne again. "I'll send him a nice thank-you e-mail for this."

"I'm sure he'll appreciate it."

They giggled.

"So, tell me more about this Sergeant What's-his-name. Anything serious in the offing?"

"Too early to tell. So far, all we've talked about is computers, about which he knows zip. But he seems like a sweet man. And he admires me for my mind."

"Uh-huh."

"Well, either he does, or he's very, very clever about taking the long way around to get my pants off."