by Dan Simmons
Harod made a tight fist. He could not tell precisely when the tape had been made, but it looked recent.
“I trust you have taken care of any unfinished business we might have had,” said Willi. “I know that the production company will be in good hands. Relax, my friend, if you have had the will read already, do not worry. There are no surprise codas in this tape. The house is yours. This is a friendly visit between two old friends, ja?”
“Fuck,” hissed Harod. There were goose bumps rising along his arms. “. . . enjoy the house,” Willi was saying. “I know that you never especially admired it, but it should be easily convertible to investment capital should the need arise. Maybe you could use it for our little White Slaver project, no?”
The tape was very recent. Harod shivered in spite of the warm day. “Tony, I have very little to say to you. You would agree that I have treated you like a son, nicht wahr? Well, if not a son, then perhaps a favorite nephew. This is despite the fact that you have not always been as honest with me as you could have been. You have friends that you have not told me about . . . is this not true? Ah, well, no friendship is perfect, Tony. Perhaps I have not told you everything there is to know about my friends. We must live our own lives, yes?”
Harod sat upright, very still, scarcely breathing. “It does not matter now,” said Willi and looked away from the camera to squint at the motes of light dancing on the pool. “If you are seeing this tape, I must be gone. No one lives forever, Tony. You will understand this when you reach my age . . .” Willi looked back into the camera lens. “If you reach my age.” He smiled. The dentures were perfect. “Just three more things I want to say, Tony. First, I regret that you never learned to play chess. You know how much it meant to me. It is more than a game, my friend. Ja, it is much more than a game. You once said that you had no time for such games when you had a life to lead. Well, there is always time to learn, Tony. Even a dead man could help you learn. Zweitens, second, I must tell you that I have always detested the name Willi. Should we meet in the afterlife, Tony, I would ask that you address me differently. Herr von Borchert would be acceptable. Or Der Meister. Do you believe in an afterlife, Tony? I do. I am sure that one exists. How do you picture such a place, eh? I have always imagined paradise as a wonderful island on which all of one’s needs are met, where there are many interesting people to converse with, and where one could Hunt to his heart’s content. A pleasant picture, no?”
Harod blinked. He had often read the term “break out in a cold sweat” but had never experienced it before. He did so now.
“Finally, Tony, I must ask. What kind of name is Harod, eh? You say you are from Midwestern Christian stock and you certainly invoke the name of Christus frequently enough, but I think maybe the name Harod has other origins, yes? I think maybe my dear nephew is a Jew. Ah, well, it does not matter now. We can speak of it should we meet again in paradise. Meanwhile, there is more to this tape, Tony. I have added a few excerpts from the news. You might find them enlightening even though you do not usually have time for such things. Good-bye, Tony. Or rather, Auf Wiedersehn.” Willi waved at the camera. The tape blanked for a few seconds and then cut to a five-month-old local news report on the capture of the Hollywood Strangler. More news fragments followed, covering a year’s selection of random murders. Twenty-five minutes later the tape ended and Harod turned off the VCR. He sat for a long time holding his head in his hands. Finally he rose, removed the cassette, put it in his jacket pocket, and left.
He drove hard going home, taking the long way, slamming the car up through the gears, entering the Hollywood Freeway at better than 80 miles per hour. No one stopped him. His jogging suit was wet with perspiration when he pulled up his own drive and slid to a stop under the baleful glare of his satyr.
Harod went to the bar near the Jacuzzi and poured a tall glass of vodka. He drank it in four swallows and took the cassette out of his pocket. He tugged the tape loose and unrolled it onto the floor, tearing the ends loose from the plastic reels in the cassette. It took several minutes to burn the entire tape in the old barbecue pit on the terrace beyond his pool. A melted residue remained in the ashes. Harod smashed the empty cassette repeatedly against the stone chimney of the barbecue until the plastic was shattered. He tossed the broken cassette into the Dumpster next to the cabana and went back inside to have another vodka, mixed with Rose’s lime juice this time.
Harod stripped and lay back in the Jacuzzi. He was almost asleep when Maria Chen entered with the day’s mail and his dictation recorder.
“Leave it there,” he said and went back to dozing. Fifteen minutes later he opened his eyes and began sorting through the day’s stack of envelopes, occasionally dictating notes or brief replies into the Sony. Four new scripts had arrived. Tom McGuire had sent a mass of paperwork relating to acquiring Willi’s house, arranging for the auction, and paying taxes. There were three invitations to parties and Harod made a note to consider one of them. Michael May-Dreinan, a cocky young writer, had sent a scribbled note complaining that Schubert Williams, the director, was already rewriting Dreinan’s screenplay and the goddamn thing wasn’t even finished yet. Would Harod please intervene? Otherwise, he, Dreinan, would quit the project. Harod tossed the note aside and dictated no response.
The final letter was in a small, pink envelope postmarked in Pacific Palisades. Harod tore it open. The stationery matched the envelope and was softly perfumed. The handwriting was tight and heavily slanted with childish circles above the “i’s.”
Dear Mr. Harod,
I do not know what came over me last Saturday. I will never understand it. But I do not blame you and I forgive you even if I cannot forgive myself.
Today Loren Sayles, my agent, received a packet of contractual forms relating to your film proposal. I told Loren and my mother that there has been a mistake. I told them that I had spoken to Mr. Borden about the film just prior to his death but that no commitment had been made.
I cannot be associated with such a project at this point in my career, Mr. Harod. I am sure you can understand my situation. This does not mean that we may not work together on some other film venture in the future. I trust that you understand this decision and would remove any obstacles— or any embarrassing details— which might damage such a future relationship.
I know that I can depend upon you to do the right thing in this situation, Mr. Harod. You mentioned last Saturday that you are aware that I am a member of the Church of Jesus Christ of the Latter Day Saints. You must also understand that my faith is very strong and that my commitment to the Lord and to His Laws must come before all other considerations.
I pray— and know in my heart— that God will help you see the proper course of action in this situation.
Yours most sincerely,
Shayla Berrington
Harod put the scented stationery back in the envelope. Shayla Berrington. He had almost forgotten about her. He picked up the tiny recorder and spoke into the built-in mike on the end. “Maria, letter to Tom McGuire. Dear Tom. I’ll get this legal stuff out of the way as soon as I can. Proceed with the auction as outlined. New paragraph. Very happy to hear that you enjoyed the X-rated outtakes I sent you for Cal’s birthday party. I thought you guys might get a kick out of them. I’m sending you another tape that you might like. Don’t ask me any questions, just enjoy. Feel free to make as many copies as you like. Maybe Marv Sandborne and the fellows at Four Star would also get a laugh or two from it. New paragraph. I’ll get the deed transfer stuff to you as soon as I can. My accountants will be in touch. New paragraph. Give my love to Sarah and the kids. Closing. Best and All! Oh, and Maria, get that to me today to sign, OK? Enclose VHS cassette 165. And Maria— send it special delivery.”
SIX
Charleston
Tuesday, Dec. 16, 1980
The young woman stood very still, arms extended, both hands wrapped around the butt of the pistol that was aimed at Saul Laski’s chest. Saul knew that if he stepped out of the wardrobe s
he might fire, but no power on earth could have kept him in that dark space with the stink of the Pit in his nostrils. He stumbled out into the gray light of the bedroom.
The woman stepped back and held the pistol level. She did not fire. Saul took deep breaths and noticed that the woman was young and black and that there were drops of moisture on her white raincoat and short Afro hairdo. She might have been attractive, but Saul found it hard to concentrate on anything but the handgun she kept trained on him. It was a small automatic pistol— Saul thought it a .32 caliber— but its smallness did not prevent the dark circle of the muzzle from commanding all of Saul’s attention.
“Put your hands up,” she said. Her voice was smooth, sensuous, with an educated Southern accent. Saul lifted his hands and locked his fingers behind his neck.
“Who are you?” she asked. She continued to brace the automatic with both hands, but she did not seem confident in the weapon’s use. She remained too close to him, within four feet. Saul knew that he would have a better than even chance of deflecting the barrel before she could squeeze the trigger. He made no move to do so. “Who are you?” she repeated.
“My name is Saul Laski.”
“What are you doing here?”
“I could ask the same of you.”
“Answer the question.” She raised the pistol as if that would prompt him. Saul knew now that he was dealing with an amateur with firearms, someone who had been seduced by television into believing that guns were magic wands which could make people do their bidding. He looked at her. She was younger than he had first thought, in her early twenties. She had an attractive, oval face, delicate features, full mouth, and large eyes that appeared all black in the poor light. Her skin was precisely the color of coffee with cream.
“I am looking around,” said Saul. His voice was steady, but he was interested to find that his body was reacting much the way it always did to having a firearm pointed at it; his testicles were trying to rise into his body and he had an irresistible urge to hide behind someone, anyone, even him-self.
“This house was closed off by the police,” she said. Saul noticed that she had said “police” rather than “police,” the pronunciation he had heard from so many American blacks in New York.
“Yes,” he said, “I know they did.”
“What are you doing here?”
Saul hesitated. He looked at her eyes. There was anxiety there, tension, and great intensity. The human emotions reassured him and convinced him to tell her the truth. “I’m a doctor,” he said. “A psychiatrist. I am interested in the murders which occurred here last week.”
“A psychiatrist?” The young woman seemed dubious. The pistol did not waver. The house was quite dark now, the only light coming from a gas lamp in the courtyard. “Why did you break in?” she asked.
Saul shrugged. His arms were getting tired. “May I lower my hands?”
“No.”
Saul nodded. “I was afraid the authorities would not let me see the house. I had hoped there might be something here to help explain the events. I don’t believe there is.”
“I should call the police,” said the woman. “By all means,” agreed Saul. “I did not see a telephone downstairs, but there must be one somewhere. Let us call the police. Call Sheriff Gentry. I will be charged for breaking and entering. I would think that you will be charged with breaking and entering, deadly menacing, and possession of an illegal weapon. I presume it is not registered?”
The woman’s head had come up at the mention of Gentry’s name. She ignored his question. “What do you know about last Saturday’s murders?” Her voice almost broke on the last word.
Saul arched his back to relieve the ache in his neck and arms. “I only know what I have read,” he said. “Although I had met one of the women— Nina Drayton. I think that there is more involved here than the police— Sheriff Gentry, the FBI man, Haines— imagine.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that nine people died in this town last Saturday and no one can explain it,” said Saul. “Yet I think there is a common thread which the authorities have missed. My arms ache, Miss. I am going to put them down now, but I will make no other move.” He lowered his hands before she could reply. She stepped back a foot. The old house settled around them. Somewhere on the street a car radio blared for a second and was cut off.
“I think you’re lying,” said the young woman. “You may be a common thief. Or some sort of ghoul hunting for souvenirs. Or you may have had something to do with the killings yourself.”
Saul said nothing. He stared at her in the dark. The small automatic was barely visible in her hands. He could feel her indecision. After a moment he spoke. “Preston,” he said. “Joseph Preston, the photographer. Wife? No, not his wife. Sheriff Gentry said that Mr. Preston had lived in the area for . . . twenty-six years, I believe. His daughter perhaps. Yes, his daughter.”
The woman took another step back. “Your father was killed on the street,” said Saul. “Brutally. Senselessly. The authorities can tell you nothing conclusive and what they do tell you is unsatisfactory. So you wait. You watch. Possibly you have watched this house for days. Then along comes this New York Jew in a tennis hat and climbs the fence. You think, this will tell me something. I am right?” The girl remained silent, but the pistol was lowered. Saul could see her shoulders moving slightly and he wondered if she was crying.
“Well,” he said and softly touched her arm, “perhaps I can help. Perhaps together we can make some sense of this insanity. Come, let us leave this house. It stinks of death.”
The rain had stopped. The garden smelled of wet leaves and soil. The girl led Saul to the far side of the carriage house where there was a gap cut between the old iron and the new wire. He squeezed through after her. Saul noticed that she had put the pistol in the pocket of her white raincoat. They walked down the alley, their feet crunching softly on cinders. The night was cool.
“How did you know?” she asked. “I did not. I guessed.”
They reached the street and stood a minute in silence. “My car’s around front,” the young woman said at last.
“Oh? Then how did you see me?”
“I noticed you when you drove by. You were looking hard and you almost stopped in front of the house. When you turned around the block I came around to check.”
“Hmmm,” said Saul. “I would make a very poor spy.”
“You’re really a psychiatrist?”
“Yes.”
“Not from here though.”
“No. New York. I sometimes work at the clinic at Columbia University.”
“You’re an American citizen?”
“Yes.”
“Your accent. Is it . . . what, German?”
“No, not German,” said Saul. “I was born in Poland. What is your name?”
“Natalie,” she said. “Natalie Preston. My father was . . . you know all that.”
“No,” said Saul. “I know very little. At this moment I know only one thing for sure.”
“What’s that?” The young woman’s eyes were very intense. “I’m starving,” said Saul. “I have had nothing since breakfast except terrible coffee at the sheriff’s office. If you would join me somewhere for dinner, we could continue our discussion.”
“Yes, on two conditions,” said Natalie Preston. “What is that?”
“First, that you tell me anything you know that might help explain my father’s murder.”
“Yes?”
“And second, that you take that soggy tennis hat off while we eat.”
“Agreed,” said Saul Laski.
The restaurant was called Henry’s and it was only a few blocks away, near the old marketplace. From the outside it did not appear promising. The whitewashed front was windowless and unadorned except for a single illuminated sign over the narrow door. Inside it was old and dark and reminded Saul of an inn near Lodz where his family had eaten occasionally when he was a boy. Tall black men in clean white jackets
moved unobtrusively between the tables. The air was thick with the stimulating smell of wine and beer and seafood.
“Excellent,” said Saul. “If the food tastes as good as it smells, it will be a wonderful experience.” It was. Natalie ordered a shrimp salad. Saul had swordfish served shish kabob with broiled vegetables and small, white potatoes. They both drank cold, white wine and spoke of everything but what they had come to speak of. Natalie ascertained that Saul lived alone although he was plagued by a house keeper who was part yenta and part therapist. He assured Natalie that he would never need to avail himself of the professional courtesy of colleagues as long as Tema continued to explain his neuroses to him and search for cures.
“You have no family then?” asked Natalie. “Only a nephew in the States,” said Saul and nodded to the waiter as the man cleared away their plates. “I have a cousin in Israel and many distant relatives there.”
Saul was able to ascertain that Natalie’s mother had died some years before and that Natalie was currently attending graduate school. “You say you’re going to university in the North?” he asked.
“Well, not quite the North. St. Louis. Washington University.”
“Why did you choose such a distant school? There is the College of Charleston. I had a friend who taught briefly at the University of South Carolina in . . . is it Columbia?”
“Yes.”
“And Wofford College. That is in South Carolina, is it not?”
