His dreams were wild that night. Were they really dreams? Or simply thoughts and emotions racing just below the surface of his mind as he lay uncomfortably in bed, restless, heaving himself from one side of the mattress to the other? Images flooded his mind. Laurie, of course, beautiful, full lips, a teardrop of ketchup at the corner of her lips, in the car. The guillotine swishing down and splitting the cabbage, suddenly not the cabbage but a human neck, blood spattering around the room instead of cabbage leaves. The smell of blood in his nostrils. Did blood have a smell? He was helpless as the images continued, the slash of light in the car’s interior, Laurie gasping, then screaming, the rough hands forcing him to the ground, holding him prisoner, the slashed loafer with the dangling buckle.
Loafer?
He saw the loafer distinctly. Scuffed brown, ripped or torn as if someone had slashed the instep with a knife.
And the dangling buckle, hanging by a thread, dull brass, never polished.
He burst awake as if flying into the air from the upper part of a seesaw while the lower part banged the earth violently. He sat up in bed, head aching, squinted at the digital alarm clock. 2:31. Throwing the blanket aside, he rubbed his forehead as if he could erase the ache like figures from a blackboard. Had he been dreaming? But the loafer did not seem like an image from a dream, receding as you come awake. The loafer had been real, not a manifestation of his weariness and frustration and disappointment, but a reality exploding out of memory.
This memory:
As the unknown assailant had held him prisoner on the ground, while somebody else had assaulted Laurie in the car, he had peered into the awful thing his life had suddenly become and had seen, a mere few inches from his eyes, the torn loafer worn by the bastard who held him captive.
Staring now into the night, eyes wide as if toothpicks held his lids open—something he had seen in a kung fu movie—he was wild with the knowledge of what his subconscious mind had uncovered.
A clue.
More than a clue.
A piece of evidence that could identify without any doubt one of the attackers at the Chasm that night. He saw himself unmasking the bastard, forcing a confession out of him, getting information about the others who had been involved, all of this while Laurie watched, her eyes shining with admiration and love.
He lay back, breathing deeply, exhausted, as if he had just completed a perilous mission, avoided a thousand pitfalls, escaped with his life … and he fell into a deep sleep in which an army of men wearing slashed and ruined loafers trampled across his body all night long.
When the telephone rang, Carter answered it immediately, his hand shooting out to pick up the receiver. In the past few days he had become jumpy, nervous, glancing over his shoulder occasionally to check if he was being followed (which was paranoid, of course). Ordinarily Carter did not admit to nerves. He’d always been able to nap minutes before a big football game, always fell asleep instantly at night when his head hit the pillow. Not these days, however, not anymore. He walked around as if a great cloud of doom hung over him and would collapse upon his head at any moment. Thus, when the telephone rang, he acted as if it were a summons. To a trial by jury.
“Hello,” he said, snapping the word, using the old gusto of the jock.
Silence on the line. But a sense of someone there. The hint of a person quietly breathing.
“Hello,” he said again, trying to keep the wariness out of his voice. “Got the wrong number, chum?” Beautiful: keeping it jaunty. But a bead of perspiration traced a cold path as it ran down Carter’s leg from his crotch.
Still nothing.
Carter thought, The hell with it, summoning bravado. He decided to hang up.
The caller’s timing was perfect, speaking just as Carter was about to remove the receiver from his ear.
“Why did you do it, Carter?”
“Do what?” he asked, responding automatically but groaning inside. Archie knew. Knew what he had done.
“You know.…”
“No, I don’t know.” Stall, admit nothing. And for crissake try to control your voice. His voice sounded funny to his ears.
“I don’t want to have to spell it out,” the voice said.
Was it Archie’s voice? He couldn’t be sure. Archie was an expert actor and mimic. Carter had observed his talents at a thousand Vigil meetings.
“Look, I don’t know what you’re talking about—”
“It will be much easier on you if you confess, Carter.”
“Confess what?”
A pause on the line. Then the chuckle. The all-knowing, lewd chuckle, the kind of chuckle someone might utter during an obscene phone call.
“Actually, we don’t need your confession. But it might ease your conscience a bit if you confessed. Make you feel better. Let you sleep better at night.…”
Carter recoiled, told himself to keep in control. He knew Archie’s tactics. Knew how Archie prided himself on his insights, always taking shots in the dark and winning. Like now. Guessing that Carter had trouble sleeping nights. So, beware. Don’t let him talk you into giving yourself away.
“Still there, Carter? Still thinking it over, Carter?”
“Thinking what over?” In command a bit now, calming down, feeling ready and able to handle the phone call. Like in the ring. Feinting and faking. Sizing up an opponent. The first thrusts and advances and retreats as you felt out the adversary.
“Oh, Carter, oh, Carter …” The voice tender, full of understanding, suddenly.
“What’s all this oh, Carter bullshit?” Strong, firm. Feeling good.
“Don’t you see, you poor bastard? If you hadn’t done it, you’d have hung up right away. Slammed the phone down. Christ, Carter, you’ve got guilt written all over you.”
Carter knew he had somehow walked into a trap just by talking on the phone. He should have hung up right away. Should hang up right now. But couldn’t.
“Look,” Carter said. “I know who you are. And I know what you’re trying to do. Intimidation. I’ve seen you do it a thousand times, Archie. But it won’t work this time. I didn’t write that letter. You don’t have any proof, couldn’t have any proof, because I didn’t write it.”
Big silence on the line.
Then the laughter.
Carter told himself: Hang up. Hang up now while you’re ahead.
But couldn’t. Caught and held there by the laughter. Something in the laughter that wouldn’t let him go, had him snared.
“You pathetic sucker, Carter. Nobody ever mentioned a letter. Nobody knows about any letter.…”
Carter’s mind raced, his thoughts tumbling wildly. He knew the fatal mistake he had made. Had to backpedal somehow.
“At the Vigils meeting, when the Bishop’s visit was called off …” he began.
“The letter was never mentioned. Nobody knows about the letter, Carter. Except Brother Leon and Archie Costello and the guy who wrote it. You, Carter.”
Carter tried to prevent the moan that escaped his lips.
“You’re going to pay for it, Carter,” the voice that Carter knew had to be Archie Costello threatened. “Pity on traitors. Pity on you, Carter.”
Carter opened his mouth to call back the groan, to deny the accusation, to shout his innocence, to denounce Archie, to—
But the connection was broken.
And above the sound of the dial tone, he heard the echo of that hideous, insinuating voice:
Pity on you, Carter.…
Brother Leon reached for the parcel that had been left on his desk—special delivery—a few moments before. Afternoon sunlight filled the office with radiance.
Curious, Brother Leon inspected the package, touching it gingerly. The size of a shoe box, wrapped in plain brown paper, tied with white string. His name and the address of Trinity were printed on the package. Blue, by a Flair pen. In the upper left-hand corner, the name of the sender: David Caroni.
It was important that Brother Leon should know David Caroni’s identit
y; that was essential to the plan.
Frowning, puzzled but pleasantly mystified, identifying Caroni in his mind as the quiet, sensitive student who seldom met anyone’s eyes, Brother Leon drew his trusty red Swiss knife from his pocket. He cut the taut string, and it collapsed like a fatally wounded snake. He gently unwrapped the package, careful not to tear the paper. Brother Leon was fastidious, precise in his movements, never a wasted motion.
He removed the cover.
The explosion was tremendous. The blast blew off Leon’s head, shattered his body into a thousand pieces of flesh and blood and tissue that spattered the walls and floors of the office.
His head left a bloody trail as it bounced across the floor.…
Or:
Brother Leon stood on the stage of the auditorium, addressing the student body. Berating the students. Criticizing some kind of activity. He was never satisfied, never happy, never content with student behavior, always finding fault.
Suddenly a small angry red hole appeared in the center of his forehead. Blood spilled from the hole, spreading in two streams on either side of his nose, down his cheeks. Dark, ugly blood.
Brother Leon pitched forward as if trying to flee some unspeakable horror behind him. But striking an invisible stone wall. The echo of the sniper’s rifle shot reverberated off the walls of the assembly hall, startlingly magnified in the stunned silence.
The sniper, smiling as he watched Leon’s body plunging to the floor of the stage with an enormous thud, was, of course, David Caroni.
Or:
But David Caroni was tired of the game of killing Brother Leon. Tired of himself as well. Tired of this charade he was living. He longed for action, for the moment of decision, but had to wait. Wait for what? He would know what when the moment arrived, when the command was given. What command? Ah, but he knew what command. And knew that his duty was to wait. He was allowed to indulge in visions and fantasies—Brother Leon blown apart or mortally wounded with a rifle shot—but these were only small diversions to pass the time while he waited patiently for orders.
Sitting in the chair in the kitchen, he held himself erect, back straight, chin tucked in, at attention. Had to be alert. Had to be silent and still. Speak only when spoken to. So that he would be ready and able when the command came.
May I have a glass of water? he asked nobody in particular. (Knew who he was asking, of course, but must not acknowledge that presence. Not yet.)
Yes. Drink the water.
He drew water from the faucet, drank mechanically, wasn’t really thirsty but had found the secret of killing time by filling up the minutes and hours of his life with little actions. That was the secret. To keep doing, moving, eating, talking, fighting the desire for drift, for going limp. Had to play the many roles his life demanded now. Had to do anything to keep them from knowing. Them: his mother and father and Anthony. Them: his classmates, teachers, people on the bus, in stores, on the sidewalks. Had to hide from the world, had to be clever. The best way to hide, he had learned in his cleverness, was to use camouflage, protective coloration. Hey, Mother, everything’s fine. School was good today. A nice day, Mother. What he didn’t say: I stood at the guardrail on the bridge over the railroad tracks today but did not jump. Wanted to jump but did not. Could not. Because the command did not come. When would the command come?
He left the kitchen, walked through the dining room, conscious of his movements, arms and legs working together, and paused at the French doors leading to the parlor. After a moment’s hesitation he opened the doors and stepped into the room, like going from one century to another, the musk of the past engulfing him like ancient perfume.
The parlor was only used for special occasions, major holidays, family gatherings (like when relatives from Italy visited), graduations, first communions, and such. Thick carpet, gleaming furniture that his mother kept polished despite its lack of use, the upright piano with closed lid. Nobody had played the piano since the death of his grandmother a year ago. David had taken lessons at St. John’s Parochial School from a forbidding, tone-deaf nun who delighted in rapping his fingers with a ruler when he struck a wrong note. His mother played “by ear”—terrible chords, everything in the key of C.
He lifted the lid now, like opening a coffin, looked at the grinning keyboard, hideous grin, yellowing teeth. His finger touched middle C, the sound surprisingly deep and full here in the room. He was held immobile by the sound.
C. A piano note but also another Letter, like the Letter that had ruined his life. Brother Leon’s Letter.
David closed the piano lid, cutting off the horrible grin of the keyboard. Then stood there for a moment. Would the command come from an inanimate object, like a piece of furniture or the piano, or from a person? He didn’t know. Yet he knew he would recognize the command as soon as he heard it. And what he must do. To himself. To Brother Leon.
He carefully shut the French doors and went to the dining-room window, looked out at the backyard. A bird cried piercingly, as if wounded. The soil that his father had turned over in preparation for planting the garden lay in turmoil, like a new grave.
Problem: finding a brown loafer with slashed instep and a dangling brass buckle among hundreds, hell, thousands of pairs of shoes worn by guys everywhere in Monument. Impossible? But he had to make it seem possible. Had to take action. Make the search. Start somewhere—and the somewhere was Trinity. Then go on from there.
Trinity’s dress code was not overly strict. It required students to wear shirts, ties, jackets, and trousers of no particular color. Banned were sneakers (except during gym classes), boots, and jeans. The most popular footwear on Trinity’s campus were loafers and buckled shoes.
Think positively, Obie told himself as he dressed for school, having trouble as usual knotting his tie so that the two ends came out even. He could not allow himself to be pessimistic. With pessimism would come utter futility and desperation. And, finally, defeat. He couldn’t let that happen. He felt that his entire life was in danger of collapsing, and he couldn’t just stand there and let it happen.
Somewhere, right this minute, some guy in his own home was probably putting on that damaged shoe just as Obie was slipping into his own loafers.
Obie inspected his reflection in the mirror. He looked terrible. Bloodshot eyes. Yellow flecks in the corners of his eyes that always showed up when he was tired. A new colony of acne on his chin. Hair lusterless, like dried grass. As if his body—even his hair, for crying out loud—was giving up, giving in. Something that must not happen, that he couldn’t let happen.
He felt like bawling, saw the corners of his mouth drooping. Time for a pep talk, Obie. You’ve got a clue. Follow it up. Find the shoe and find the kid. Then go on from there. It was better than doing nothing, better than just waiting for Laurie to get back and having nothing to offer her when she did return.
He had mapped out his strategy on awakening. Had decided not to drive his car to school but to take the bus. This would give him access to the other students, on the sidewalks, in the bus, as he searched for the loafer. He hated the thought of riding the bus—have I become that much of a snob?—but knew that the search was more important than driving to school. He would have to mingle with the mob, eyes sharp and probing.
He hurried out of the house, but his steps were those of an old man, legs heavy, feet dragging as if in winter boots. At the bus stop down the street, he stood apart from a cluster of waiting students. They were frisky and impatient in the morning air, stamping their feet, hitting each other with elbows, hips. Obie’s eyes went to their shoes. Three kids wore faded, beat-up sneakers: Monument High kids, no dress code at MHS. Some other pairs of shoes: two pairs of loafers, black and brown, with buckles intact; high black boots; two pairs of laced shoes.
Obie felt like a derelict walking through life with head down, searching for lost coins, cigarette butts, whatever bums look for on the ground.
In the next few hours—on the bus, in the school yard, in the classrooms
, in the corridors—Obie encountered a bewildering jungle of footwear, an eye-boggling array of shoes of all shades and styles and conditions. Clean shoes, scuffed shoes, mud-encrusted shoes. Brown, black, mottled gray. Buckles of all kinds. Fancy, plain, brass, silver. Silver? No, not silver but a silvery kind of dull metal. You could tell that the school year was drawing to a close. No shoes sparkling with newness, no fresh articles of clothing. Instead, faded shirts, limp ties, threadbare trousers thin at the seat. Scuffed shoes that no polish could revitalize. Occasionally he spotted a loafer with a buckle that was broken or missing or askew, and a pulse would beat in his throat, but he looked in vain for the slash across the instep. False alarm. A day filled with false alarms, frustration, weariness.
Waiting for the bus after classes were over for the day, hoping that Archie or any of his own friends would not spot him standing alone, he realized again the impossibility of his search. How could he hope to check every pair of shoes in the entire city? Suppose the attackers had come from out of town?
His shoulders sagged; his chin dropped to his chest.
Tears of frustration gathered in the corners of his eyes. He turned away in shame, not wanting the other guys to see him this way. He left the bus stop, wanted to be alone. The search, he knew, was futile. Not only the search but his entire life as well. Futile, empty, without any meaning at all.
What Archie liked about Morton was that she was both smart and dumb. But, before that, beautiful. Long and slender and blond. Compliant. Bending like the willow, as the song went. And so Archie usually came to Morton, his favorite of all the girls at Miss Jerome’s, and she never failed him.
He told her everything. And nothing. She listened. But more than listened. She was attuned to his moods and his needs, needs he did not admit to anyone else, and her touch was deft and expert. He could also talk to her. Up to a point, of course. Ordinarily, he talked to her in riddles, and somehow she understood. Not the riddles, but the necessity for him to talk in riddles. Morton was fine. She sometimes got on his nerves, but most of the time she was just fine.
Beyond the Chocolate War Page 11
