He grinned. “And what exactly do you suggest, doctor?”
“Well,” she said, blushing ever so slightly, “I was thinking maybe you should get a job.”
“Ah, a job.” He was disappointed, and he didn’t do much to hide it.
“But,” she added, “I can think of a few other things that might take the edge off.”
This time when she smiled, it was with a touch of the forbidden.
That night was the first in many that he had slept till the morning, with neither the dreams nor the fear of them disturbing his rest. He awoke to the light of a risen sun shining through his uncurtained window, the soft feeling of her skin beneath his hands. Her breathing was deep, and it took all his concentration to remove himself from beneath her arm without waking her. He sat on the edge of the bed, smiling to himself about what had happened and what it might portend. He almost didn’t notice the piece of white cardboard that was sitting on the side table, right next to his wallet and her cell phone. He saw it, and then looked away. But it took his brain only a second to process what the black lettering said. And when it did, he felt the sweat bead on his forehead, cold and foreboding. Beneath a globe sprinkled with sparkling flecks was the word, “Limbus” and then, “We Employ.” He jumped when she put her hand on his shoulder.
“Whoa, there,” she said, giggling. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”
“Where’d you get this?” he asked, letting it pass.
“Oh, that’s this employment agency I heard about from one of the guys down at the college.” She wrapped one arm around his chest and kissed his neck. “I thought you might want to look into it. Why?”
Suddenly, he felt very foolish. “It’s nothing. I just thought I saw this before somewhere.”
“So, you’ll look into it?”
“Actually, I’m thinking of going back in.” He felt her body tense.
“The Marines? But why would you do that?”
Ryan shrugged. “I’ve just been thinking about it for a while. I really belong there, you know? Maybe the best thing for me is to go back to what I’m good at.”
He turned to her, and in the brightening morning he watched her smile weakly.
“Yeah,” she said, “maybe that’s a good idea.”
Her heart wasn’t in it though, and he could tell. But he didn’t think long on it. If he’d had any doubts about his future, something about picking up that business card had removed them.
Ryan met Katya the next evening at The Cliff’s Edge. He’d never been before; she clearly had. He’d heard of it, and he knew it was one of the trendiest places in New Orleans. The formidable rope line proved no obstacle, though. What must have been only a few words from Katya to the well-constructed man in the short-sleeve shirt resulted in a quick nod and a wave of his hand. Perhaps it was that she was wearing a slinky piece of black nothing that revealed almost as much as he’d seen the night before.
The music was thick and pulsating. He let it surround him as he walked in, and each step seemed to be a little more difficult than the last, as if the sound and the air formed a solid mass. Katya said something to him, but the noise ruled over all, and he couldn’t make it out. She repeated it again, and this time he watched her lips. Does he want a drink. Yes, he does. He said so, but his voice was lost somewhere in the reverberations.
Katya left, and as she disappeared into the herd of people, Ryan turned to face the dance floor. It too was filled with bodies moving to the music that surrounded them. He supposed they were dancing, but it seemed more like a case of spiritual possession. Like the music was inside them. Like they were an instrument unto themselves. Or one of those crazy, psychedelic displays that changes based on the song played.
He felt Katya’s arm slip around his waist, her other hand holding a drink to his lips. Then she smiled and pulled him into the mass. The beat took them. Ryan felt himself become one with the tribe, and with every hit of the thumping bass he heard words in the rumble. Katya lowered her eyes, and between the beat and her dress and the words and her stare Ryan lost himself. The song morphed into another and then another, but Katya’s body always matched it, her knees bent and her hips swaying. Her hands traveled down Ryan’s neck and his body. Her hair flowed and swirled around her face.
It was the third song, or the first depending on one’s measure, before the feeling truly set in. A tingle in his hands and his toes, a fire in his stomach. Something unaccountable, as if he had ten drinks instead of half of one. A smile crept up Katya’s face, and he thought he saw something sinister in it. Then the music seemed to grow quieter, but he felt it in his chest, more intense than ever.
Ryan fell backwards, the room starting to shift if not quite to spin. Katya stood at the edge, the crowd behind her and around her all at once. The music played on, and Katya swayed with her eyes ever on Ryan. Her hands moved up her body until they were at her head. Until they ran up her face and through her hair. And then they were higher. Climbing and climbing. And then it was the same with them all, each person that surrounded her. They swayed to the sound of the beat. Pagan penitents at prayer. For what did they pray? For what did they reach? What did they seek? Ryan never got the chance to find out.
There was a commotion behind the crowd. Shouting, pushing. Katya disappeared into the melee, while Ryan was caught up in it. The roiling mass carried him from one darkness to another. It was then he felt the sharp pain in his side, the one that opened a hole and spilled his blood upon the dirty asphalt, the one that nearly killed him. The stab wound that left him lying in a hospital bed, answering the questions of a police officer.
The detective flipped his notebook closed and looked up at Ryan. “So that’s it then?”
“The next thing I remember, I was here.”
The detective frowned. “That’s not a whole lot to go on.” Ryan didn’t know what else to add, so he said nothing. “Oh well,” the detective said, pushing himself up and straightening his coat, “I’ll keep you informed, and I’ll call you if we need anything else. Oh, and by the way,” he said, turning as he reached the door and then walking back to where Ryan was lying. “I meant to give you this. Whoever stuck you took your wallet, and this was the only thing left in your pocket.”
Ryan shivered as the detective removed the thin piece of white cardboard from his pocket and dropped it on the table beside the hospital bed. He could really only read one word, but that’s all he needed: Limbus.
Ryan stood outside 453 South Rampart Street in New Orleans, only a couple blocks away from the Mississippi River. He removed the thin sliver of cardboard and studied it. This was the right address; the business card confirmed that much. But somehow Ryan had expected more than the non-descript and somewhat run down warehouse of which Limbus was one of the tenants. He checked the address one last time, and seeing that nothing had changed, stepped inside the front door.
There was no receptionist, only a callbox. It seemed as though at some time before there had been a number of tenants who called the warehouse home. But now the only name that remained was the one that he was looking for. He pushed a button, heard a beep, and waited only a couple seconds before a female voice answered.
“Yes?”
“Hi, this is Ryan Dixson, I have an appointment with Recruiter Hawthorne.”
“Ah yes, Mr. Dixson. Please, come in.”
The buzzing sound announced that he had been admitted, and Ryan opened the inner door of the warehouse, walking up the stairs that lead to a hallway. He had to pause half-way up, clutching his side where still-fresh sutures kept him from bleeding out of a wound that had cost him any shot at going back into the Marines.