We shook hands.
He was five ten, tall for a Vietnamese. He had a long face with prominent cheekbones, a sharp nose, a thin mouth, and a delicate jaw. His eyes were deeply set — and as strange as they had been in Nam.
In that prison camp, I had not known his name. Perhaps it had been Nguyen Quang Phu. Or perhaps that was a false identity that he had assumed when he sought asylum in the United States.
'You have bought a wonderful house,' he said.
'We like it very much,' I said.
'I was happy here,' he said, smiling, nodding, looking around at the empty living room. 'Very happy.'
Why had he left Nam? He had been on the winning side. Well, maybe he'd fallen out with some of his comrades. Or perhaps the state had assigned him to hard farm labor or to the mines or to some other task that he knew would destroy his health and kill him before his time. Perhaps he had gone to sea in a small boat when the state no longer chose to give him a position of high authority.
The reason for his emigration was of no importance to me. All that mattered was that he was here.
The moment I saw him and realized who he was, I knew that he would not leave the house alive. I would never permit his escape.
'There's not much to point out,' he said. 'There's one drawer in the master-bathroom cabinets that runs off the track now and then. And the pulldown attic stairs in the closet have a small problem sometimes, but that's easily remedied. I'll show you.'
'I'd appreciate that.'
He did not recognize me.
I suppose he'd tortured too many men to be able to recall any single victim of his sadistic urges. All prisoners who suffered and died at his hands had probably blurred into one faceless target. The torturer had cared nothing about the individual to whom he'd given an advance taste of Hell. To Nguyen Quang Phu, each man on the rack was the same as the one before, prized not for his unique qualities but for his ability to scream and bleed, for his eagerness to grovel at the feet of his tormentor.
As he led me through the house, he also gave me the names of reliable plumbers and electricians and air- conditioner repairmen in the neighborhood, plus the name of the artisan who had created the stained-glass windows in two rooms. 'If one should be badly damaged, you'll want it repaired by the man who made it.'
I will never know how I restrained myself from attacking him with my bare hands. More incredible still: Neither my face nor my voice revealed my inner tension. He was utterly unaware of the danger into which he had stepped.
In the kitchen, after he had shown me the unusual placement of the restart switch on the garbage disposal beneath the sink, I asked him if, during rainstorms, there was a problem with seepage in the cellar.
He blinked at me. His soft, cold voice rose slightly: 'Cellar? Oh, but there is no cellar.'
Pretending surprise, I said, 'Well, there sure enough is. Right over there's the door.'
He stared in disbelief.
He saw it too.
I interpreted his ability to see the door as a sign that destiny was being served here and that I would be doing nothing wrong if I simply assisted fate.
Retrieving the flashlight from the counter, I opened the door.
Protesting that no such door had existed while he had lived in the house, the torture master moved past me in a state of high astonishment and curiosity. He went through the door, onto the upper landing.
'Light switch doesn't work,' I said, crowding in behind him, pointing the flashlight down past him. 'But we'll see well enough with this.'
'But… where… how…?'
'You don't really mean you never noticed the cellar?' I said, forcing a laugh. 'Come now. Are you joking with me or what?'
As if weightless with amazement, he drifted downward from one step to the next.
I followed close behind.
Soon, he knew that something was terribly wrong, for the steps went on too far without any sign of the cellar floor. He stopped, began to turn, and said, 'This is strange. What's going on here? What on earth are you-'
'Go on,' I said harshly. 'Down. Go down, you bastard.'
He tried to push past me toward the open door above.
I knocked him backward down the stairs. Screaming, he tumbled all the way to the first landing and the flanking archways. When I reached him, I saw that he was dazed and suffering considerable pain. He keened in misery. His lower lip had split; blood trickled down his chin. He'd skinned the palm of his right hand. I think his arm was broken.
Weeping, cradling his arm, he looked up at me — pain racked, afraid, confused.
I hated myself for what I was doing.
But I hated him more.
'In the camp,' I said, 'we called you The Snake. I know you. Oh, yes, I know you. You were the torture master.'
'Oh, God,' he said.
He neither asked what I was talking about nor attempted to deny it. He knew who he was, what he was, and he knew what would become of him.
'Those eyes,' I said, shaking with fury now. 'That voice. The Snake. A repulsive, belly-crawling snake. Contemptible. But very, very dangerous.'
Briefly we were silent. In my case, at least, I was temporarily speechless, because I stood in awe of the profound machinery of fate which, in its slow-working and laborious fashion, had brought us together at this time and place.
From down in the darkness, a noise arose: sibilant whispers, a wet oozing sound that made me shudder. Millennial darkness was on the move, surging upward, the embodiment of endless night, cold and deep — and hungry.
The torture master, reduced to the role of victim, gazed around in fear and bewilderment, through one archway and the other, then down the stairs that continued from the landing on which he sprawled. His anxiety was so great that it drove out his pain; he no longer wept or made the keening noise. 'What… what is this place?'
'It's where you belong,' I said.
I turned from him and climbed the steps. I did not stop or look back. I left the flashlight with him because I wanted him to see the thing that came for him.
(Darkness dwells within us all.)
'Wait!' he called after me.
I did not pause.
'What's that sound?' he asked.
I kept climbing.
'What's going to happen to me?'
'I don't know,' I told him. 'But whatever it is… it'll be what you deserve.'
Anger finally stirred in him. 'You're not my judge!'
'Oh yes I am.'
At the top, I stepped into the kitchen and closed the door behind me. It had no lock. I leaned against it, trembling.
Apparently Phu saw something ascending from the stairwell below him, for he wailed in terror and clambered up the steps.
Hearing him approach, I leaned hard against the door.
He pounded on the other side. 'Please. Please, no. Please, for God's sake, no, for God's sake, please!'
I had heard my army buddies begging with that same desperation when the merciless torture master had forced rusty needles under their fingernails. I dwelt on those images of horror, which once I had thought I'd put behind me, and they gave me the will to resist Phu's pathetic pleas.
In addition to his voice, I heard the sludge-thick darkness rising behind him, cold lava flowing uphill: wet sounds, and that sinister; whispering.
