The SONG of SHIVA Read Online Free Page B
Author: Michael Caulfield
day if you like. We aren’t abandoning you, Nora. The CDC has resources around the globe. If necessary, I can personally call in a few markers to help you through this.”
“Sure, Marty. But you’re not the one who’s being thrown into the breach. That’s what you just called it, right?”
“True,” Kosoy agreed. “But remember, I’m the one subject to the abuse of a home camp screaming for results. By the way, if things do go wrong ― remember ― my head will roll long before yours. Come on, I’ll walk you to your car.”
* * *
Building 16’s parking lot lights were haloed against an overcast sky. Nora slid behind the wheel and started the engine. Kosoy turned and melted into the dark humidity. In the background, a vast illumination ― reflecting all the verve and energy of Atlanta, running feverishly to the nonstop rhythm of the twenty-first century ― cast its glow upon the structures and moss-draped trees. Pulling out onto an almost deserted Clifton Road, Nora turned left on Michael Street and sped by the silhouettes of the Emory University buildings.
Inside the silent Toyota Tenaga, buffeted by overwhelming anxiety, all these new, unanticipated obligations and responsibilities suddenly flung in her direction, she bowed her head, scattered thoughts racing. All questions and no answers. How had she allowed herself to be so thoroughly victimized like this? Like a bad dream.
Accelerating along the 42 straightaway, she cracked the window. A blast of hot, humid Georgia smog swept into the car, stinking to high heaven of macadam and heavy industry. Immediately closing the window, she punched up the air-conditioning, took the I-85 ramp and merged onto the highway. Headlights fanned the road ahead, a snaking stream of sparsely spaced taillights stretching out into the surrounding suburbs. The prospect of getting horizontal after a brutal eighteen-hour workday beckoned.
She turned on the radio, punched up a local station. Maybe something to shorten the long drive home. A gravely voice emerged, rough and world-weary, barely singing in key, reminiscent of a lyrical genius popular in her adolescence. But Zim Dixon hadn’t released anything new in years, and this was definitely contemporary, some sort of stuttering reformed reggae. She had to strain to catch the lyrics.
Owned that gun for fourteen years
Then last night
Put the barrel in my mouth
For the first time ever
It was an option Nora hadn’t even considered. She hurriedly switched stations.
CHAPTER THREE
First Triumvirate
The Lord God hath given me a well-trained tongue, that I might know how to speak to the weary a word that will rouse them.
Isaiah 50:4
Outside the Tip Gaan Poey, three men were seated around a small table under a scarlet umbrella. Lyköan’s food lay untouched. Dark hair bobbing to the cadence of a stream of accusations, his face had grown purple, the crooked nose more pronounced.
“So, you’re telling me,” he shouted above the street noise, “Primrose is thinking of cutting me loose? That your message, Whitehall?”
Whitehall smiled. The apparent good humor only made Lyköan angrier. Dressed in Englishman-meets-the-tropics khaki, Whitehall was the very picture of reserved probity, his thoughts cloaked behind a bemused grin.
“I’m not saying anything of the sort, Lyköan. As I’ve already explained ― forget about Primrose. It’s Innovac you should be concerned with now. Yes, I was hired to investigate ― investigate you ― that’s true. But, no need to fret, my dear boy. You’ve already passed the examination with colors flying. Innovac only wanted me to make certain you were someone worth keeping. Someone who could be trusted.”
All around them, Krung Kasem Road was bleating with midday commerce. Hot engines growling in traffic, a teeth-rattling repetitive clang ringing from a nearby construction site, jackhammers pounding out an accompanying percussive beat. Ground level crew chiefs added
“Sure, Marty. But you’re not the one who’s being thrown into the breach. That’s what you just called it, right?”
“True,” Kosoy agreed. “But remember, I’m the one subject to the abuse of a home camp screaming for results. By the way, if things do go wrong ― remember ― my head will roll long before yours. Come on, I’ll walk you to your car.”
* * *
Building 16’s parking lot lights were haloed against an overcast sky. Nora slid behind the wheel and started the engine. Kosoy turned and melted into the dark humidity. In the background, a vast illumination ― reflecting all the verve and energy of Atlanta, running feverishly to the nonstop rhythm of the twenty-first century ― cast its glow upon the structures and moss-draped trees. Pulling out onto an almost deserted Clifton Road, Nora turned left on Michael Street and sped by the silhouettes of the Emory University buildings.
Inside the silent Toyota Tenaga, buffeted by overwhelming anxiety, all these new, unanticipated obligations and responsibilities suddenly flung in her direction, she bowed her head, scattered thoughts racing. All questions and no answers. How had she allowed herself to be so thoroughly victimized like this? Like a bad dream.
Accelerating along the 42 straightaway, she cracked the window. A blast of hot, humid Georgia smog swept into the car, stinking to high heaven of macadam and heavy industry. Immediately closing the window, she punched up the air-conditioning, took the I-85 ramp and merged onto the highway. Headlights fanned the road ahead, a snaking stream of sparsely spaced taillights stretching out into the surrounding suburbs. The prospect of getting horizontal after a brutal eighteen-hour workday beckoned.
She turned on the radio, punched up a local station. Maybe something to shorten the long drive home. A gravely voice emerged, rough and world-weary, barely singing in key, reminiscent of a lyrical genius popular in her adolescence. But Zim Dixon hadn’t released anything new in years, and this was definitely contemporary, some sort of stuttering reformed reggae. She had to strain to catch the lyrics.
Owned that gun for fourteen years
Then last night
Put the barrel in my mouth
For the first time ever
It was an option Nora hadn’t even considered. She hurriedly switched stations.
CHAPTER THREE
First Triumvirate
The Lord God hath given me a well-trained tongue, that I might know how to speak to the weary a word that will rouse them.
Isaiah 50:4
Outside the Tip Gaan Poey, three men were seated around a small table under a scarlet umbrella. Lyköan’s food lay untouched. Dark hair bobbing to the cadence of a stream of accusations, his face had grown purple, the crooked nose more pronounced.
“So, you’re telling me,” he shouted above the street noise, “Primrose is thinking of cutting me loose? That your message, Whitehall?”
Whitehall smiled. The apparent good humor only made Lyköan angrier. Dressed in Englishman-meets-the-tropics khaki, Whitehall was the very picture of reserved probity, his thoughts cloaked behind a bemused grin.
“I’m not saying anything of the sort, Lyköan. As I’ve already explained ― forget about Primrose. It’s Innovac you should be concerned with now. Yes, I was hired to investigate ― investigate you ― that’s true. But, no need to fret, my dear boy. You’ve already passed the examination with colors flying. Innovac only wanted me to make certain you were someone worth keeping. Someone who could be trusted.”
All around them, Krung Kasem Road was bleating with midday commerce. Hot engines growling in traffic, a teeth-rattling repetitive clang ringing from a nearby construction site, jackhammers pounding out an accompanying percussive beat. Ground level crew chiefs added
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