Vigil

by Robert Masello

If Beth hadn’t promised Abbie she’d help her pick out these last few things for the country house, she might have gone straight home, locked the door, and taken a long, hot bath. But she hated to disappoint a friend, and since they were scheduled to go up there on the coming weekend, tonight would be their last chance to go shopping.

  So as soon as Raleigh was out the door of the gallery, Beth added one more name to the list of invitations that had to be sent to the printers the next day and logged off her computer. The night watchman, Ramon, was already setting up downstairs when she left.

  “Good night, Mrs. Cox,” he said, as he poured some coffee from a thermos into his plastic Yankees mug. “Don’t forget your umbrella.”

  “It’s raining?” Beth said. She’d been cooped up in back all day and had no idea what was happening in the outside world.

  “Not yet, but they said it was going to.”

  She was sure she’d left her umbrella at home. “I guess I’ll have to take my chances.”

  Outside, it was cold and windy, and Ramon was probably right—the evening air smelled damp. She pulled the collar of her coat up around her ears and set off for Blooming-dale’s, where she was supposed to rendezvous with Abbie at six sharp. The sidewalks were crowded, as always, and more than once she had the odd sensation that someone was following her, that she was just about to feel a tap on the shoulder. But each time she turned, there was just a sea of strange faces, some of whom were quite unhappy with her impeding their progress.

  “Happy holidays,” one man growled, “now move it along.”

  Overhead, gold tinsel stars and red aluminum candy canes were swinging from cables strung between the street-lights, and the store windows were flocked with fake snow. Normally she enjoyed all these signs of the season, but this year, she just hadn’t been able to get into the spirit. Tonight, in fact, she felt so weary and strung out that it was all she could do to put one foot ahead of the other. It didn’t help that she’d had a follow-up call from Dr. Weston’s office to tell her that she should increase her iron intake, and to remind her that her blood type—AB negative—was very rare.

  “When and if you do decide to pursue some alternative means of pregnancy,” the doctor had said, as tactfully as could be managed, “we’ll want to have you bank a pint or two of your own blood in advance, just in case it becomes needed at delivery.”

  Right now she didn’t feel like she’d ever be able to spare even a drop.

  At Bloomingdale’s, predictably, the aisles were nearly impenetrable. She took the elevator to the home furnishings department and found Abbie already in the middle of an intense deliberation with a stylish young salesgirl.

  “You really think that cushions in this color—and I’d call this fabric yellow, more than peach—won’t clash with the curtains we’ve already ordered?”

  “No,” the girl said, shaking her head firmly. “These are all in the same design family; they’re meant to complement each other.”

  Abbie looked up and saw Beth. “You think this material complements the dining room curtains we ordered?”

  Beth had to think about it. “Yes, maybe,” Beth said.

  “Yes, or maybe?” Abbie asked.

  The salesgirl looked chagrined; now she’d have to win two votes on each purchase.

  “No,” Beth finally concluded.

  Abbie laughed, and the salesgirl smiled through clenched teeth before pointedly excusing herself to go and help another customer.

  “Thanks for that opinion,” Abbie said, under her breath. “I wanted to get rid of her.”

  Beth smiled.

  “And thanks for coming out on such a lousy night.”

  “No problem.”

  “You sure about that?” Abbie asked solicitously, laying a hand on Beth’s sleeve. “Forgive me for saying so, but you don’t look so hot.”

  “That’s okay—I don’t feel so hot either.”

  “You think you’re coming down with something? Did you get your flu shot?”

  “Got the shot, and no, I don’t think I’m actually getting sick.”

  They drifted off down another aisle, past counters piled high with expensive linens.

  “I just haven’t felt like myself for the past few nights. I can’t get to sleep, and when I do, my dreams are so bad that it’s hardly worth it.”

  “Listen, Beth—if you don’t feel like going out to the country this weekend, don’t give it another thought. We can do this some other time.”

  “No, no,” Beth protested, “I’m looking forward to it. I think the change of scenery might do me good.”

  “I wonder if I’ll ever be able to get Ben to think that way.”

  “He’ll come around,” Beth assured her, even though, in her heart of hearts, she thought Ben had a point. While the pictures of the house had looked so cute, there was something vaguely forlorn about the actual place, something that all the bright curtains and colorful wallpapers in the world wouldn’t fix. It had an isolated, even forbidding air about it.

  Without intending to, they found themselves at the end of an aisle in an area devoted to nursery furnishings. Everywhere Beth looked were sheets and pillowcases adorned with merry-go-rounds, gamboling seahorses, and a wide variety of Disney characters.

  “Ever notice how, when you’re trying to conceive, without any luck, you trip over kids and kids’ stuff everywhere you go?” Abbie remarked.

  Beth had noticed. And ever since the last appointment with Dr. Weston, at which they’d received the bad news about Carter’s potency, it had only seemed to get worse. Everywhere she went she was reminded of nothing but babies, children, and expectant mothers.

  “Ben and I are thinking of doing the in vitro thing next year. Are you and Carter making any progress, so to speak?”

  “Nope,” Beth said, trying to act unconcerned about the whole thing. “Not so far.” Although Abbie was her closest and oldest friend, she still hadn’t shared the latest and in some ways final setback. Even with Carter, it was as if the whole subject had become mysteriously and silently tabled. “Would you mind if I just wandered over to the model rooms for a while?” Beth said. “I always want to know just how far behind the fashions I am.”

  “No, go on. Maybe I’ll go and find that bitchy sales-clerk and make her check up on the delivery date for my curtains.”

  Beth put the children’s wing behind her as fast as she could and went to the opposite end of the selling floor, where the Bloomingdale’s design staff regularly set up a series of model rooms, each one done in a different fantasy style. She was always amused at the juxtaposition of English drawing room and hip-hop crib, island hideaway and Colorado cabin, and usually a lot of other people were, too. But tonight she found the area almost deserted; she was able to stroll past the sleek, high-tech den and the Hamptons beach house, before stopping, all alone, in front of the last model room in the row.

  What was it meant to be, she wondered? Something out of a Paul Bowles novel? It appeared to be a vaguely Moroccan décor, a boudoir fantasy complete with Kilim rugs, beaten copper ornaments, and a huge bed partly concealed by a pale yellow gossamer curtain. Through an arched doorway was a painted scrim of undulating sand dunes, glistening silver in the moonlight. The artist, she thought, had done an exemplary job; it was surprisingly convincing.

  The whole interior, in fact, was well done—and very inviting. Maybe too much so. Suddenly, the weariness in her bones seemed to grow, and her eyes grew heavy. All day long she’d felt tired, but now she felt as if she were about to collapse on the spot. She needed to lie down, she needed to close her eyes for just a few minutes . . . and the gossamer-curtained bed was only a velvet rope away.

  No, she couldn’t; she knew that. But the desire was fast becoming irresistible.

  And who would know? It would only be for a few minutes. No one was there; no one would see her behind the curtain . . . especially if she moved quickly. If she made up her mind and just did it.

  Before she knew it, her foot was over t
he velvet rope and she was padding across the Kilim rugs. The bed was a heavy, high affair, and she had to climb up onto it. Part of her knew this was insane, and the other part simply told her not to muss the coverlet and curtains. That would be wrong.

  The spread must have been made of the finest, softest cotton ever spun, and the brocaded pillows seemed perfectly placed, ready to cradle her sleepy head and aching shoulders. Never in her life had a bed been so beckoning, so comfortable. She would lie there, she told herself, for just a few minutes. She would lie very still, concealed by the gauzy curtain; no one would notice, and no one would know.

  Her eyelids fluttered shut. The design staff must have scented the air, too; they thought of everything. It smelled like . . . rain-washed leaves. She had the most delicious sense of well-being. Oh, if only she could kick off her shoes and just crawl in under the cool, smooth sheets; she felt like she could sleep there forever . . . untroubled by bad dreams, undisturbed by anything.

  Somewhere far away, she thought she heard someone say her name. But she was too tired to respond.

  She heard it again, a little closer, and this time she did open her eyes, just enough to gaze out the arched doorway, toward the painted backdrop of endless rolling sand dunes. Someone, she could see now, was standing atop one of them. Someone outlined in silver by the painted moon.

  She closed her eyes, smiling. What a fantastically talented artist; she should probably find out who it was. He or she was too good to be painting scrims for department stores.

  She wondered where Carter was right now. Probably at the hospital, with his poor friend Russo. God, how awful. The only thing that could make it worse was if Carter continued to blame himself for what had happened; she knew that he did, and she was fighting a losing battle to convince him otherwise.

  Her name came again, and when she looked out at the dunes now, the figure was much closer . . . the silhouette of a tall man. He was walking slowly, deliberately, across the sand . . . and her sleepy brain struggled to reconcile this. How in the world could the artist have achieved such an effect?

  She wanted to get up and go look, but her limbs felt like lead. Her head felt so heavy she doubted that she would ever again be able to raise it from the pile of ornate pillows it rested on.

  The man came closer still, his shadow falling through the arched doorway now, his perfectly chiseled features gradually becoming clear . . . and that was when she felt her stomach lurch, and a hot flood in her throat.

  “Beth!” she heard. “There you are!”

  She turned on her side and, with nowhere else to do it, threw up into a gleaming brass pot that had been arranged by the side of the bed.

  “Oh my God!” Abbie cried, sweeping back the pale yellow curtains. “Oh my God!”

  Beth heaved again, unable to control herself.

  “Get some towels!” Abbie ordered the salesgirl, who was standing, aghast, behind her.

  “This is so totally not allowed!” the salesgirl exclaimed. “The model rooms are off limits and—”

  “Just get me a damn towel!” Abbie shouted, before sitting on the bed beside Beth and putting an arm around her shoulders. “Is that it?” she asked, gently. “You feel any better now?”

  Beth nodded, mortified—then glanced up toward the arched doorway and the painted scrim. No one was there.

  The salesgirl returned with some Ralph Lauren towels and handed them, sullenly, to Abbie. “You’ll have to pay for these,” she said.

  “Fine—put ’em on my charge card, along with that chamber pot.” She dabbed at Beth’s chin with the corner of a towel, then handed it to her. Beth buried her face in the thick, comforting fabric and thought to herself, I don’t ever want to come out of here.

  “You want to lie down again,” Abbie asked her, “or can you get up?”

  “Up, I think,” Beth said, still clutching the towel. She got up unsteadily from the bed as the salesgirl peered through the archway in both directions.

  “Your friend’s gone too,” she said to Beth.

  “What are you talking about?” Abbie retorted.

  “There was a man here,” the salesgirl replied, “but at least he’s gone now.” She glanced at the splattered brass pot. “Shit.”

  Abbie put her arm around Beth’s shoulder and guided her out of the model room. “Send that to my apartment,” she said, “after it’s been emptied.”

  At the ladies’ room, Beth asked Abbie to wait outside while she cleaned up. What she really wanted was to be alone, to just sink through the floor and have this whole incident to never have happened. She ran the cold water and rinsed her face, leaving black stains under her eyes that she then had to wipe away with the new towel she was still carrying. What, she wondered, was wrong with her? She remembered the dream, the hallucination of the man walking toward her, across the sand . . . but hadn’t the salesgirl said she’d seen someone, too?

  If it wasn’t a bad dream, then what was it?

  Abbie poked her head in and said, “You okay?”

  “Yes,” Beth said, turning off the water. “I’ll just never show my face again at Bloomingdale’s.”

  Abbie kept one arm around her waist as they walked toward the escalators. “You sure you’re not pregnant?” she said, half-jokingly.

  “I’m sure,” Beth said.

  “Then all you need is a warm bed and a snootful of Nyquil. You’re definitely running a temperature.” At the escalators, they waited for a moment as a woman with two little kids and a folding stroller stepped on.

  “I’m going to take you home in a cab,” Abbie said, “and make you some broth.”

  That sounded good to Beth. They stepped onto the escalator and as it took them down, Beth stole a quick look back toward the model room.

  The salesgirl was carrying the brass pot out, concealed under a towel. But the archway behind her was empty, and through it Beth could see nothing but the sand dunes, rolling on forever.

  THIRTY-ONE

  Carter knew the ruined lab was off limits, but he had gone in, anyway, through the back corridors. He had to see, one more time, the site of what should have been his greatest triumph . . . even though it had become, without a doubt, the site, instead, of his greatest tragedy. The police and city inspectors had already done whatever they had to do, and taken whatever samples they needed, but when he went out again to the street, he still had to duck under the yellow police tape.

  He was on his way to the biomed lab, where he was going to meet up with Ezra. Dr. Permut had apparently finished analyzing the ink and the fabric of the scroll, and he was prepared to go over the results with them. Carter was waiting to cross the street when a dirty brown sedan pulled up alongside him, and he heard a voice say, “You know, that’s still the site of an arson investigation. You’re not supposed to go in there.”

  He stopped and looked in the car. It was the police detective, Finley.

  “Sorry.”

  “Where you headed? I’ll give you a lift.”

  “Just a few blocks,” Carter said, “no need.”

  “Come on,” Finley said, waving an arm. “Hop in.”

  Carter had the impression it was more than an offer, and after the detective brushed some rubbish off the front seat and onto the floor, he got in. “Straight ahead,” Carter said, “to Sixth, and then you can make a right.”

  “Fact is,” Finley said, pushing his heavy black eyeglasses back up onto the bridge of his nose, “I’ve been wanting to talk to you.”

  Exactly what Carter dreaded. “About that body I found?” File that, Carter thought, under sentences I never thought I’d utter.

  “What else,” Finley said, reaching into the breast pocket of his car coat and pulling out a folded sheet. “But take a look at that.”

  Carter took the paper and unfolded it. The car, he noticed, reeked of stale coffee and greasy burgers. On the paper, he saw a photocopy of two fingerprints. Carter looked over at the detective.

  “We picked those up from the railing in th
e stairwell.”

  “They look very clear,” Carter said, wondering what you were supposed to say about fingerprints. He’d never seen any up close before.

  “They do, don’t they?” Finley said. “And way too perfect.”

  Carter looked again, and now he could see that the whorls of the prints were indeed admirably complete and intact, perfect circles at the center, perfect oblongs on the outside, without a single break or deviation.

  “Perfect fingerprints don’t exist,” Finley added. “If they did, we’d never be able to use them to catch anybody.” He pulled a none-too-clean handkerchief out of his pocket and swiped at his glasses, and then at the inside of the windshield. “You’re a scientist—what do you make of that?”

  “The fingerprint? I haven’t a clue. Maybe it’s a lab error.”

  The detective shook his head. “Nah, I did the whole thing myself.”

  Carter let a silence fall. The only thing he could suggest was that the perfect fingerprint had been left by a perfect being—something, perhaps, like an angel—but he wasn’t about to add insanity to any of the other charges the detective might be thinking he was guilty of.

  “You can give me that back now,” Finley said, taking the paper and folding it back into his pocket.

  “Sorry I can’t help,” Carter said.

  The detective nodded, and made a right turn. “What address?”

  “Three blocks down, at the corner.”

  The detective drove in silence, then said, “Maybe there is one other thing you can help me with.”

  “I’ll try.”

  “The coroner said that the victim died of immolation.”

  Carter waited—wasn’t that pretty obvious?

  “But here’s the odd thing. The body had burned from the inside out.”

  Carter was puzzled. “If you’re asking me if spontaneous combustion can really occur, I have to say no.”

  “That’s what I thought, too. I took science in high school. But seeing as the only other two burn victims I’ve seen this year were working in your lab, right across the street from this one, I thought you might be able to help me out with this.”