Devil Entendre Page 8
The chalet was more like an oversized one-room cabin, and it was deserted. The unpaved trail leading down to it had recently been ruptured and turned by the wheels of a large, heavy vehicle. The piles of firewood had been cleared away, the clothes and furniture were gone, and the pantry had been robbed of its canned bean supply. There were no notes or papers or any kind which could provide clues as to what occurred. Was he alive? Had he relocated? I returned to my wife Marion with leaden defeat making itself at home on my shoulders.
Sunday at United Methodist I sought guidance, but felt directionless afterward. Monday’s lunch hour was spent traveling to the Frostburg post office. The story was that I had legal documents requiring Boedicher’s signature before the event of business that day. It was all part of a class action lawsuit worth millions; fortunately I possessed the proper envelopes and forms due to a separate legal action, one I am not at liberty to discuss. Suffice it to say the performance was convincing, and the monosyllabic postal clerk provided me with Boedicher’s new address. Having already derailed my afternoon schedule with the excursion I saved further action until Wednesday. My receptionist, bless him, slogged through tracking down and rescheduling my appointments, leaving me free to deal with my errant patient.
As luck would have it my trip down the unpaved trail to “Boedicher Chalet” in a relatively low riding luxury sedan resulted in severely damaged brackets on my gas tank. No sooner had I pulled out of my driveway Wednesday than the entire gas tank fell off. After several hours dealing with my roadside assistance provider and mechanics I had to settle for using Boedicher’s new address to acquire a phone number. Perhaps if I had gone and seen him in person that day, or just not contacted him entirely…no. If things could happen any differently in life, good or bad, they would. Every eventuality is the end result of tracing the only physical possibility to its logical conclusion. That’s why I tell myself that you and any others reading this will take action. Immediate, unhesitating action.
I dialed the number. “Boedichers,” came his confounded greeting. On introducing myself his demeanor changed. “Ah-ha. How’dja fine me, doc?”
I went on to explain the how did not matter so much at the why. Boedicher was strangely uninterested in the hormone revelation, nor did he care to elaborate further on the appearance of the eels he encountered. I had hoped he could remember something more, that I may relay a more complete physical description to Adhan. Furthermore, there were an unusually high amount of unrelated remarks to a third party. At least, I hoped they were directly to a third party. Anything else would indicate a rapid and total degeneration of his mental faculties altogether too unwholesome to contemplate.
When pressing him on this newfound apathy his only reply was, “Life’s short n’full o’blisters. ’Sides, my doin’s s’good what with all th’import/export bidness. Me’n dem Scan-naves reach’d whatcha culd reckin’s uh ’settlement’ n’we’s tradin’ regular. Now, gotta git back t’work…bills t’pay, and my womanfriend’s n’a fam’ly way alls a sudden. Sow yer wild oats Sat’day night, n’go t’church Sunday tuh pray fer crop failure, doc. Have uh good’un now.” And with that he hung up.
Even that would have been the end of it, save for the news reports coming in at first weekly, then daily. More and more there were stories of missing well-to-do scattered throughout our region, amusing some of the rougher hill folk but spreading concern and omnipresent dread among my circle of friends. My God, some of the missing were acquaintances! People Marion and I had shared cocktails and hors d’oeuvres with at various social functions. Details were unclear, but whomever was targeting our set could just as easily get to us next, unless the authorities intervened. Days and nights crept by with increasing apprehension, mephitic intent collecting in every corner and shadow to coat the populace with godless perspiration as we attempted sleep.
Finally, on news of the horror that was the premature labor of Boedicher’s significant other I grew too concerned to sit back and do nothing, especially in light of another such birth mishap at the county mental facility. Boedicher’s cousin Fransarlene—committed to the institution due to an unspecified incident shortly after his return from Sweden—also suffered monstrous complications in birth only one night prior. Despite my best poking, prodding, and cajoling—even attempts at bribery!—those on call at the medical facilities in question denied me even the slightest hint what befell the women, or their children. Did Boedicher bring back some foreign disease? He was hardly coherent when last we communicated, indicating perhaps a neurological affliction or something bacterial, even viral. The entire eel incident seemed more than likely a phantasm at the onset of his illness. If he was already lost in delirium at the hotel the culprit must be a virus caught abroad the airplane. But no…an airborne affliction of such virulence would have inflicted itself on at least one of my assistants or patients, not to mention a doctor who spent lengthy amounts of time in a closed room with him, at close proximity, disturbing his orifices, mucous glands, and blood. Something altogether different was afoot. The only way to uncover the cause of this mystery was to confront Boedicher himself.
Boedicher’s new home was no chalet, cabin, or lean-to as had been his prior residence. It was a contemporary cement affair of squares and rectangles, split levels up and down its height and length giving it at least seven possible floors each with its own flat, irregularly shaped roof. While it was a relief to find he had both a proper road and driveway this new location was in a desolate, acheronian stretch of the mountains totally devoid of human habitation.
I arrived unannounced, and despite Boedicher’s protests forced myself in; too many questions went unresolved, and the sting of the mechanic’s bill might have done a bit to jostle me across that threshold as well. The dwelling’s interior was cast in perpetual gloom due to an aversion to lighting. During the day it was bearable, but how Boedicher got by at night was beyond me.
“Well now,” he began, strangely out of breath, “if y’insist den we’s gone do dis up right.” So saying he disappeared into what was presumably a kitchen, as I could hear dishes clattering beyond the closed door.
The decor consisted of hastily packed boxes, few of which had been opened, on water-stained carpeting with a single table and several chairs. Large sliding glass doors revealed massive ponds behind the home, which may or may not have connected to the swamplands beyond. Past those murky depths were hastily constructed, windowless outbuildings, four of them, all of recent construction judging by the freshness of the concrete.
“Hefta ’scuse it’s dark’s th’inside’o uh cow in’ere,” came Boedicher’s voice as he rejoined me. “Oh dear, now, y’wait’chere turn. I’s got plent-o-luvin’ a’comin’ fer ya.” For an instant it was unclear if those unthinkables were directed at me or some other guest secreted away in the shadowy abode. Then, when he continued with polite banter and a smile the reality of his madness crystalized in my mind.
The conversation—such as it was—meandered across lots, skipping subjects, touching on persons unknown and unknowable, skirting the quadruple tragedy of his betrothed, his cousin, and their offspring. While doing my best to be discreet and supportive in my attempts at wheedling some truth out of his fractured mind he was by turns paranoid, rancorous, and boisterous.
When broaching the subject of our previous phone conversation, and his abrupt disconnection chalked up to a busy schedule, he interrupted. “Been busy’s uh cat w’diarrhea, doc. Always been’un tuh’av champagne tastes widda beer pock’tbook. Now check dese digs. Can-bean w’buff-low meat, can-bean w’ostrich neck, can-bean o’ev’ry type y’ever done speculate on. Mm-hmm. That what money do.” It so happened that his import/export deal with the Swedes involved caviar, and it was making him a mint. So much so he decided to give back to the community by running a foster care facility, hence the array of ominous outbuildings from which occasional, inexplicable noises issued. It occurred to me those sounds
could also have come from the disquieting ponds, but it only took a split second to conclude that was nonsense.
After some curious back and forth with himself over the matter Boedicher proffered a dish of delicately prepared caviar from his stock. Needless to say, the offer of caviar from a degenerate of Quartus Boedicher’s caliber was met with uttermost prudence. Of course, if the lingering questions were to be answered it was best not to offend my host. Bracing myself for something on the order of pressed fish I took hold of the dish and circled it under my nostrils, allowing the aroma to waft over me. It was fresh, without a doubt the freshest I had ever encountered. The egg size was on par with Beluga, approximately that of a pea. Its color was a marbled black and white with iridescent glimmers if held to the light properly. Its lucidity was divine, the separation of its grains unparalleled, and its resistance to the teeth a matter of instant addiction such as no inner-city crack baby was ever afflicted with. The flavor was superior to Sevruga, with an undeniably nutty accent far richer than that of Osetra. The Caspian Sea would be rife with suicided sturgeon if they learned something of this merit existed.
At length I nodded, saying, “The caviar is quite good, but what about the more important things at hand?” Boedicher was curiously unconcerned, his mind apparently on vacation as he merrily lapped a noxious concoction in a stein. “Say, that smell…what is that you’re drinking?”
“Calls ’em ’urban legends.’ All ’em college kids’s drinkin’ ’em. Get sum?”
I denied the proffered beverage, wishing to avoid a night in the emergency room whilst internally revisiting the possibility of his kidneys malfunctioning.
Still he insisted. “Black Forrest Devil hund’d two proof, Kracken Black Rum nine-dy fer proof, sour mix, cola all screw’d up’n uh pint.”
“With caviar?” The concoction’s bouquet was as detestable as it sounded. It crossed my mind he sought revenge for the urethral sounding I had administered.
“Ya run wit wolves, ya gotta howl.” A peculiar pinched look overtook his features then. “’Scuse me, doc.” He abruptly exited to the kitchen.
Again there was some inexplicable noise from the property’s rear, unaccompanied by splashing water. Its resonance signified something large, roughly that of a human teenager or adult. Boedicher was keeping people prisoner in those dank, dark confines, I was sure of it. This newfound wealth of his might even be derived from human trafficking. The doors of each outbuilding proved to be padlocked on second glance.
My host stood at his kitchen counter with his back to the door, making rhythmic flesh-on-flesh sounds and speaking sweet nothings to no one. None could blame him for compulsively washing his hands, or whatever he was up to, given the dubiousness of his lodging and health. Only a quarter hour in his iniquitous den had me lusting for a good day or two of antibacterial scrubbing. His distraction afforded me ample opportunity to slip away unnoticed.
After putting in calls about Boedicher to the proper authorities I left straight away for the Yttre Gudar Rastplats ice hotel. It was no easy decision to leave Marion for the blighted smear that is Sweden, but at the very least I can be thankful she did not accompany me. From this point on I shall not mention her, as it is too painful, which is why she has largely been omitted thus far.
The journey itself was a restless one full of ill portents. My arrival at Stockholm-Arlanda Airport went without incident, yet my papers were stamped with the Yttre Gudar Rastplats logo, and no sooner than it was seen every attendant, security force member, or porter dropped all conversation and went about their tasks without so much as looking at me. The same held true for my commutes on the high speed train to Uppsala, to Gälve, through Hudiksavall and every other city along the eastern coast of Sweden. Finally, on reaching my destination in Luleå, I was greeted as though I were a proper human being, and had no trouble finding a shuttle running up northeast beyond where the Kalix River empties into the Gulf of Bothnia. Even so, the shuttle operator was a curious sort, and his vehicle can only be described as possessing as singular olfactory intensity.
At Yttre Gudar Rastplats all was as Boedicher had described: a complex so behemothic and heterogeneous that even with forewarning I scarcely realized what I was gazing upon. From the exterior it appeared a vast geometric spectacle either rising from or sinking into ground, depending on whether the beholder should be pessimistically inclined. Supposedly it was formed only of frozen water, and while it did appear to be ice-like or ice-coated I could not help but wonder at what temperature other substances must freeze, and if they could possibly be used for this variety of architecture—if it could be categorized as such—because the dizzying array of odd angles and supports narrowing down to finger-width were indicative of circumstances such as ice alone could not abide.
In the lobby what artificial lighting there was had been concealed within the construction material forcing a ghostly blue illumination to exude from the depths of every wall, lighting most of each surface but never reaching the edges, lending to the outermost portions the ominous blue-black of a dead star. This lighting tainted all within its reach with such a sickly pallor one imagined it likely haunting spirits had fled that morose lodging well before any guests checked in. There were no plants, no decor to speak of, not even carpeting. The floor was curiously pitted, as if by chemical burn, preventing slippage on its frozen surface.
The staff was sparse but inexplicably large and beautiful—almost disturbingly so—male and female alike, leaving the rest of us feeling all the more inadequate for it. That struck me as right smart sales trick, to populate the facility with physical perfection in order to convince guests to purchase whatever appearance-improving treatments might linger in the spa’s arsenal.
On approaching the front desk the students from a girls school field trip hurriedly and tearfully brushed past, some of whom clutched their bellies while dolefully complaining in their native tongue. The scowling giantess at the desk informed me the buffet was closed due to health inspectors investigating food poisoning complaints. She then complained bitterly about “Danish scum” saboteurs and their spritz bottles full of bacteria before offering to assist me.
The entire place reeked of ancient sufferings too heathen to contemplate. While the civilized mind understood it should interpret the incoming visual data as an artistic accomplishment of engineering, all other senses violently combated and overthrew such notions. Everywhere one cared to pay attention there were incongruities. For instance, the high-end clientele which should have been milling about was instead the dregs of poverty from around the globe, a half-caste hodgepodge of befuddled wonderment. None seemed to believe they were really in an opulent resort, nor should they be, and took every second as their last trespass for surely security would swoop in and escort them from the premises. The staff, for their part, were cordial enough. What I had witnessed of the Swedish demeanor thus far they seemed an android species, incapable of expressing emotion, yet unaccountably able to converse with any and all the assemblage of worldwide riffraff. I have been to international resorts. The linguistic skills exhibited by these Swedes far superseded that of United Nations translators to an unnatural degree.
During the check-in process I struck up a conversation with the woman regarding the region’s caviar. It so happened the nearby caviar processing facility was very recently founded, with its source said to be at a secluded beach inaccessible from the Gulf of Bothnia’s surface. This was on account of rocky outcroppings across the water, which were protected because they provided a habitat for endangered birds. When inquiring as to whether tours of the caviar facility were available she responded in the negative, resoundingly and with an air of finality suggesting further inquiry would result in calamity. She then proceeded to expound in unblinking detail on Yttre Gudar Rastplats’ pay-as-you-go extras: wildlife excursions, ice cave spelunking, various hunting classes and trips, “älvor” or elf history, caviar grading s
eminars, and arts and crafts with artist resident M. Garrow Bourke, among others. Reading the brief blurb under Bourke’s unsmiling, bleak photograph prompted me to ask of his so-called style, “What precisely is ’hatred nouveau?’”
“How badly do you want to find out?” Her expression—or lack thereof—rendered interpretation useless, so her question could have been a come-on just as easily as a threat.
I retired to my suite. The elevator was quite possibly a marvel of engineering, as it, too, was composed solely of ice and LED lights. A dark form overhead seemed to signify a winch or some such anchored in the icy ceiling. I was situated on the third and uppermost floor, reasoning that ice alone must not be the culprit; surely rock outgrowths supported the various levels. The third floor hall was full of mirages, appearing at first to be circular in design and curving to the right, but after walking a ways and checking over my shoulder the hall behind me curved to the left. Looking ahead it did indeed seem to veer to the right, but on again examining the space I had passed through I again found it going left. Something inexplicable came over me then and, keeping track of the room numbers, I sprinted ahead, leaving my luggage behind. After a brisk run my luggage eventually appeared up ahead of me, meaning the level was built in a circular design, and the whole of my course had been slightly right-leaning. Hands on knees, catching my breath, I cast a backwards glance with the superiority of knowledge on my side. The sneer, however, faded from my face because the entirety of the space behind me was veering to the left. Abandoning the hall for the comforts of my private chambers I entered the suite only to find myself beset on all sides by statuary of wounded winged beings. They must have been angels, although the medium lent to their outlines and facial features a certain vagueness. Not only were they and the walls, floor, and ceiling constructed of frozen material, but so was the bed itself. The frozen toilet, bidet, and shower stall took things over the top for me.