He took her hand and led her onto the catwalk. Mary Ann checked her watch. The mass would begin in twelve minutes. Eight stories beneath them, the congregation materialized in splotches of red and blue and yellow, reduced at this height to their primary colors. A human rose window.
They walked at least fifty yards, until they were directly above the transept of the cathedral. There, conforming to the cross-shaped structure of the building itself, another catwalk intersected the one they were on.
And there sat a Styrofoam cooler.
Mary Ann looked behind her, then left and right on the other catwalk. The man with the transplant was nowhere in sight. Burke stood stone still, eyes locked on the cooler. The sickly, grayish caste to his face compelled Mary Ann to be strong.
“Burke, is this the Meeting of the Lines?”
He nodded.
She reached for the cooler. “Do you want me to open it?”
“Please,” he said feebly.
She lifted the lid. A thick cloud of white smoke billowed over the edges of the cooler. No. Not smoke; dry ice. She knelt by the cooler and blew on the surface of the cloud. It parted.
What she saw was pale purple, mauve almost. A thin ridge of hair ran along the top of it. It was black on one end, where it had been severed, and the toenails were a horrid shade of yellow.
But it was undeniably a human foot.
Dropping the lid, Mary Ann lurched to her feet and fell into Burke’s arms. She tried to scream, but gagged instead, pulling away from him just in time to lean over the railing.
The people below hardly knew what hit them.
The Cult
WHEN MARY ANN STRAIGHTENED UP AGAIN, Burke’s distorted features filled her with fresh terror.
“Burke … God, did you see it?”
He nodded mechanically, his eyes fixed on the lid of the cooler.
“It was a foot, Burke. It was somebody’s foot.”
He blinked dumbly, never shifting his gaze.
“We have to get out of here, Burke!”
He gripped her wrist. “No … wait …”
“Burke, for God’s sake! We have to tell someone. We can’t just—”
“It wasn’t a foot.”
“What?”
“It wasn’t a foot.” His eyes widened as he spoke the words, as if some rare spiritual revelation were sweeping over him. “It was … something else.”
Mary Ann’s voice grew shrill. “I saw it, Burke. There’s nothing else it could be.” She tried to break free from his hold, but his hand was like a vise. “Burke, what are you doing? Let go of me, Burke!”
His hand went slack. Huge beads of sweat erupted like blisters along his hairline. He turned and looked at her. “It wasn’t a foot,” he said pathetically. “It was an arm.”
“Burke, for God’s …!”
“It was, Mary Ann. When I was here before … it was an arm.”
“You were …? Burke, you remember?”
“They wanted me to … They told me I had to …”
“Who, Burke?”
“Them. Him.”
“The man with the transplant?”
Burke nodded.
“What did he want you to do?”
Silence.
“Burke?”
“We have to get out of here.”
“Wait, Burke. What did they want you to do?”
Now Burke was moving down the catwalk, away from the cooler, back to the spiral staircase. Reaching out to take Mary Ann’s hand, he quickened his pace until they were almost running.
“Burke, what if the man with the transplant …?”
“What time is it?” He pulled her wrist into view and looked at her watch. “Christ! We have three minutes!”
“For what?”
“They’ll be here in three minutes! The mass starts in three minutes!”
They were back at the door now, plunging once more into darkness. Burke led the way down the staircase, holding tight to Mary Ann’s hand. When they reached the room with the prayerbooks, he lunged at the button by the elevator, then leaped back as if it had shocked him.
“Shit!”
“What’s the matter?” whispered Mary Ann.
“Listen … the elevator! They’re coming up!”
“Dear God.”
Burke looked about him frantically, pulled Mary Ann into the darkest corner of the room, behind the towering pillar of prayerbooks. They were crouching in the shadows when the elevator door clattered open.
There seemed to be five or six of them, at least two of whom were women. Their voices were jovial and matter-of-fact until the man with the transplant began the incantation that Mary Ann now knew by heart.
High upon the Sacred Rock
The Rose Incarnate shines,
Upon the Mountain of the Flood
At the Meeting of the Lines.
The coppery taste of her own vomit made Mary Ann nauseous again. She tried to think of daisy-strewn fields, of raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens, but the image of that grisly purple foot flashed in her brain like a strobe light.
Instinctively, Burke reached for her hand and gave it a reassuring squeeze. In doing so, he grazed the pillar of prayerbooks, causing it to wobble menacingly. Mary Ann sucked in her breath and did her best to steady the trembling monolith.
They waited for an eternity.
Finally, the faceless celebrants began to ascend the staircase to the catwalk. When their footsteps had died out, Burke dashed to the elevator and leaned on the button.
The door opened immediately.
“Where’s the key?” asked Burke.
Mary Ann clutched at her neck. “I must’ve left it—”
“Christ!”
“Check the floor, Burke! Maybe it—”
“Hold it! We might not need it!” He pushed the button for the first floor. The elevator made an eerie sighing noise and the door rumbled shut again. They began their descent.
When they were back on the main floor of the cathedral, a growl from the great organ signaled the start of the mass. Never stopping to look back, they fled through the mammoth doors and ran all the way to Huntington Park.
Now they were huddled together on a bench, catching their breath.
“It’s come back, hasn’t it?”
“Yeah.”
“All of it?”
“Most of it.”
“Why are you crying?”
“I’m … relieved, that’s all.”
“Did you know those people?”
“Yeah?”
“Should we talk about it now?”
“I guess. That is, if you don’t mind.”
“I don’t mind.”
“That foot, Mary Ann … Those people.”
“Uh huh?”
“They’re eating it. They’re up there now eating it.”
Walking Alone
ONE WEEK LATER.
Leaning on Jon, Michael took faltering steps to the bathroom.
“Look at you!” Jon beamed. “You’re fabulous!”
“I am, aren’t I?”
“I think you can do it on your own.”
“Oh, no.”
“C’mon, turkey. Try.”
“Don’t be so goddamn B-movie! I’m not ready yet!”
“I’m gonna let go.”
“You do and I’ll tell your father you sleep with boys!”
“Get ready!”
“Jon!”
“You’ve been copping feels long enough. You’re on your own now.”
The doctor slipped out from under Michael’s arm and withdrew several feet. Michael’s arm flailed as he fought to maintain his balance. His knees were jelly, but he managed to remain in a static, upright position.
“Now, walk,” said Jon calmly.
“This is really corny. I hope you know that.”
“Go ahead.”
“You could have picked a better room for this touching human drama. I’ll fall and hit the toilet. I’ll die wi
th a Johnny Mop in my hand.”
“Shut up and walk.”
Michael sighed and lifted his left foot, placing it about six inches in front of him. Then he dragged his right foot forward. “Godzilla approaching Tokyo,” he groaned.
He repeated the process until he was in front of the toilet. Using a towel rack for support, he turned himself around. He made a face and let go.
He landed on target.
Jon was leaning cavalierly against the doorway, smiling at him. “You see?”
“Can’t a lady have a little privacy?” said Michael.
“Just a sec.” Jon dashed into the living room and came back with the Chronicle. He dropped it in Michael’s lap. “A little light reading for you.”
The front page was dominated by a picture of Burke and Mary Ann, looking flustered at a press conference.
The banner headline read:
EPISCOPAL CANNIBAL CULT EXPOSED
Later, Jon and Michael discussed the week’s events over coffee and raisin toast in the kitchen. Michael held up the newspaper.
“What’s with this, anyway? I thought Burke was gonna break the story in New West.”
“He was, but the police jumped the gun on him. The chief apparently called a press conference yesterday and scarfed up on a little publicity of his own. Burke was livid, because the chief had promised to keep quiet about it until the New West piece broke. Anyway, the end result was roughly the same. Pandemonium. Burke called his own press conference at New West late yesterday afternoon.”
Michael smiled. “Mary Ann must be wrecked.”
“She’s holding up O.K., actually. She says she’s coming by to see you this afternoon.”
“Good.”
“But no wisecracks, Michael. She’s still a little shaken over the whole thing.”
“O.K. I promise not to put my foot in my mouth.” Michael grinned. “So to speak.”
“That’s exactly the sort of thing I’m talking about.”
“O.K. O.K. Look, in one way, I’m just as involved as Mary Ann was.”
“How’s that?”
“Well, what if I had died at St. Sebastian’s? Those cultists would have been munching on me up there on the catwalk.”
Jon shook his head and smiled. “They didn’t eat whole people, my love. Just parts. Amputated parts.”
“Well, they could have.”
“Nope. The parts were easier to hide. And to transport. They had no problem at all moving them from surgery to the refrigerated room in Tyrone’s flower shop. And they could also fit nicely into the cooler for the trip to the cathedral.”
Michael made a face. “How many times did they do that, anyway?”
“Who knows?” shrugged the doctor. “Maybe as often as twice a week for four or five months. Burke apparently stumbled onto the cult in its early stages, when he was still singing in the choir.”
Michael rolled his eyes. “That’s when I would have moved back to Nantucket.”
“No way. Burke’s a journalist, remember? He wanted the story badly. Bad enough to sweet-talk his way into the cult and sneak a peek at the goings-on up on the catwalk at Grace. He expected something freaky, of course, but not that freaky. He couldn’t handle it.”
“Then he never went to the flower shop at St. Sebastian’s?”
“Apparently not. He says he knew nothing at all about the contacts at the hospital until Mary Ann pointed it out to him.”
Michael frowned. “That doesn’t make any sense.”
“Why?”
“Because of the rose phobia. What about the goddamn red rose?”
“Good question,” said the doctor.
A Rose Is a Rose
MICHAEL WAS USING HIS WALKER WHEN HE greeted Mary Ann at the door. “Hi,” he said breezily. “Welcome to the Barbary Lane Home for the Disabled.”
She kissed him on the cheek. “You look pretty fabulous to me.”
“Guess what I did this morning?”
“What?”
“I walked, Babycakes. Without this damn thing.”
“Mouse!”
“Ain’t that the cat’s ass?”
“Do it now, Mouse. Do it for me.”
He grinned at her. “Sorry. I never perform without my organ grinder. What about you, anyway? How does it feel to be a Media Star?”
She moaned and sat down on the sofa. “I’m exhausted. I’ve talked to all three networks, People magazine, Time, Newsweek, the New York Times, the National Enquirer and my parents. My parents were the toughest of all.”
“Of course.”
“They are totally hysterical, Mouse. You’d think the town was teeming with Episcopal cannibals. I tried to explain that the press was blowing it all out of proportion, but they won’t even listen to me. They want me on the next flight back to Cleveland.”
“Are you going?”
She shook her head, smiling. “Sit down, Mouse. I need a hug.”
He abandoned the walker and dropped to the sofa. They held on to each other for a long time.
“How’s my girl?” asked Michael.
“All right.”
“It’ll get better. I promise.”
“I shouldn’t gripe, I guess. I’ve got it easy compared to Burke. He’s been with the police all morning, trying to remember stuff.”
“Naming names?”
Mary Ann nodded. “He’s come up with fourteen so far, including three members of the cathedral choir, two surgeons at St. Sebastian’s, and even a couple of businessmen.”
“His memory must be completely back, then?”
“Just about. He regained most of it the night we found the … that night. Though he still can’t remember how he ended up in Golden Gate Park. My guess is they drugged him after they realized he had amnesia.”
“It seems funny that they wouldn’t have been a little more thorough about getting rid of him.”
“Not really. For one thing, they weren’t really committing a crime. That part’s driving the police crazy right now. The doctors can be nailed on some sort of ethical-practices violation, of course, but the law isn’t very clear about the rest of it. Those body parts were just medical garbage, really. There’s no law against eating garbage.”
Michael frowned. “Is that actually what they were doing?”
She nodded. “Apparently, they sort of … tasted it. It was supposed to be symbolic or something. One step beyond transubstantiation. Burke says they did it at the very moment the people below were eating the bread and the wine. The transplant man’s job was to see that the stuff was delivered to the catwalk at each of the designated masses.”
“What’s gonna happen to that guy, anyway?”
“Who knows? Burke says he’ll probably make a fortune. He’s already hired a literary agent.”
“You’re kidding!”
“Nope. It’s disgusting, isn’t it?” She shivered a little, turning away. “I just want it to be over with as soon as possible.”
Michael looked at her a moment, hesitating. “Do you mind if I ask you one more thing?”
“Sure. Go ahead.”
“What was all this red rose business? Was that just the rose window—the Rose Incarnate they chanted about?”
Mary Ann smiled faintly. “That’s what I thought at first. Or that it had something to do with the flower shop at St. Sebastian’s. It turned out to be neither. It was a tattoo.”
“A tattoo?”
She nodded. “The night Burke lost his memory was the first night the cult trusted him enough to let him join them on the catwalk. The thing he hadn’t counted on was that they expected him to participate in the ceremony. He knew they were High Church, of course—”
Michael chuckled, interrupting her. “You can’t get much higher than that,” he said.
She managed a laugh. “Anyway, he didn’t really know what was going to happen until they started chanting and Tyrone opened the Styrofoam cooler and pulled out an arm.”
“Arrggh!”
“I know
,” winced Mary Ann. “Who wouldn’t try to block that one out?”
“My God! Then the red rose was …”
Mary Ann nodded. “Tattooed on the arm.”
“Did Burke … I mean, did he …?”
Mary Ann shrugged. “I guess he must’ve tried, poor baby.”
The Anagram
WELL?” SAID MRS. MADRIGAL, SMILING.
“Well what?” asked Mona.
“How did your date go?”
“None of your business. That wasn’t part of the deal.”
The landlady arched an eyebrow mischievously and looked down at the tray of dope she was cleaning. “It was that good, was it?”
Mona flushed. “You’re avoiding the subject.”
“Which is?”
“The anagram. The anagram.”
“Ah.”
Mrs. Madrigal looked up. “Goodness gracious! Does love make you testy?”
“You’re not gonna tell me, are you?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Do I have to guess, then?”
Mrs. Madrigal craned her neck to examine the piece of paper in her daughter’s hands. “We have a list, do we? What fun! I feel like Rumpelstiltskin.”
Mona groaned and slumped down onto the sofa next to her. “You are truly perverse!”
Mrs. Madrigal directed her attention to the dope tray again. “What’s your first guess?”
Sighing noisily, Mona read from the paper: “DARLING AMANA.”
“DARLING AMANA? What does that mean?”
Mona frowned peevishly. “It means you’re a cute refrigerator.”
“Indeed. Next.”
“A GRANDMA IN LA.”
“A GRANDMA IN LA,” repeated the landlady. “My, my. Now that’s a dark secret!” She looked up briefly at Mona, who was scowling exactly like a certain madam from Winnemucca. “Go on, dear. This is wonderful!”
“A GRAND ANIMAL.”
Mrs. Madrigal roared, nearly spilling the dope. “I adore that one! A GRAND ANIMAL! I am indeed!”
“That’s it?”
“Nope.”
Mona rolled her eyes. “I hate this game.”
“Go on. What’s next?”
“That’s it, goddammit.”
“What about LAD IN ANAGRAM?”
Mona dropped the paper and stared at her father. “LAD IN ANAGRAM? You’re kidding!”
Mrs. Madrigal smiled faintly. “Yes. But I rather like it just the same.”
More Tales of the City Page 25
