SHADOWS

by Jonathan Nasaw

  After Aldo had finished loading the car he returned to the room for one last chore. From the motel phone he dialed Selene's number, listened through her greeting, waited for the beep as bidden, and left his message:

  "Hello Selene. My name is Len—or at least that's what Martha calls me…"

  CHAPTER 2

  « ^ »

  The hospital bed was gone. Although it had been in Don's living room only a few months, Selene felt its absence profoundly. "Somehow I'd pictured the bed still there, but empty," she whispered to Jamey as they tiptoed through the dark toward Martha's door.

  He held his finger to his lips, put his ear to the door for a moment, then opened it quietly. Selene could just make out the pale square of Martha's desk a few feet away; Jamey crossed over to it unerringly and picked up a heavy object, carried it back to Selene in the doorway. "This what you were looking for?"

  She took her Book of Shadows from him. Somehow she knew without even feeling for it that Moll's letter was gone. She sat down heavily on Martha's bed. "I think we can assume that your secret is out," she informed Jamey.

  "Wasn't my secret," he replied.

  * * *

  They left by the back door of Martha's room. The fog was thick enough that night to have obscured them even if they'd marched straight up the driveway, but Whistler insisted on leading them the long way around. At the edge of the woods above the redwood deck Jamey went as still as a hunting dog on point, watching, listening, smelling. "All clear," he whispered. "Except for—what's his name, your cat?"

  "Dunstan."

  "Dunstan's under the deck chewing on something."

  Black cat in the dark, sixty feet away! It had been years since Selene had pondered seriously about what it must be like to be high on blood; now she found herself wondering again. Whistler took her hand and they hurried down the hill and around to the back door. In the dark kitchen they could see the red light on the answering machine blinking. One blink at a time. The counter read 13.

  Selene pushed the play button, then took Jamey's hand and gripped it tightly all the way through the thirteenth message.

  "Hello, Selene. My name is Len—or at least that's what Martha calls me. We've met once, though you didn't do me the honor of opening your eyes or acknowledging my presence. No matter—we'll meet again. It is now eight p.m. on Tuesday, November sixteenth. Martha and I are going to be moving now. I will call you tomorrow evening precisely at six-thirty p.m., and if we don't make contact, then every night thereafter at that time until we can make arrangements to trade her for her father. If you haven't located him yet I suggest you try harder, for your goddaughter's sake. Because if you can't find him within, let's see, shall we say two or three days, then I'm going to have to go looking for him myself. In which case I would consider Martha, not a hostage, but excess baggage. And I never carry excess baggage.

  "One more point: about that murder of yours back in London? Good job, though rather quickly done for my taste. I bring this up only in case you're considering bringing the authorities into this. Of course, you can always have your barrister plead self-defense, but should it come to that, I'm afraid Martha's grandfather would be testifying otherwise—that you were and are delusional about vampires, that you went berserk and slaughtered poor Mrs. Wah, then stuck a needle in the old fellow when he tried to go to her aid.

  "But don't worry, I'm sure you won't have any problem convincing a jury that it was self-defense—once you'd explained about the vampires and all.

  "Ta-ta for now. Speak to you tomorrow at six-thirty. And remember, we're counting on you, Martha and I. Don't let us down."

  * * *

  Whistler removed the tape from the machine and slipped it into the outside pocket of Selene's blazer. "For your defense team, should it come to that," he explained. "Though I can't quite picture my father calling the police, much less testifying in a courtroom. I'm more worried about tomorrow night. It could be a trap."

  "I don't think so," said Selene. "Sounds more like he wants to choose his own—"

  But Jamey cut her off. "Let's forward your phone down to Don's just in case. You do have call forwarding, don't you?"

  "Nope."

  "Call Pac Bell in the morning and order it. Tell them it's an emergency."

  "Okay, so we take the call at Don's," said Selene, slightly miffed: it had occurred to her that she was being demoted from Sherlock Holmes to Dr. Watson, and she wasn't sure that she liked her new role. "Then what?"

  "Then we go where he tells us to go, rescue her, kill him, deal with my father." Obviously, implied his tone of voice.

  "But wherever it's going to be, he's going to have things set up in his favor."

  "I know. I'll just have to improvise."

  "Wouldn't it be easier if we could find out where he was keeping her?"

  Whistler sighed. "Yes, m'dear, it certainly would," he said patronizingly. "But somehow I don't think Aldo is going to be entirely cooperative."

  "I don't need his cooperation," snapped Selene.

  Jamey's wide-set gray eyes narrowed. "Oh?"

  But she was still ticked off at the tone he'd taken, and would not reply. They locked up Selene's house and returned to the lower A-frame, where they would sleep in shifts, Jamey informed her: that way he could stand guard over her all night, then sleep during the day when there would be less danger from Aldo, if he were indeed a blood drinker, which seemed increasingly likely.

  And much as she disliked Whistler's attitude, Selene had to admit his plan made sense, so while Jamey went outside to move the Jaguar into the garage, she changed into one of the XXXL 49ers T-shirts Martha used for a nightgown, and crawled into Martha's narrow bed.

  When he returned, Jamey perched on the edge of the bed and finished sketching out his adventures for her. Buffalo Barry Klein had advanced Whistler enough money to fly to Miami, using brother Toby's Virgin Islands driver's license—no passport necessary—to get through airport security, and it was from a cheap motel not far from the Orange Bowl that Jamey had first contacted Nick Santos and asked him to poke around cyberspace.

  Nick, who had spent the past several years fighting hackers and crackers, was delighted at the chance to do some hacking and cracking himself. "News flash: you're missing and presumed dead in the Virgin Islands," he had reported back to Whistler within twenty-four hours. "In Contra Costa County they want to talk to you about an arson investigation—somebody torched your place in El Sobrante. It's a total loss. Meanwhile the Nevada State Police are investigating the fire in Tahoe—the manor's a write-off too."

  "Also fire?"

  "Also fire. At the moment, thanks to the sheer incompetence of all the official investigators, there are no warrants or requests to detain out for you, but if they ever get around to talking to each other, there will be. Now what can I do to help?"

  "Send cash," Jamey had replied.

  Of his adventures between Miami and San Francisco he had little to say to Selene, beyond the fact that the trip had taken over a week, and that upon arrival he had maintained his own surveillance on Nick to be sure no one was watching him before reestablishing contact. "We both knew what a dangerous game I might be drawing him into—or thought we did. He was due to check in with me this morning—when he hadn't contacted me by sunset, I went looking for him. I got there a few minutes before you did, came up the fire escape, heard the buzzer, hid out in the hall closet. I'm sorry you had to see the body. I wanted to stop you before you went into the bedroom, but I had to be sure you weren't being followed."

  "I understand."

  "Whoever this fucker Aldo is, he's good. Which reminds me—my flask is about empty. If I have to stay awake all night…"

  He didn't have to spell it out for her. "I suppose it makes sense," she sighed, drawing back the covers and swinging her legs over the side of the bed. "What are you using?"

  Jamey showed her the razor-edged utility knife he'd picked up in Miami. "I just put in a fresh blade this evening."

  "I
should hope so!" Selene crossed her right ankle over her left knee; he gave her a moment to go into her modified trance, then opened a small vein at the inside of her ankle. As usual, she did not flinch when he made the cut, though she did wriggle a bit with sensual satisfaction as he sucked at the small wound. "Not too much, now," she warned him. "I'm a little out of practice as a donor."

  "Mmm-hmmm," he agreed; after another minute he withdrew his lips reluctantly from her ankle and helped her close the wound with pressure. She assisted by slowing her breathing, and thus her heart rate. When he stood up she couldn't help noticing the Creature swelling against the inside thigh of his Levi's. She gave it a pat for old time's sake, then a stroke.

  Jamey pressed her hand against him. "Sure you want to do that?" he asked.

  "Sure is not a word I use much anymore," she replied. Five minutes later Jamey, who should have been outside standing guard, was lying on his belly between Selene's outstretched feet, gradually nuzzling 49er red and gold up past her thighs, while Selene, who should have been sleeping, was raising her hips up off the bed to make his task easier.

  "Missed you, missed you, missed you," Jamey whispered fervently when he'd reached the promised land, then bent to his work again, opening her with his tongue and lips as delicately as if the lips of her sex were the petals of a full-blown rose. She tightened her thighs around his ears, then pulled the 49er shirt up to her neck: soon he would reach up to roll her nipples between his fingertips like little nuggets of gold, the way he used to—she wanted her breasts to be bare for…

  "Jamey, no! Wait! Stop!"

  A muffled "What?" from between her thighs.

  "We can't."

  "Why not?"

  "Come up here on the bed." She rolled onto her side and made room for him. "Have you ever heard of orgomancy?"

  * * *

  By the time she finished she was half expecting him to leap out of the bed, but he only laughed. "To tell you the truth, I've never put much stock in that sort of thing."

  She stiffened in his arms. "Just what do you mean by that sort of thing?"

  "I'm sorry—that came out badly. Coitus interruptus, y'know—I thought you were giving me the Wiccan equivalent of not tonight dear, I have a headache. The fact is, I don't even read my horoscope in the paper anymore. And as for the ravings of a crone in orgasm, I'd prefer to take my chances, no matter how well the verse scans. Or are you planning to betray me? Because we already are lying together, y'know."

  Their noses were almost touching. "Yeah. But there's lying, and there's lying." Selene could feel the Creature nudging her thigh—he must have unbuttoned his jeans at some point.

  "Let's lie," he suggested hopefully.

  "Let's not."

  "I'd much prefer to be the first man, the man who must be betrayed"—this last in a mock-portentous tone—"rather than the man who must die."

  "I'm sure you would, especially if it gets you laid," she said, shoving him away from her, wriggling out from between Whistler and wall. But she knew full well that it was not his lack of faith that was upsetting her—talk about the pot calling the kettle black! And something he'd just said continued to nag at her as she climbed off the foot of the bed and stood with her back to him, rearranging her nightshirt. Something about the wording of the prophecy. All those musts. Must lie… must betray… must die. But why must? If a thing was going to happen, it was going to happen. You didn't say the sun must come up tomorrow. Unless…

  Selene sat down heavily on the end of the cot. Behind her Jamey started to say something else. She shushed him.

  Unless it hadn't been a prophecy at all, but rather a prescription. A plan of action: betray the first man you lie with in order to kill the second.

  Far-fetched? Perhaps. But now there were three possibilities—the orgomancy might be nonsense, foreshadowing, or directive. But if it was nonsense, then she might as well make love with Jamey; it might be their last chance. If it was a true foreshadowing, then all this back-and-forth was only an attempt to manipulate the inevitable—if it was Jamey she was meant to lie with and betray, then it was Jamey; if not, not. And if the orgomancy was indeed some form of advice or instruction, if it was telling her she had to betray the first man she slept with in order for the second to die, if that was the only way out of this mess…

  What was it Scrooge had asked the last ghost? "Are these the shadows of things that will be, or only things that may be." She couldn't remember what the Spirit had answered. Didn't matter, did it?

  "You're right," she said, standing up again with her back to Jamey, reaching down cross-handed and pulling her nightshirt off over her head. "Let's do it."

  Not long afterward—about as long as it took for Jamey to tug his jeans down the rest of the way, for Selene to find ajar of coconut oil moisturizer on Martha's dresser to slather over the Creature—she was lowering herself down upon it, down, down, down, until it filled her so that she could hardly breathe, hardly wanted to breathe. Jamey's eyes were closed. "Oh yes," he was murmuring. "Yes, yes, yes…"

  Then he opened them, caught sight of her face above him, and ceased his upward thrusting. "Are you all right?" he asked her, reaching up to caress her cheek gently with a thumb.

  "Wonderful."

  "Does it hurt?"

  "No."

  He showed her the thumb that had just stroked her face; it was wet. "Then why are you crying?"

  She could think of a few answers. Because I missed this so much? Because I'm going to betray you? Because I have to do this again with Aldo? She grabbed his damp thumb tightly in both hands, brought it to her mouth, and licked it clean of her salty tears.

  "Tears of joy, dearie," she lied. "Tears of joy." At which point it occurred to her that perhaps the betrayal had already begun.

  CHAPTER 3

  « ^ »

  For the second time in two and a half weeks Selene hiked up the path to the herb garden on the southern slope of the hill behind her A-frame. This time, though, she wore her Mephisto sandals, and she had thrown on a long flower-print cotton Laura Ashley dress that absolutely cried out for a wide straw bonnet with a trailing ribbon. Some misguided relative had given the dress to Martha for her sweet sixteen. As far as Selene could tell it had never been worn.

  The hedge of rosemary was in bloom, a dense green wall dotted with clumps of tiny Tuscan blue flowers glistening with morning dew. Selene drank it all in, the earthy colors, the dark bitter fragrance of the rosemary leaves, the rough feel of the blistered black paint of the iron gate latch against her fingers.

  She'd already been up for hours, and made two phone calls, the first to Carson, whom she'd pacified with half-truths, to the effect that she'd heard from Martha indirectly, that by tonight she would know where the girl was staying, and would be on her way to pick her up. The second call had been to Pacific Bell. She explained her problem—emergency call expected, had to go out, sick friend, yadda yadda—anticipating a typical phone company blow-off, whereupon a kindly competent service rep quickly assured her there would be no problem adding the call forwarding feature to Selene's home number that very same afternoon, then thanked her for her business. The whole experience had done nothing to dispel Selene's mounting sense of unreality.

  Nor did the sight of the deadly nightshade growing by itself in the center of the drought-ravaged herb garden. Selene's hand trembled as she began feeling the slightly wrinkled, purple-black cherries; she had plucked two before she realized that she had completely forgotten to ask permission of Hecate. Then she remembered that she'd also made her decision to lie with Jamey last night without consulting the Goddess—without even thinking of Her. Suddenly she understood that she was now instinctively, almost reflexively, practicing witchcraft without Wicca, tradecraft without the comfort of religion. The realization smacked her like a Zen master's stick; for a moment she felt as lost and lonely as one of Le Carre's post-cold war spies.

  Then another smack—as Selene carefully dropped her five chosen cherries into the apron po
cket of Martha's dress, she remembered that Hecate was Martha's chosen Wiccan name, and that yesterday, the sixteenth of November, had been Hecate Day on the Wiccan calendar.

  "Oh give me a break," she said to no one in particular—but in the same tone of voice she'd once reserved for speaking to the Goddess.

  * * *

  Whistler dreamed his dream again that afternoon. But this time Lourdes did not dance away from him after dropping her sarong. Instead she took him by the hand and led him through the glass door into the bedroom. "You," she said. "Here, now." She lay back on the bed and reached up for him; it wasn't until he was on top of her that he remembered that she was dead.

  But it wasn't a Stephen King moment by any means. The instant he realized that she had come to him in a dream both she and the dream evaporated, and he found himself lying alone in a bed that was much too short for him, nursing a bittersweet memory along with a stiff neck. He asked himself whether the joy of having her again, even for a moment, was worth the pain of losing her again.

  Before he could decide on an answer it occurred to him that he might as well be asking the same question about having and losing both Lourdes and Cora the first time.

  The question alone was enough to start the tears. Stupid question. Grief swells and purpose shrivels when you start asking yourself unanswerable questions like that. This much he knew, though: if Job forgave God before he died, then he didn't die old and full of days, he died old and full of shit. Beyond that, Whistler was sure of nothing, other than that it was time to take the advice that the exquisitely named Archie Bell and the Drells were giving out in 1968. Time to do the Tighten Up.