It was dark now, and cold. A fifteen-year-old Oldsmobile sedan pulled up behind the Volkswagen bus and unloaded five more people. They went into the three-decker. I sat some more. The thing to do was to call Marion Orchard, tell her I’d located her daughter, have her notify the cops, and let them bring her in. I had no legal authority to go in and get her. No question. That was what I had to do. I looked at my watch. 7:15.
I slipped out of my coat, got out of the car, and went to the house of the Ceremony of Moloch. This time I was very quiet going up the stairs. At the door I stood silent and listened. I could hear music that sounded as if it were being played on one string of an Armenian banjo. The smell of incense and pot was very rich. At irregular intervals there were chimes like the ones rung during a Roman Catholic Mass. The thing to do was to call Terry’s mother and have the cops come pick her up. I took out my plastic shim and opened the door. Inside the hallway the heat was tangible and stifling. There was no light.
From the living-room altar area came the twanging sound of the music, now quite loud, and the lesser sound of a man chanting. A flickering light fell into the hallway from the living room. Despite the heat I felt cold, and my throat was tight. The chimes sounded again. And I heard a kind of muffled whimper, like someone sobbing into a pillow. I looked carefully around the corner. Suspended by clothesline from the ceiling, in front of the altar I had seen earlier, was a full-sized cross, made of two-by-sixes. To it, in a parody of the Crucifixion, Terry Orchard was tied with more length of clothesline. She was naked, and her body had been marked with astrological and cabalistic signs in what looked to be, in the candlelight, several different colors of Magic Marker. She was gagged with a wide piece of gray tape.
Before her stood a tall, wiry man, naked too, wearing a black hood, his body covered with the same kind of Magic Marker design work. In a semicircle on the floor, in black robes, sat the rest of the people. The music was coming from a tape recorder behind the altar. In his hand the guy with the hood had a carved piece of black wood, about a foot and a half long, that looked like a nightstick. He was chanting in a monotonous singsong in a language I didn’t understand and didn’t recognize. And as he chanted he swayed in front of Terry in an approximation of the beat from the tape recorder. The seated audience rocked back and forth in the same tempo. Then he made a gesture with the nightstick, and I realized its function was phallic.
I took out my gun and put a bullet into the tape recorder. The explosion of the shot and the cessation of the music were simultaneous, and the silence that followed was paralyzing. I stepped into the room with my gun leveled at all of them, but especially the fruitcake with the hood. With my left hand I took a jackknife out of my pants pocket, and worked the blade open with one hand by holding it in my teeth. No one made a sound. I sidestepped around behind the cross and cut Terry loose without taking my eyes from the audience. When the ropes parted, she fell. I folded the knife shut against my leg and put it away. I reached down without looking and got her up with one hand under her arm. The guy with the hood and the funny nightstick never took his eyes off me, and the steady gaze through the Halloween pumpkin triangles cut in the hood made me very edgy. So did the fact that there was one of me and twelve of them.
My hand still hanging on to Terry’s arm, I backed up out of the room, through the narrow hall, and out the still-open door. The cold air of the stairwell rushed up like the wind from an angel’s wing in the doorway of Hell. “I’m going to close this door,” I said, and my voice sounded like someone else’s. “If it opens, I’ll shoot at it.”
No one said a word. No one moved. I let go of Terry’s arm, closed the door, took hold of her arm again, and headed down the stairs. No one came after us. Out the front door and across to my car. We ran. In my mind I could see us from their third floor vantage, outlined sharp against the white snow in the streetlight. No one shot at us. I pushed Terry into the car first, came in behind her, and got it out of there. It was a full block before I looked at Terry. She huddled, still stark naked, still with the tape on her mouth, in the far corner of the seat. She must have been freezing. I reached into the back seat, took my coat from where I’d left it, and gave it to her. She pulled it around her.
“Maybe you ought to take the gag off,” I said.
She peeled it carefully, and spit out what looked like a wadded paper towel that had been stuffed in her mouth. She didn’t say anything. I didn’t say anything. The heater had warmed up and was starting to warm the car. I turned on the radio. We went down along the Charles on Memorial Drive and across the Mass Ave bridge. Boston always looks great from there. Especially at night, with the lights and the skyline against the starry sky and the sweep of the river in a graceful curve down toward the harbor. It probably didn’t look too spiffy at the moment to Terry.
I turned off onto Marlborough Street and pulled up in front of my apartment. Terry waited in the car while I went around and opened the door. She was well brought up. She had to walk barefoot across the frozen pavement but showed no sign that she felt it. We went up in the elevator.
Inside my apartment she looked about curiously. As if we’d recently met at a cocktail party and I’d invited her home to see my carvings. I felt the urge to giggle hysterically, but stifled it. I went to the kitchen, got out some ice, and poured two big shots of bourbon over the ice. I gave her one. Then I went to the bathroom and started to run hot water in the tub. She stayed right behind me—like a dog I used to have when it was supper-time, or when he thought I might be about to go somewhere.
“Get in,” I said. “Take a long, slow hot bath. Drink another drink. I’ll make us some supper, and we’ll eat it together. No candlelight, though. A lot of bright overheads.”
I took her nearly empty glass, added more ice, and filled it again. I gave it to her, pushed her gently into the bathroom, and closed the door.
“There’s some kind of bubble bath or whatever in the medicine cabinet,” I said through the door. I waited till I heard her splash into the tub. Then I went to the kitchen. I put on a pot of rice to cook and got four boneless chicken breasts out of the meat keeper. I cooked them with wine and butter and cream and mushrooms. While they cooked I tossed a salad and made a dressing with lime juice and mint, olive oil, honey, and wine vinegar. There were two bottles of Rhine wine in the refrigerator for which I’d originally had other plans, but I could buy some more tomorrow.
By the time I’d gotten the table set in the living room, she was through, and came out of the bathroom wearing a towel with her hair tucked up and some color in her face. I handed her my bathrobe and she slipped into it, modestly closing it before she let the towel slip to the floor, It occurred to me that half the time we’d spent together she’d been without clothes.
I gave her a third drink and freshened up my own. She sat on a stool in the kitchen and sipped it while I put some baking powder biscuits in the oven.
She had not spoken since I’d found her. Now she said, “Do you have any cigarettes?”
I found some thin filter tips in a fancy feminine package that a friend had left in one of the kitchen drawers. I held a match for her as she lit one and inhaled deeply. She let the smoke slip slowly out of her nose as she sipped her drink, holding the glass in both hands. The smoke spread out on the surface of the bourbon and eddied gently back up around her face. I felt my stomach tighten; I had known someone a long time ago who used to do just that, in just that way.
I got out the corkscrew and opened one of the bottles of wine. I poured some into each glass, and then took the biscuits out and served the supper. She sat opposite me at the small table and ate. Her manners were terrific. One hand in the lap, small bites, delicate sips of wine. But she ate everything. So did I. Still no talk. I had the radio on in the kitchen. When I offered her more, she nodded yes. When I got up to get the second bottle of wine, I plugged in the coffee. Its steady perk made a pleasant counterpoint to the radio. When we’d finished eating, I poured the coffee and brought out some apple
jack and two pony glasses. I put them on the cobbler’s bench coffee table in front of the sofa. She sat at one end and I sat at the other, and we drank our coffee and sipped our brandy and she smoked another cigarette, holding her hand primly over the gap in the front of the bathrobe as she leaned over to accept my light. I got out a cigar and we listened some more to the radio. She leaned back against the arm of the couch and closed her eyes.
I stood up and said, “You can sleep in my bed. I’ll sleep out here.” I walked to the bedroom door and opened it. She went in.
I said, “I’m sorry I don’t have any pajamas. You could sleep in one of my dress shirts, I guess.”
“No, thank you,” she said. “I don’t wear anything to bed anyway.”
“Okay,” I said. “Good night. We’ll talk in the morning.”
She went in and shut the door, then opened it a crack. I heard her get into the bed. I picked up the dishes and put them in the dishwasher. Then I went in and took a shower and shaved. I felt odd, like my father probably had when we were small and all home and in bed and he was the only one up in the house. I got a blanket out of the closet, shut out the lights, and lay on my back on the couch smoking the rest of my cigar, blowing the smoke across the glowing tip.
I heard the light click on in the bedroom. She called, “Spenser?”
“Yeah?”
“Would you come in here, please?”
I got up, put on a pair of pants, and went in, still smoking the cigar. She was lying on her back in bed with covers pulled up under her chin.
“Sit on the bed,” she said.
I did.
“Did you ever work on a farm?” she asked me.
“Nope.”
“My grandfather, my mother’s father, had a farm in Illinois. He used to milk fifty cows a day, and he had forearms like yours. He wasn’t as big as you, but he had muscles in his forearms like you do.”
I nodded.
“You’re not fat at all, are you?” she said. I shook my head.
“With your clothes on you look as if you might be a little fat, but with your shirt off you’re not. It’s all muscle, isn’t it?”
I nodded.
“You look like … like a boxer, or like somebody in a Tarzan movie.”
“Cheetah,” I said.
“Do you know,” she said, “do you know that I’ve only met you four times in my life, and you are the only person in the entire world I can trust?” As she got to the end of the sentence her eyes filled. I patted her leg and said, “Shhh.” But she went on, her voice not quite steady but apparently under control.
“Dennis is dead. My mother and father use me to get even with each other. I thought I could join the Moloch people. They’d dropped out, they weren’t hung up on all the crap my father is. I thought they just took you as you were. They don’t.” Her voice got shakier. “They initiate you.”
I patted her thigh again. I had nothing to say. The stub of the cigar was too short. I put it in an ashtray on the night table.
“Do you know what the initiation is?”
“I figured out the first part,” I said.
She sat up in bed and let the covers fall away.
“You are the only one in the world, in the whole goddamned sonova bitch world …” The tears started to come. I leaned toward her and put my arm around her and she caught hold of me and squeezed.
“Love me,” she said in a choked voice. “Make love to me, make me feel, make love to me, make me feel.” A fleeting part of my mind thought, “Jesus, first the mother, then the daughter,” but the enduring majority of my mind said, Yes, Yes, Yes, as I bore her back onto the bed and turned the covers back from her.
Chapter 13
In the morning I drove Terry home. Riding out to Newton we mentioned neither the Ceremony of Moloch nor the previous night. We ran through the events of the murder again; nothing new. I described Sonny for her in detail. Yes, that sounded like one of the men. They had brought the drug with them that she’d swallowed. They had brought her gun with them. Yes, she had shared that apartment with Cathy Connelly before Dennis had moved in. They had parted friends and still were, as far as Terry knew. Cathy lived on the Fenway, she said. On the museum side, near the end closest to the river. She didn’t know the number. I stopped in front of her house and let her out. I didn’t go in. Having slept with mother and daughter within the same twenty-four hours, I felt fussy about sitting around with both of them in the library and making small talk. She leaned back in through the open door of my car.
“Call me,” she said.
“I will,” I said.
She closed the door and I pulled away, watching her in the rearview mirror. She went in very slowly, turning once to wave at me. I tooted the horn in reply.
Back to Boston again. I seemed to be making this drive a lot. Turning off Storrow at the Charlesgate exit, I went up the ramp over Commonwealth Ave and looked down at the weeping willows underneath the arch—bare now, with slender branches crusted in snow and bending deep beneath winter weight. There was a Frost poem, but it was about birches, and then I was off the ramp and looking for a parking space. This was not a business for poets anyway.
I parked near the Westland Avenue entrance to the Fenway and walked across the street to a drugstore. There was no listing in the phone book for a Catherine Connelly on the Fenway. So I started at the north end and began looking at the mailboxes in apartment lobbies, working my way south toward the museum. In the third building I found it. Second floor. I rang. Nothing happened. I rang again and leaned on it. No soap. I rang some other buzzers at random. No one opened the door. A cagey lot. I rang all the buttons. No response. Then a mean, paunchy man in green twill shirt and pants came to the front door. He opened it about a foot and said, “Whaddya want?”
“You the super?” I said.
“Who do you think I am?” He was smoking a cigarette that looked as if he’d found it, and it waggled wetly in the corner of his mouth as he spoke.
“I thought you were one of Santa’s helpers coming around to see if everything was set for Christmas.”
“Huh?” he said.
“I’m looking for a young woman named Catherine Connelly. She doesn’t answer her bell,” I said.
“Then she ain’t home.”
“Mind if I check?”
“You better stop ringing them other buzzers too,” he said, and shut the door. I resisted the temptation to ring all the buzzers again and run. “Childish,” I thought. “Adolescent.” I went back to my car, got in, and drove to the university. Maybe I’d be able to locate her there. I parked in a spot that was reserved for Dean Mersfelder and headed for the library basement.
Iris Milford was there in her NEWS office, behind her metal desk. There were several other members of the staff, obviously younger, doing journalistic things at their metal desks.
She recognized me when I came in.
“Nice eye you got,” she said.
I’d forgotten the punch Sonny had landed. It looked worse than it felt, though it was still sore to touch.
“I bruise easily,” I said.
“I’ll bet,” she said.
“Want to have lunch with me?” I asked.
“Absolutely,” she said. She closed the folder she was looking at, picked up her purse, and came around the desk.
“Too bad about how you can’t make up your mind,” I said.
We walked out through the corridor. It was class-change time and the halls were crowded and hot and loud. A miasma of profanity and smoke and sweatiness under heavy winter coats. Ah, where are the white bucks of yesteryear? We wormed our way up to the first floor and finally out past the security apparatus that set off an alarm if someone smuggled out a book, past the scrutiny of a hard-faced librarian alert beside it, into the milling snow-crusted quadrangle. I got a cab and we rode to a restaurant I liked on top of an insurance building, where the city looked clean and patrician below, and the endless rows of red-brick town houses that had crumbled i
nto slums looked geometric and orderly and a little European, stretching off to the south.
We had a drink and ordered lunch. Iris looked out at the orderly little brick houses.
“Get far enough away and it looks kinda pretty, don’t it?” she said. “You only get order from a distance. Close up is always messy.”
“Yeah,” I said, “but your own life is always close up. You only see other people’s lives at long range.”
“You better believe it,” she said. “I’ll take another pop.”
I ordered us two more drinks.
“Okay, Spenser, what is it? You not the type to feed drinks to a poor colored lady and take advantage of her body. Even one as irresistible as mine. What you want?”
I liked her. She’d been there and seen it done. A tough, wised-up, honest broad.
“Well, if you’re not going to come across, I’ll take second best. Tell me about Cathy Connelly.”
“What you want to know?”
“I don’t know, everything, anything. All I know is she was once Terry Orchard’s roommate, that she moved out when the Powell kid moved in, that she now lives on the Fenway, and that she wasn’t home when I called on her this morning.”
“That’s about as much as I know. She was in my Chaucer class, and I copied her notes a couple times. I don’t know her much better than that.”
“She belong to SCACE?”
“Not that I know. She seemed kind of a loner. Didn’t belong to anything I know of. You never see her around campus, but that don’t mean much because the goddamn campus is so big and crowded that you might not see a woolly rhinoceros around campus.”
The Godwulf Manuscript Page 10
