The woman grabbed Martin's head once more and forced it hard enough into the rough surface that bone cracked. That done, she felt the pulse at his neck, assuring herself that he still lived. She was rewarded with the feeble pressure of his heart pumping.
She stood and walked quickly to the car, reaching into the driver's area and shutting off the headlights. In near-total darkness, she returned to her shopping bag and methodically gathered up the spilled contents. She brought the bag to the car and deposited it in the backseat, then went around and opened the passenger door. After surveying the area, she hoisted McCarthy onto one shoulder and carried him to the car, putting him into the righthand seat. She assumed his place behind the steering wheel, looked at her image in the rearview mirror, and reached back to the shopping bag, out of which she dug a towel. Spitting onto it several times, she used it to cleanse the dirt from his forehead. She buckled him in place, adjusting his seat belt so he would not collapse forward.
The radio station played a brass quintet rendition of "The Twelve Days of Christmas." The woman thumbed it off, relit the headlamps, and drove expertly out of the parking lot. The night before she had scouted out a nearby lake bordering a road. In one location the lake forced the road to take a sharp right turn. The curious thing about the spot was that neither a sign nor a guardrail protected it. It was a perfect place for a preoccupied college professor to drive off the road, smack his head into the steering wheel and drown helplessly when his car sank. Before she could complete her plan, she would have to hide for a time, while the rush-hour traffic died down. But waiting was one of her virtues; she had literally all the time in the world.
***
"How about a rematch of Got a Minute?" Simon suggested to Frederika, as she cleared away the dinner dishes. "You want to avenge that drubbing you took, don't you?"
"I don't think so," Frederika said. "The house is dirty. I'll clean the downstairs, take a bath, and go to bed early."
"I'd be glad to help you clean," Simon offered.
"No. You're a boarder, not hired help," Frederika said, sliding the dishes into the sink's sudsy water.
"I don't have anything to do," Simon persisted. "I could help you get done sooner. You seem drained."
"I feel fine." Frederika faced him. "I like to do my cleaning alone; it gives me time to think."
Simon got up from the table. "Fine. If you need help-somebody to lift the piano when you're vacuuming-just whistle. You do know how to whistle, don't you?" No recognition of the famous Lauren Bacall line altered Frederika's blank expression. "And stay away from the uncooked steak. I know iron and protein's supposed to be good for a cold, but you could get trichinosis or something." Her expression remained just as void.
Simon was no epicurean, but he knew there was more to steak tartar then cutting hunks off a thick porterhouse and shoving it in one's mouth. He had caught Frederika doing just that, with the animal's blood dribbling over her bottom lip onto her chin. It might have been more disconcerting, had her color not improved so radically of late. She was the embodiment of the expression "in the pink." When he had observed that she seemed drained, he had meant it in the mental sense. Physically, she looked like an Olympic athlete.
Simon left Frederika standing in front of the sink, a wash rag clutched in one hand. He would have probed a little more at her apparent depression-such a flip-flop from her liveliness two nights earlier-if not for his meeting with her mother the next day. Once that happened, he might have a better idea what made Frederika Vanderveen tick. A casual observer would peg her as manic-depressive. Simon wondered if her normal unhappy condition was being worsened by Seasonal Affective Disorder-just a bad lack of sunlight. Maybe he was responsible for her sudden depression, bribing Vincent DeVilbiss into summarily dumping her. Ironically, after years of "vamping men" (as Neil Yoskin put it), then running away, she might have finally fallen hard for one who was doing the same to her.
As he reached the top of the staircase, a third possibility came to him. Perhaps the words he had used as an excuse to manipulate her mother were more true than he could have guessed; maybe she was having a very serious mental breakdown and right now staring down unblinkingly into that lightless oblivion called suicide.
***
"I guarantee it'll ease your arthritis within the week or you come back for your money, Mrs. Hornby," Vincent assured. His hand rested casually and familiarly on the woman's lower back.
Holly Hornby turned to face the handsome herbalist. "Maybe if it works well, I should come back anyway." The twinkle of lust was unmistakable in her eyes. Vincent judged her to be in her late forties, but she had taken remarkable care of herself. He envisioned the hours of self-indulgence every week, with makeup sessions, exercise classes, and low-calorie meals. He suspected the tummy tuck and face-lift, which were justified to her by psychologists, surgeons, girlfriends, and the adoring husband. She was a beauty holding down a twenty-four-hour-a-day job of staving off the ravages of time, and she wanted her rewards.
"Maybe you should," Vincent said, letting his hand drift down to rest on the upper curve of her buttock. It did no harm; if she came back to the house next week, he'd be long gone.
Mrs. Hornby patted Vincent lovingly on the cheek and sashayed through the front door. Vincent waved good-bye, closed the door and shoved the thirty dollars she had given him into his pocket. He thought of Frederika, of her beauty which so outshone Holly Hornby's. He could have taken the lusty-eyed woman to bed tonight if he had wanted to, but Frederika drained his desire for others as effectively as he had drained her of her will.
Picturing Frederika's naked splendor, Vincent felt his rear end pucker involuntarily. Mrs. Hornby had definitely made him randy. He longed to call Frederika and order her to come to him. But he had promised Simon Penn he would stay away from the woman, and he had no idea just how closely the intense young man kept tabs on her. Vincent knew that Simon's appeasement was crucial, so that the feisty little pawn would not be tempted to move from his position on the gameboard. Vincent admitted to himself that he had made several miscalculations of late, each because his passions had gotten the better of his logic. He would not blunder again, not when this most critical game of his long, long life was concluding so soon.
***
Reverend Willy Spencer had just finished his evening meditation and prayers when the telephone rang. He closed his Bible, leaned out of his easy chair and plucked the phone from his desk.
"Hello?" he said, brightly.
"Reverend Spencer, you don't know me," the precise, British accent began. "My name is Montague Fox. Can you spare a few moments?"
"Certainly, Mr. Fox," Willy granted, easing back into his tufted leather chair to hear the stranger out.
"A few weeks ago, while I was still in England, I read about the wonderful gift to Princeton University of the ancient scrolls of Ahriman. I also read how you would be the fellow leading the translation."
"That's correct," Willy admitted, keeping his voice even but tensing at the expectation of another request for an interview.
"Well, sir, I am in possession of a very old book. It has no title page, but from the date and the colophon, it would seem to be the translation of those same scrolls, printed in 1503 by Aldus Manutius. Do you know the colophon… the dolphin curling around the anchor?"
Willy sat up straight in his chair. "I know of the work, Mr. Fox," Willy said, carefully, then shut up so that he could hear the subtext as well as the spoken words.
"It's been in my family for generations, but nobody before me ever thought it was worth much. I did some investigating and found that it might be very valuable indeed."
"That's right, if it's authentic," Willy said.
"Which is precisely why I'm imposing on you, sir," Fox said. His voice was nasal and slightly whining. The reverend pictured Uriah Heep. "I took it to two different authorities. They each said it's probably a forgery."
"But you could verify its authenticity if I shared some of my translation
with you," Willy filled in.
"Have you done any yet?" Fox asked.
"I have."
"That's wonderful. If it were real I could sell it. I'm not a rich man, Reverend Spencer. Its sale could help my position immensely, and no doubt provide a smashing addition to some great library."
"Perhaps even the Princeton University collection."
"Certainly. It would make perfect sense, what with the original scrolls there."
"Where are you now, Mr. Fox?" Spencer asked.
"Oh, right here in Princeton. My company sent me over to the States this week, and I thought I'd make this little side trip to kill two birds with one stone as it were. I'm ever so pleased to find you home."
"How long will you be in Princeton?"
"Only until I've seen you. I wonder… would it be too great an imposition to nip over to your home tonight?"
"I'm afraid it would," Willy answered.
"Oh," Fox said, his little voice growing even smaller in his disappointment.
"However, I could see you tomorrow afternoon," Willy said. "About two-thirty."
There was a slight pause. "Two-thirty you say?"
"Yes."
"That would be wonderful." Fox sounded happy again. "And do you live at the Mercer Street address in the current telephone directory?"
"Yes. Do you need directions?"
"No. I walked by your place just after supper. I'll bring the book with me, of course."
"Fine. And I'll make tea."
"Lovely."
"Oh… Mr. Fox," Willy said, as if he'd had an afterthought. "In case something comes up, where are you staying?"
"With friends here in Princeton. Their phone number's unlisted, but I'm sure they won't mind my giving it to you."
"Go ahead." The stranger supplied a number, but Willy did not bother writing it down. The man's reply was all he had been looking for. "I'll see you at two-thirty," Willy confirmed, then hung up. He rose slowly from his chair and looked around the room. He had hidden that money somewhere nearby. Yes, in the pewter mug. After all these years of saving it for a rainy day, perhaps it would provide more sustenance than he could ever have anticipated-and without leaving his hands. He had much more to scare up before he would be thoroughly prepared for the stranger's visit, he thought. The phone call portended the realization of either his fondest dream or his most dreaded nightmare.
CHAPTER TWELVE
December 23
Remember the old saying, "Faint heart ne'er won fair lady."
-Cervantes, Don Quixote, ch. 10
Willy Spencer opened the door as far as the safety chain allowed.
"Good afternoon!" the man outside said brightly. His gloved right hand rested high against his chest, and in its grasp lay an old book wrapped in clear plastic. "Reverend Spencer?"
Willy squinted from the bright sunlight that filled the world just beyond the umbra of his house's eaves. "Please indulge me, Mr. Fox; kindly remove your hat and step back into the light."
The man pulled his head back in surprise, then without demur, turned around, marched into the light and took off his broad-brimmed fedora. His brown eyes blinked rapidly at the harshness of the winter sun.
"Take off your glove and let me see your hand and wrist," Willy ordered.
"I don't understand. Is there some problem?" the stranger asked, while he followed the reverend's direction as best he could, holding the hat and fighting back his overcoat, jacket, and shirt. Finally he showed a wrist nearly as white as a fish's belly.
"Not at all. I'm just a bit eccentric. Come to the door now," Willy said. "Smile at me. Biggest smile you've got." Once again, Mr. Fox did as he was asked. He was rewarded by having the door shut in his face. His generous smile vanished; the face transmuted into one of vicious rage. When he heard the door chain being slipped, however, he quickly reerected the smile and inclined his head to an affable angle. After several seconds, the door still remained closed.
"Come in," Willy's voice called, from deep inside the house.
DeVilbiss set the fedora on his head and cautiously walked through the doorway. The old theologian was nowhere in sight.
"Reverend Spencer?" DeVilbiss called out.
"In here." The voice echoed from the back end of the hallway, where a door stood ominously open.
DeVilbiss licked his lips apprehensively and walked forward with careful stride, noting the home's layout, the positions of the furniture, avenues of escape as he moved. He walked through the open doorway and found himself in a well-used study, where built-in bookcases lined two walls. Every inch of their space was being used, although not necessarily for storing books. Not too far from the door stood a tufted leather, high-backed easy chair and, beside it, a floor lamp and reading table. Angled catercorner in the room's center was a huge walnut desk of considerable age. Arrayed on the desk were an open Bible, a large "balloon" glass filled with a colorless liquid, and a purple liturgical stole. DeVilbiss's keen sense of smell detected the odor of garlic. He felt instantly more at ease.
Willy Spencer stood on the far side of the desk, next to a well-worn wooden study chair. Both his hands were invisible, dug deeply into the huge pockets of the bathrobe he wore. He had on a white shirt that looked none too clean. Upon the white cotton field, an enormous, gold-plated cross hung from a thick chain.
Baroque music played from a stereo system within the bookcases, a piece Vincent recognized from Bach's Christmas Oratorio.
"Welcome to my home, Mr. Fox," the reverend said, managing to convey no warmth with the invitation.
DeVilbiss hung his fedora on the doorknob. "Thank you. Interesting Christmas tree." There was a dwarf blue spruce root-bound in a pot on a corner of the desk, suggesting that the old man intended to plant it after the holiday season. The tree was sparsely decorated, with a pair each of white Styrofoam fish, lambs, crosses, vines, and oil lamps.
"You recognize the decorations?" Willy inquired.
"I do," DeVilbiss answered. "Except for the Star of David on the top, every ornament is a symbol of Jesus."
"Are you a Christian?" Willy inquired.
"A lapsed Catholic," DeVilbiss answered.
"Ah. May I see the book?" Despite Spencer's casual attire, he seemed alert and tense. DeVilbiss noted the gloss of perspiration on his temples, even though the room temperature was cool.
DeVilbiss unwrapped the book and placed it on the edge of the desk. He stared fixedly at the reverend as he crumpled the plastic bag into a tiny ball.
Willy lifted his right hand out of his pocket. Three fingers and his thumb circled the grip of a revolver; his forefinger curled around its trigger. He extended his arm slightly and took aim at DeVilbiss's heart.
"Need I even bother looking at the book?" he asked.
DeVilbiss shrugged as he retreated two steps. "You might… for curiosity's sake. I found it diverting. The man who forged it was inventive, but he honestly didn't know much about the real Aldus printing. He'd made eight copies. I burned seven, but it was such a special souvenir I couldn't bring myself to destroy the last one."
"Yet you destroyed him, didn't you?" Willy asked.
"Regretfully. It's a long story."
"Sit, then. I'm sure you have many fascinating stories." This time, the man's invitation sounded sincere.
"I do," DeVilbiss affirmed.
"And how often do you get to repeat them?"
"Just so."
DeVilbiss noted the lack of quaver in the scholar's voice, the steadiness of his grip on the revolver. He admired both his opponent's control and his intellectual curiosity in the face of what he surely knew to be one of Death's preeminent executioners. The gold cross, the gun, the garlic, and the glass undoubtedly filled with holy water clearly gave the old cleric the courage to attempt a conversation. Vincent welcomed a learned dialogue. Never before had he encountered a man who knew not only the contents of the scrolls but also Vincent's true nature. For the first time since his transformation, he found himself with the oppor
tunity to share musings on those who controlled him, with no less than a learned scholar of antiquities. There was no danger in such candor; Spencer would be dead within the hour. More important, the invitation afforded DeVilbiss the chance to trick the old man into revealing the vital information which he had dared daylight to obtain.
DeVilbiss sat. Spencer took his seat, resting the gun on the Bible, keeping it leveled at his guest's heart. DeVilbiss asked: "You feel confident that gun will protect you?"
"The scrolls mentioned no means of killing your kind," Spencer replied, "so I take it that destroying you isn't that difficult. The difficult part is learning that you exist and then having the faith to believe it."
"You must have read thoroughly into the passages about my kind," DeVilbiss said.
"I did… until there was nothing more to read."
"When did you come across that section?"
"Yesterday afternoon. I've been skipping around."
DeVilbiss made a tsking sound. "Just yesterday. My bad luck. How were you so sure that Montague Fox was such a creature, coming for you?"
"I wasn't," Willy admitted. "I almost believed your story, especially when you agreed to come out in broad daylight, then stood outside with your head and arm bare. That shine on your wrist and the back of your hand… is it from suntan lotion?"
Vincent made a polite little obeisance. "Very astute. The new, unscented variety. I hope its inventor gets rich from the idea."
"And your brown eyes-contact lenses?" Spencer inquired.
"Of course. Behind thin plastic they're as amber as the scrolls describe. Did the lotion give me away?"
"That, your pale skin, your good nature at my ridiculous demands," Willy imparted. "In fact, once I'd read those passages, the very coincidence of being called with a ready translation of the scrolls. Shall I continue to call you Mr. Fox?"
The Book of Common Dread Page 22
