Part One
Tiger! Tiger! burning bright
In the forests of the night
Chapter 1
"I'm sorry about my parents, Mike." Tom gave the
two people in question a look of resentment. "I'd hoped—" He
broke off, sighing faintly. "I'm sorry, I really am. You spent a lot
of money on all this."
Mike Stearns followed his gaze. Tom Simpson's mother and
father were standing near the far wall of the cafeteria, some fifty feet
away. Their postures were stiff; their faces, sour. Their very expensive
clothing was worn like suits of armor. They were holding the cups of punch
in their hands by thumb and forefinger, as if determined to make as little
contact with the surrounding festivities as possible.
Mike repressed a smile. Ah, yes. The dignitaries from
civilization, maintaining their savoir faire among the cannibals. They'll
hold a cup of blood, but damned if they'll drink it.
"Don't worry about it, Tom," he said softly.
Mike's eyes moved away from the haughty couple against the wall and
surveyed the crowd. The gaze was filled with satisfaction.
The cafeteria was a very large room. The utilitarian gray
and cream walls had been festooned with an abundance of decorations, which
made up in cheerfulness and festive abandon whatever they lacked in
subdued good taste. Many of the cafeteria's plastic chairs had been moved
against the walls, providing a bright orange contrast—those few of them
that were not holding someone. Long tables ranged near the kitchen were
laden with food and drink.
There was no caviar, and no champagne. But the crowd which
packed the room wouldn't have enjoyed the first—fish eggs, yuk!—and
the second was prohibited by high-school regulations. Mike was not
concerned. He knew his folk. They would enjoy the simple fare which was
piled on the tables, thank you, even if it was beneath the contempt
of wealthy urban sophisticates. That was true of the adults, even, much
less the horde of children swarming all over the place.
Mike gave the younger man standing at his side a little
pat on the shoulder. It was like patting a slab of beef. Tom was the
first-string nose guard for West Virginia University's varsity squad, and
looked the part. "My sister married you, not your
parents."
Tom scowled. "Doesn't matter. They could at least—
Why did they even bother to show up at my wedding, if they were going to
act like this?"
Mike glanced at him. For all Tom's immense size, Mike
didn't have to look up. Tom was barely over six feet tall, about Mike's
own height, even if he outweighed him by a good hundred pounds.
Tom was back to glaring at his parents. His own face was
as stiff as theirs. Unobserved, Mike studied his new brother-in-law.
Very new brother-in-law. The wedding had been held not two
hours earlier, in a small church less than a mile away from the high
school. Tom's parents had been just as haughtily rude at the church as
they were being now at the reception. Their son should have been
married in a properly discreet ceremony in a proper Episcopalian cathedral,
not—not—
This yahoo preacher! In this yahoo—shack!
Mike and his sister had abandoned the stark faith of their
ancestors in favor of quiet agnosticism. Years ago, in Mike's case. But
neither of them had even once considered having Rita married anywhere
else. The pastor was a friend of the family, as his father and grandfather
had been before him. The Calvinist fundamentalism of the ceremony had
bothered them not in the least. Mike choked down a laugh. If nothing else,
it had been worth it just to see the way the pastor's fire and brimstone
had caused obvious constipation in Tom's sophisticated parents.
His humor faded quickly. Mike could sense the pain lurking
within Tom's eyes. An old pain, he thought. The dull, never-ending ache of
a man whose father had disapproved of him since he was a small boy.
Tom had been born into one of the wealthiest families in
Pittsburgh. His mother was old Eastern money. His father, John Chandler
Simpson, was the chief executive officer of a large petrochemical
corporation. John Simpson liked to brag about having worked his way up
from the ranks. The boast was typical of the man. Yes, he had spent
a total of six months on the shop floor, as a foreman, after he retired
from the Navy's officer corps. The fact that his father owned the company,
however, is what accounted for his later advancement. John Chandler
Simpson had fully expected his own son to follow in those well-worn
footsteps.
But Tom had never fit his family's mold and expectations.
Not when he had been a boy, and not now when he was of age. Mike knew that
John Chandler had been furious when his son chose WVU over
Carnegie-Mellon—especially given the reason. Football? You're
not even a quarterback! And both his parents had been well-nigh
apoplectic at their son's choice for a wife.
Mike's eyes scanned the room, until they fell on a figure
in a wedding dress, laughing at something being said by the young woman at
her side. His sister, Rita, sharing quips with one of her bridesmaids.
The contrast between the two girls was striking. The
bridesmaid, Sharon, was attractive in a slightly heavy and buxom sort of
way. She was very dark complected, even for a black woman. Tom's sister
was also pretty, but so slender that she bordered on being downright
skinny. And her complexion—very pale skin, freckles, blue eyes, hair
almost as black as her brother's—betrayed her own ethnic origins.
Typical Appalachian mongrel. The daughter and sister of coal miners.
Poor white trash. Yup. That's what we are, all right.
There was no anger in Mike's thought. Only contempt for
Tom's parents, and pity for Tom himself. Mike's father had a high school
education. Jack Stearns had worked in a coal mine since he was eighteen,
and had never been able to afford more than a modest house. He had hoped
to help his children through college. But the mine roof-fall which
crippled him and eventually caused his death had put paid to those plans.
The quintessential nobody. On the day he finally died,
Mike had been like a stunned ox. Years later, he could still feel the
aching place in his heart where a giant had once lived.
"Let it go, Tom," he said softly. "Just let
it go. If it's worth anything, your brother-in-law approves of you."
Tom puffed out his cheeks, and slowly blew out the breath.
"It is. Quite a bit."
Abruptly, he shook his head, as if to clear his mind for
other concerns. He turned to face Mike squarely.
"Give it to me straight, Mike. I'm graduating in a
few months. I've got to make a decision. Do you think I'm good enough to
make it in the pros?"
Mike's reply came instant and firm. "Nope." He
shook his head ruefully. "Take it from me, buddy. You'll be right
where I was—the worst possible place. Almost good enough. Good
enough to keep hoping, but . . ."
Tom frowned, still hoping. "You made it. In a
way. Hell, you retired undefeated."
Mike chuckled. "Sure did. After all of eight
professional fights as a light heavy." He reached up and stroked the
little scar on his left eyebrow. "My last fight I even made it to the
second card at the Olympic. Pretty big time."
The chuckle came again—more of an outright laugh.
"Too big! I won—barely—on points. The kid demanded a
rematch. And that's when I finally had enough sense to quit. A man's got
to know his limitations."
Tom was still frowning. Still hoping. Mike
placed a hand on his thick arm. "Tom, face it. You'll get no farther
than I did. Realizing that you only beat the kid in front of you because
you were a little more experienced, a little savvier, a little
luckier." He winced, remembering a young Mexican boxer whose speed
and power had been well-nigh terrifying. "But that kid'll learn, soon
enough. And the fact is that he's a lot better than you'll ever be. So I
quit, before my brains got scrambled. You should do the same, while you've
still got healthy knees."
Again, Tom puffed out his cheeks and, again, blew out a
slow breath. He seemed on the verge of saying something, but a motion
caught his eye. His brand-new wife was approaching, with people in tow.
Tom was suddenly beaming like a child. Watching that
glowing smile, Mike felt his own heart warming.
Hell of a sweet kid, to come from such cruddy parents.
Rita arrived with her usual thermonuclear energy. She
started by embracing her new husband in a manner that was wildly
inappropriate in a high-school cafeteria—springing onto him and wrapping
both legs around his thighs. Wedding dress be damned. A fierce and
decidedly unvirginal kiss accompanied the semilascivious embrace. Then,
bouncing off, she gave Mike a hug which, though it lacked the sexual
overtones, was almost as vigorous.
The preliminaries done, Rita spun around and waved forward
the two people lagging behind her. Outside of the accompanying grin, the
gesture resembled an empress summoning her lackeys.
Sharon was grinning herself. The man next to her wore a
more subdued smile. He was a black man somewhere in his fifties, dressed
in a very expensive looking suit. The conservative, hand-tailored clothing
fit the man perfectly, but seemed at odds with the smile on his face.
There was something a bit rakish about that smile, Mike thought. And he
suspected, from the man's poised stance, that the body beneath the suit
was far more athletic than its sober cut would suggest.
"Mike, this is Sharon's father. I want to introduce
you." She reached back, more or less hauled the parent in question to
the fore, and moved her hand back and forth vigorously. "My brother,
Mike Stearns. Doctor James Nichols. Be very polite, brother of mine. He's
a surgeon. Probably got four or five scalpels tucked away somewhere."
An instant later she was charging off, hauling Tom and
Sharon toward a cluster of people chattering away in a corner of the
cafeteria. Mike and Dr. Nichols were left alone.
Mike eyed the stranger, unsure of how to open a
conversation. He opted for low humor. "My new brother-in-law's in for
a long night," he said dryly. "If I know my sister."
The doctor's smile widened. The hint of rakishness
deepened. "I would say so," he drawled. "Is she always this
energetic?"
Mike shook his head fondly. "Since she was a
toddler."
Having broken the ice, Mike took the time to examine the
man next to him more carefully. Within a few seconds, he decided his
initial impression was correct. Sharon's father was a study in
contradictions. His skin was very dark, almost pure black. His hair was
gray, kinky, cut very short. His features were blunt and rough-looking -
the kind of face associated more with a longshoreman than a doctor. Yet he
wore his fine clothing with ease, and the two rings on his fingers were
simple in design and very tasteful. One was a plain wedding band, the
other a subdued pinky ring. His diction was cultured, but the accent came
from city streets. Then—
James Nichols was not a big man. No more than five feet,
eight inches tall and not particularly stocky. Yet he seemed to exude a
certain physical presence. A quick glance at the doctor's hands confirmed
Mike's guess. The faint scars on those outsized hands had not come from
working in the medical profession.
Nichols was returning Mike's examination with one of his
own. There seemed to be a little twinkle in his eyes. Mike guessed that he
would like the man, and decided to probe the possibility.
"So, Doc. Did the judge give you a choice?
Between the Army and the Marines, I mean."
Nichols snorted. There was a twinkle in his eyes.
"Not hardly! `Marines for you, Nichols.'"
Mike shook his head. "You poor bastard. He let me
pick. Since I wasn't crazy, I took the Army. I wanted no part of Parris
Island."
Nichols grinned. "Well . . . You were probably just
up for assault and battery, I imagine. One brawl too many." He took
Mike's smile for an answer. His own headshake was rueful. "They
couldn't prove it, since I fumbled the thing like a Laurel and Hardy
routine, but the authorities had their dark suspicions. So the
judge was hard as stone. `Marines, Nichols. I'm sick and tired o' you.
Either that or six years downstate.' "
The doctor shrugged. "I admit, that judge probably
saved my life." His expression became filled with mock outrage. The
accent thickened. "But I still say it ain't armed robbery when the
dumb kid drops the gun on the way into the liquor store and gets caught
running five blocks away. Hell, who knows? Maybe he was just looking for
its rightful owner. Not realizing, the poor cherub, that it was a stolen
piece."
Mike burst into laughter. When his eyes met those of
Nichols again, the silent exchange between them was warm and approving.
The way two men, meeting for the first time, occasionally take an instant
liking to each other.
Mike glanced toward his new in-laws. He was not surprised
to see that his riotous gaiety had drawn their disapproving eyes. He met
their stern frowns with a smile whose politeness barely covered the
underlying mockery.
Yeah, that's right, you rich farts. Two scapegraces, right
before your eyes. As close to outright ex-cons as you can get. Heavens!
Nichols' voice broke into Mike's silent test of wills with
the Simpsons.
"So you're the famous brother," the doctor
murmured.
Startled, Mike's eyes left the Simpsons. "I wasn't
aware that I was famous," he protested.
Nichols shrugged, smiling. "Depends on the circle, I
imagine. From what I can tell, listening to them gabble over the last
couple of days, every one of your sister's college friends has a crush on
you. You're quite a romantic figure, you know."
Again, Mike was startled. And, again, it must have showed
on his face.
"Oh, come on, Mike!" snorted Nichols.
"You're still in your mid-thirties, and look younger than that. Tall,
handsome—well, handsome enough. But, most of all, you've got that
glamorous history."
"Glamorous?" choked Mike. "Are you
nuts?"
Nichols was grinning, now. "Give me a break. You
can't fool me." He made a little sweeping gesture with his
hands, indicating himself. "What do you see here? A very
prosperous-looking black man in his mid-fifties, right?" His dark
eyes glinted with humor and knowledge. "And what else?"
Mike eyed him. "A—let's call it a history.
You weren't always a proper doctor."
"Certainly wasn't! And don't think, when I was your
age, that I didn't take full advantage of it." Nichols' wide grin
changed to a gentle smile. "You're a classic, Mike. It's that old
tale which always tugs at sentiment. The reckless and dashing black sheep
of the family, leaving town before the law could nail him. An adventurous
lad. Soldier, longshoreman, truck driver, professional boxer. Disreputable
roustabout, even if he did manage to tuck away three years in college.
Then—"
The smile faded away completely. "And then, when your
father was crippled, you came back to take care of your family. And did as
good a job of that as you'd done scaring them to death earlier. Quite
respectable, now. Even managed to get yourself elected president of your
local miners' union a couple of years back."
Mike snorted. "I can see Rita's been telling
tales." He started looking for his sister, ready to glare at her,
when his eyes fell on the Simpsons. They were still frowning at
him, so he bestowed the glare on them.
"See?" he demanded. "My new in-laws don't
seem to feel any `romantic' attraction.' Me—respectable?
Ha!"
Nichols' own gaze followed Mike's. "Well . . .
`Respectable' in an Appalachian sort of way. Don't think Mr. Blueblood
over there is mollified that his new daughter-in-law's brother is a
stone-hard union man as well as a damned hillbilly. Not hardly."
The Simpsons were still maintaining the stare. Mike was
matching it, and adding a grin to the bargain. The grin was purely feral.
A sheer, brazen, unyielding challenge.
* * *
Nichols would remember that savage grin, in the years to
come. Remember it, and be thankful.
The Ring of Fire came, and they entered a new and very
savage world. |