Samuel spread it out on the flat surface of a boulder. “Well, John,” he announced, “I believe you’ve found a treasure map.”
Had I been older, I’d have spotted the ruse immediately. As a youngster, I could barely contain my glee while we carefully paced off the directions on the map. One hundred steps to the blue spruce tree, forty to the drinking fountain, on to the bandstand, and back to the boathouse.
We ended up at a flower bed behind a cedar hedge, where, remarkably, one pale pink rose still lingered.
“The treasure lies under the sign of the rose, that’s what’s written here,” Samuel said.
Falling on my hands and knees, I attacked the loose mound of earth beneath the rose plant with a stick. Samuel knelt on the ground beside me, his ancient Harris Tweed jacket flapping in the gusty breeze, dirt rimming his fingernails.
He played his part convincingly.
Using a tissue, we carefully brushed away the remaining soil and lifted out a small coffer, rounded at one end and squared off at the other. It was typical of Samuel not to fill it with kid stuff but rather with objects of real worth. I opened a little net bag containing seven gold coins. I took them out, scrutinizing the unusual images and feeling the weight of them in my hands. There was also a copper disc, green with age, an image of a bird embossed on one side; a stone cylinder seal; and a golden key. Later I tried the key in every lock in our home, but I never discovered what it opened. The chest also offered up a little enamel box, inside it a caramel-colored cameo of a lady’s profile. On the back I saw an inscription in letters I didn’t understand.
“Keep these in a safe place,” Samuel said. “They will matter to you someday.”
My cellphone chirped, pulling me back to the present. I checked my watch. Nearly twelve-thirty.
I answered, hoping to hear the blond woman’s voice, but Hal came on the line, his words badly slurred. I could make out my name and nothing else. After that, a stretch of fifty seconds or so of wheezing and slow, troubled breaths.
His voice cleared up. “John, are you there? Come back to the house. I need you.” The sound of his phone falling onto a hard surface sent a shock wave through my ear. The line went dead.
I could not remember a time, as adults, when Hal had sought my help for anything personal. That he’d asked for it now was a clear sign of trouble. I grabbed my keys, flew down the back stairs to save time, and got in my car. After driving like a madman, zigzagging through the streets and ignoring every speed limit, I parked in front of the church near Hal’s townhouse. The street was uncharacteristically deserted and gloomy, the large homes looming out of the darkness like giant mausoleums empty of their dead.
I got out, punched the code for the front door lock, and ran through the echoing corridor and down the stairs, through the kitchen to the back garden. A dog howled next door; otherwise, it was dead quiet.
Security monitors detected my movements and lights flashed on, sending arcs of brightness across the garden, throwing the borders into deep shadow. I saw Hal sprawled on the concrete floor of the pavilion, one arm thrown awkwardly over his forehead. His eyes were wide open and staring; his face, the picture of Edvard Munch’s frozen scream.
I bent down and touched the skin at the base of his neck, searching for the tiny throbbing pulse in the soft hollow of his throat. I tried to force his mouth shut, thinking, in a panic, that if I could restore his face to normalcy he would revive. I tried pressing down on his eyelids, but in a frightening way they sprang open again when I lifted my fingers.
Reaching for his hand, already growing cold, I closed my warm one over his.
Lord, Hal. All your bravado about not getting pure heroin. You can make only one mistake with that.
As my eyes became accustomed to the gloom, I could see a nasty, bloody cut on his left hand, probably caused by his fall. I felt for my BlackBerry to call an ambulance and noticed that Hal’s cell had tumbled underneath his chair. I picked it up. The top had broken, its rim a jagged outcropping of black plastic.
Hal’s syringe still lay on the table next to his empty drink glass. Except for a few grains, the clear plastic bag holding the heroin was empty. The dog resumed barking, this time in a series of high-pitched, frenzied yelps, as though it had sighted quarry and was closing in for the kill.
I heard the scrape of footsteps on the flagstone and straightened up. The blond woman I’d met earlier stood staring at me, a quirky half-smile on her face. Her hair shimmered in the lamplight like pale watered silk.
She still looked as immaculate as she had earlier in the evening, with one exception: a spray of blood, visible on her right sleeve. She seemed at ease, almost nonchalant. As if it were perfectly natural for Hal to be lying dead on the pavilion floor. She took a few steps toward me.
“Hello again, John,” she said.
Three
Ireached into my memory, trying to retrieve her name. Erica or Erin, something like that. “Don’t you realize what’s happened here?”
She moved closer and trailed her fingers down my arm. “It’s Eris. We met earlier, remember?”
Had she not seen Hal? Maybe I was blocking her view. I stepped aside.
As if she’d done it many times before, she knelt beside him, checked his eyes, and pressed her fingers to his throat. Sighing, she rose again. “He’s beyond help now. But I think you already know that.” She said this sympathetically, but her lack of alarm disturbed me.
“What happened to him?”
“I’ve seen enough dead bodies. He overdosed.”
The sound of panting and whining came from next door. The neighbor’s dog. It scratched frantically at the wooden fence. Her confirmation of my suspicion threw me into a quandary. The right thing to do was call the police, but with all the drugs around I realized the blame would stop right at my doorstep, given my own run-ins with the law in my youth.
As if reading my mind, she said, “Don’t involve the cops in this.”
“Why not?”
“You argued with him earlier. You left the window open. People heard you.”
“That was nothing.” I looked around. “Are you alone here? Where’s Colin Reed?”
She turned the corners of her lips down in a mock smile. “Reed left a while ago. He was only interested in one thing and took off when I made it clear I wouldn’t play. Men can be so disappointing.” She said this flippantly, as if making a joke of it. “I wasted my time with him when I could have spent it with you.” She picked up Hal’s plastic bag and shoved it into her pocket. Her hand returned to my arm. “Look, it’s unfortunate what happened to Hal. But we can do a deal. There’s loads of money in it.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
She moved closer and the pressure on my arm increased. “John, it’s a stolen artifact. I know that. No big deal. Surely you don’t think I’m with the Feds or something?”
I stepped away and shook off her hand. “Frankly, I don’t care whether you’re with the FBI or Fort Knox.”
The moth I’d seen earlier reappeared, fluttering near the oil lamp. Eris stretched out her hand and flicked it toward the flame. I heard a sizzle. The moth flipped around erratically, straining to fly with burnt wings, then dropped onto the lamp base.
“This is getting tiresome,” she said. “Do I have to spell it out? What I’m telling you is we assisted with Hal’s injection. Don’t make the same bad decision he did.”
“Are you crazy? Do you have any idea how stupid that was? You killed him. He’d already taken enough. I saw him shoot up the first time.”
“He chose to be stubborn. He asked for it.”
“What are you talking about?”
Her overly sweet tone disappeared. “Look, we know you’re involved. Hal called you back here for a reason. Just tell me where it is.”
My mind raced. None of this was making sense. She was either delusional or up to something truly vicious. Either way I wanted no part of it. The whole thing was spinning out of control. All I
wanted to do was get out of there. I doubted she had the muscle to tackle me, and I couldn’t see a weapon. I heard a sound and hoped someone else might be coming. Her glance darted to the shadowy brush at the end of the garden. A figure loomed. I glimpsed an enormous man stepping onto the flagstones. Eris smiled. This was no savior. I might be able to handle one of them. Two, no way.
An old lattice fence separated the Vanderlins’ from the place next door. Through the gaps in the slats the dog growled furiously, using its teeth and paws to tear away at the rotted wood. It began to splinter.
Eris turned her head, her eyes widening in fear. She opened her mouth, revealing small, perfectly spaced white teeth, and flicked a pink tongue over her lips.
The bottom of the fence cracked. Through the hole the face and slathering jaws of a bull mastiff appeared. Eris leapt away, afraid the powerful dog would push through and attack. Lights blinked on next door. A guy’s voice shouted out, “What in God’s name is going on over there?” A siren wailed in the distance.
I took the opening Eris offered and whipped Hal’s cellphone at her, jagged end forward, and ran through the open sliding glass doors. Don’t look back. Get out. Just get out. I blew through the house and out the front door, got my vehicle moving before I even shut the car door. Ahead I could see police cruisers fighting their way through the intersection at Eighth Avenue.
I sped off. If the police caught me now they’d think I was running from a murder.
Four
Idrove around aimlessly, checking the rear-view mirror constantly to make sure I wasn’t being followed. My thoughts came in frantic scrambles. What in the hell was going on? Was Eris high on something? Did she really kill Hal? She was after some kind of artifact. The thing Hal told me about earlier? Had he called me back to help him, or to involve me in some scheme?
I checked the mirror again. Was that silver Range Rover tailing me? Could she have moved that fast? I don’t know why I picked that car out; any one of them could have me in their sights. I pulled a risky U-turn and sped past the silver SUV. My body quaked and I jerked the steering wheel. Thanks only to the vigilance of the driver beside me, we avoided a crash. He leaned on his horn in justifi-able rage. Add an accident to tonight’s events and I’d wind up in a monumental shitload of trouble.
My state of mind was such that I hadn’t been paying any attention to where I was actually headed and now I realized I’d ended up in Murray Hill. I scanned the cars behind me again. No sign of the silver one. I turned onto a side street and slid into a vacant spot just before realizing I was ahead of a patrol car. It took a slow roll past me and braked. The cop on the passenger side gave me the evil eye. He’d sensed my panic. I was finished. But to my surprise they lingered for only half a minute before speeding down the street. I rested my head on the steering wheel, the shock of the night’s events closing around me like a vise.
I needed somewhere to cool down and think. Going home wasn’t an option. Not yet, anyway. Eris had my business card with my address. The only other place I could conjure up was my favorite club, which had the benefit of being right across the street from my condo. I could keep an eye out for any sign of Eris.
I turned the car around and headed for Kenny’s Castaways.
The building housing Kenny’s had been a bar since the early 1800s. By the 1890s the Herald had anointed it “the wickedest place in New York.” In more recent times, Irishman Pat Kenny bought the place and made it famous. Its legendary bands taught me my first lessons about great music. On one long-ago summer night I’d leaned against the rails of the balcony of our condo like a sailor transfixed by a Siren, drawn by the sound spilling out the open doors. Only eight at the time, I’d stayed there for hours until Samuel insisted I go to bed.
My love affair with the place and the songs had never ended.
Kenny’s was subdued. The band was on their last set, close to packing up and heading out the door. A few people lingered near the stage nursing their drafts. I slid onto a stool, my usual spot at the end of the bar.
Diane Chen, the bartender, had short spiky hair in two shades of purple and wore makeup that made her already pale skin ghostly. She once told me she regularly waxed her eyebrows and drew them back in with black pencil. Under her long black lashes, her eyeliner had been tattooed on. A diamond stud punctuated her bottom lip, and one earlobe sported a row of tiny silver rings. Like many restaurant staff, she used her bartending income to anchor her acting career. With all those earrings, I thought, costume changes must be hell.
She waved when she saw me and walked to the front door, looking out before returning. My hands still shook. I pushed them onto my lap so she wouldn’t notice.
“What’s up with checking out the front door?”
“The restaurant stalker’s been around again. We’re trying to avoid him.”
She saw the question in my eyes.
“It’s this guy. He’s got a regular beat and this week he’s on Bleecker. He’ll walk into a bar or restaurant, stand in the middle of the room, and stare. It makes the patrons jumpy. If we hand him a five he’ll leave. Not a bad stunt, really. Better than parking yourself on a sidewalk with your hand out.”
That brought a smile to my lips and she gave me one back.
“Hey, John. I’ve missed you around here. I was so sorry to hear about your accident. Did you get my card?”
Since the crash, I’d lost the will to do anything; that included opening my mail. I thanked her for the card.
“I tried to call you too but just got voice mail.”
“I’ve been out of commission for a while. For over six weeks.” The misery of the accident flooded back. “They had to cut me out of the car. My ribs got cracked up and an artery tore. The blood loss kept me in hospital so long I even missed Samuel’s funeral. But I’m on the mend now.”
She let out a sigh. “That’s just awful. How did it happen?”
“I totally blank out when I try to picture it. I remember picking Samuel up from JFK. He’d just flown in from Jordan. We were on the Belt Parkway, the racetrack up ahead. A pickup behind us kept crowding my car, bothering the heck out of me, but when I slowed down to let it pass it wouldn’t take the offer. That’s my last recollection.”
Only a partial truth, but I couldn’t bear to tell her the rest of it. The airbag had blocked out my sight but I retained an auditory memory—the raw terror in Samuel’s voice. The man who’d never raised his voice to me was screaming. I’d ignored the cutting pain in my chest, clutched at my seat belt to free myself so I could help him, and almost succeeded before I passed out.
Diane reached for my hand and gave it a squeeze. “Maybe it’s a blessing you can’t remember. Your brain’s protecting you from a memory that’s too frightening. You must miss Samuel terribly.”
“I don’t think I’ll ever get over it, Diane.”
How could I describe the black hole I’d fallen into since his death? I didn’t have the words. My mind kept shifting back to the early years. His work meant long absences. There was always this sense of waiting, the way you feel in March yearning for winter to end. When our housekeeper, Evelyn, got word that Samuel was coming home, the whole atmosphere would change. I could still see her face lighting up, a slight flush to her cheeks. She’d bustle around, cleaning stuff that didn’t need it, I’d go to the barber, she’d polish all the shoes and even try to bake. When the day arrived Samuel would come through the door, arms filled with boxes of gifts. Exotic things. Turkish candies; sand bottles; mosaics; Roman-glass earrings for Evelyn, handmade in Israel.
I cleared my throat to hide the fact my voice was breaking. “I keep expecting to see him again. Even though I know I never will.”
She reached for a napkin and handed it to me.
“What’s that for?”
“Your eyes.”
Unaware that tears had begun to form, I touched my eyes and felt the wetness.
“Can I get you anything? You look totaled.”
“A bottle of
whiskey. Don’t bother with a glass.”
She laughed. “I see you’ve had a good night.”
“You have no idea.”
She poured me a double Scotch and disappeared through the door at the end of the bar. I threw the drink back and got up to check the street. From the front window I could just make out our lobby entrance. No sign of Eris or her strange companion.
It didn’t take long for the caress of the alcohol to numb my nerves. I began to calm down, comforted by the familiar surroundings. I’d always loved the eclectic feel of Kenny’s. Kind of like a tired speakeasy—tomato-red walls, dark wainscoting, a wagon-wheel chandelier hanging from the stamped-tin ceiling. The wall behind the bar was festooned with mirrors, beer steins, old swords and revolvers, and a massive rack of antlers in the center, dusty fedoras hanging from the tips.
Facing me was a great photo of the Boss, and under that a write-up from Crawdaddy! magazine:
Bruce Springsteen was headlining and there weren’t a dozen people who knew who he was. Outside on the hand-drawn marquee, they’d misspelled his name. But when he began to sing it was like the ocean had calmed out and you knew the storm was brewing by the way it prickled your skin.
Diane slid onto her stool behind the bar, breaking through my reverie. Under her arm she carried a rectangular brown box. She set the box on top of the bar and lifted the lid.
“What’s this?”
“Don’t you remember? You mentioned it once when we were talking about your work. A friend of mine bought it for me at the British Museum when she was in London. I brought it out to take your mind off your troubles.”
When she took out the playing board, I recognized it immediately. A reproduction of the Royal Game of Ur, the oldest-known board game. The British Museum had a rare original, one of two found by Sir Leonard Woolley in the 1920s at his dig in the ancient Sumerian city of Ur.
The Witch of Babylon Page 3
