by Ed Gorman
"Ah," O'Sullivan said. He was definitely planning to kill Holland when he saw her again.
As his teeth ground the Oreos to a fine powdery brown dust, Telfair said, "Have you ever heard of the Cloisters, Mr. O'Sullivan?"
"I guess not."
"They were a splinter religious sect that roamed this state back in the 1800s. They'd been Roman Catholics until the bishop found out that they were practising black magic and then he kicked them out."
"I see." He wondered when Telfair was going to get to the UFO abductions and the out-of-body experiences.
"They also killed children. Usually runaways."
"Runaways?"
"Believe it or not, there was a teenage underground bigger than today's back in the late 1800s. And there weren't nearly as many shelters for them, either."
"Oh."
"Guess where the Cloisters put up for five years?"
"I'm afraid I don't know."
"Right where Hastings House is."
O'Sullivan could see this coming.
"Where the old tower was built was right on the burial ground."
"The authorities know about this?"
Telfair rattled his hand inside the Oreo package and snorted. His rat made a tiny chittering noise. "Authorities? They were suspicious of the Cloisters, of course, the way authorities are suspicious of any strange group, but they never really believed that the Cloisters were killing children in sacrifice."
"They never dug in the earth there?"
"Never."
"How do you know that there was a burial ground there, then?"
"I found the book."
"The book?"
"A sort of diary that one of the cult members kept."
"You found it?"
"Yes. Up in the tower when I was rummaging around up there." He sighed, his windpipe rattling there in the gloom. "You see, they never did use the tower, just the main building and then the other buildings they added on later. The tower was always structurally unsound. It swayed whenever there was a wind and even the smallest rain flooded the place."
"Why didn't they just tear it down?"
Telfair shrugged. "It's a nice piece of architecture. I suppose they felt that as long as nobody was in there, it wasn't hurting anything."
"So what did the diary say?"
"It told about the serpent."
"The serpent."
"Uh-huh. The huge snake that came up out of the ground one night after a certain incantation."
Now it was O'Sullivan's turn to sigh.
"You're starting to squirm, Mr. O'Sullivan."
"I guess I am."
"The Cloisters sacrificed the children. That's why the serpent came. It had waited centuries for a host."
"A host?"
"Yes. The snake works its way into a human body-it shrinks down, of course-and then it takes over the intelligence and the will of that person. It makes the person go out and seek other sacrifices-children or adults, it doesn't really matter."
"I see."
Telfair laughed. "I wish you could hear yourself, Mr. O'Sullivan."
"Oh?"
"You sound as if you'd like to dive out that window."
"You have to admit this is a pretty unlikely story."
" 'Unlikely' is a very polite word, Mr. O'Sullivan. I appreciate it."
And with that O'Sullivan got up.
He walked carefully to the window-carefully because the dusty floor was a mine trap of debris-and then he looked down to the street.
He was still wondering where that teenager had gone to, the one who used to masquerade as himself. He could see the street rods again with the flames painted on the sides and the bikers all doing their self conscious Brando impressions as they wheeled their Harleys and big mother Indians to the kerb. A great sorrow overcame him then as he mourned the loss of the boy he'd been. He wanted it all to be ahead of him and it was all largely behind him and he wore neckties and had to worry about annual health check-ups and loneliness.
Yellow Vietnamese words drifted up from the street and brought him back to the present. The boy he'd been faded like a ghost.
"Over the years since Hastings House was built, Mr. O'Sullivan," Telfair said, "six patients have escaped and killed people. Did you know that?"
"No, I guess I didn't."
"A man named Dobyns escaped just the other night."
"I know."
"The snake is inside him."
"How did it get there?"
"It contacted Dobyns telepathically. Dobyns started sneaking out of his room at night, going over to the tower. One night the snake appeared and got inside him."
O'Sullivan turned away from the window and came back to sit on the arm of the couch again.
"Have you talked with Dobyns?"
"No, but I don't need to. I talked to two of the other patients who escaped back in the fifties."
"And they told you about the snake."
"Yes. I felt the snake. They asked me to. They were afraid they were crazy."
"Did you tell the administration at Hastings House?"
"I tried." Telfair laughed again. "But why would they believe me? I was just some janitor. I was lucky they didn't commit me."
"How did you meet Emily Lindstrom?"
"After her brother killed those women," Telfair said, "I called her and told her everything. I even loaned her the diary."
"Obviously she listened."
Telfair stuffed his hand in the Oreo bag. This time he brought out two cookies. One he popped into his mouth. The other he held up for his pet rat to nibble on. "She listened. She didn't necessarily believe. But finally-well, finally she started looking into all this herself and then she gradually started to see that I wasn't crazy."
"My associate mentioned this apartment where all the escapees go. What's that about?"
Telfair coughed harshly, pounded himself on the chest, and said, "Shit. I quit smoking about five years ago but maybe it was already too late." As he coughed, the rat's red eyes jostled up and down on Telfair's shoulder.
Once he was composed again, Telfair said, "The first man who escaped was named Michaels. He built a small altar to the snake in one of the closets there. He killed a four-year-old girl and stripped her bones clean and put the bones in the closet. So when the snake's inside them, it always guides them there even though when they leave the hospital they usually suffer from amnesia. The third man who escaped came back to the hospital and told me all this-before he hung himself that is, the poor bastard. His name was Allard."
"You wouldn't happen to know where Dobyns is, would you?"
"Hunting."
"Hunting?"
"For a victim. You can bet on that."
"You're sure of that?"
"Absolutely. The longer the snake's in them, the more psychotic they get. Allard told me that."
"You've been to the police?"
"Several times, Mr. O'Sullivan. They've got a file on me, I'm sure." He chuckled. "Filed it under 'C' for Crazy Old Bastard." He sighed. "Oh, yes, they've heard my strange tales many times."
O'Sullivan stood up. "I appreciate all this, Mr. Telfair."
"Appreciate it but don't believe a word of it."
"I guess I'll have to think about it."
"At least you're polite. A lot of people who hear my story get pretty abusive." His hand snapped up another Oreo. "You know, ever since I retired early-about the time I was pronounced legally blind because of this retina disease-I've been telling this story to anybody who'd listen. And about the only audience I could find was this old guy who's a patient at Hastings. A guy named Gus. He actually sneaks up into the tower. He's seen the serpent. But who's going to believe him? Old bastard they keep doped up all the time-he's hardly the best witness. You see what I mean?"
Telfair got to his feet and walked over to O'Sullivan. "You want to see something cute?"
"What's that?"
"Watch." Telfair reached out and touched his pet rat on the head. "Say goodbye
to the nice gentleman, Charlie."
And with that, the rat got right up on his haunches, right there on Telfair's shoulder, and started chittering crazily.
"And people say you can't train rats," Telfair said. "But what the hell do people know anyway?"
O'Sullivan took one more look at the old man's Milk of Magnesia eyes and got out of there.
***
While two customers were in the back in the science fiction section, Richie told Marie his secret.
Two years ago Richie and his family had lived in the state capital, where his father was a bank president. As the son of a wealthy and prominent community leader, Richie's life had been enviably simple and full. Then came the sudden bank audit and his father's even more sudden pleading of guilty to an embezzlement charge. For the previous five years, it was revealed, Richie's father had been a secret addictive gambler, first going through the family's entire small fortune, then beginning to use bank funds. Richie's entire life changed. He went from being one of his school's most popular boys to somebody people whispered about, and pointed to and smirked at. His father was sentenced to ten years in prison and the family had been forced to move here to an apartment on a side of town that was barely respectable. His mother worked as a secretary in her brother's law office. How Richie and his two sisters would ever get through college was unknown at this point.
As Richie told Marie all this, she saw him suffer through embarrassment and pain. By the time he finished his story, his voice rasped with a very real agony. He was afraid for his father in prison-afraid that one of the inmates would stab him-and he was equally afraid for his mother. She was not in the best of health. The scandal had made her even weaker. And her stressful forty-hour-a-week job couldn't be doing her any good, either. Richie had taken a job at a local department store. Three nights a week and Saturdays he sold sports gear even though his interest in sports was minimal at best.
So there it was.
The secret hurt that was in his eyes but that he'd never talked about. The secret hurt that forced him to sit at the same table with the 'geeks.' She almost called him a geek-affectionately, of course-but she thought he might take it the wrong way. At least until he knew her better.
When he finished, he took a cigarette from his shirt pocket and said, "You mind?" He sounded as if he'd just finished making a long confession to a priest. He looked relieved, too.
She pointed to a sign above the door: NO SMOKING. "Brewster'd be awful mad."
"Maybe I'll step outside."
"Maybe you shouldn't smoke."
He grinned. "I figured you were the den mother type."
She grinned back. "Is that what I am?"
"No," he said, looking at her slyly, self-confidence coming back to his tone and face again. "What you are is cute. Very cute."
She felt exultant. Cute. Very cute. Maybe this first date was going to turn out just like her fantasy after all.
They were sitting on stools behind the counter with the cash register.
"Tell you what," he said.
"What?"
"Why don't I go out and have a cigarette and then go get us some Blizzards?"
"Only if you'll let me pay for my own."
"I really wish you'd let me pay for both of them." He smiled again and made a muscle with his bicep. He wasn't particularly muscular so that made his self-deprecating gesture all the sweeter to her. "That way I'd feel more macho."
"Well, if you'd feel more macho, maybe I'd better let you pay."
"Then next time you can pay."
"And will I get to be macho then?"
"You know," he said, crossing his eyes like an old vaudevillian comic, "That's a very good question."
Before she could respond, the pair from the back were at the counter. One young man-portly with long greasy hair-set down two science fiction paperbacks. The other young man- skinny and already balding even though he couldn't have been more than twenty-two or twenty-three-set down a copy of Locus and Science Fiction Chronicle.
As she checked them out-Richie still waiting around-she felt them staring at her. Occupational hazard, Brewster always told her. "You're so pretty, half the guys who come in here are going to have crushes on you. You wait and see." And so they did. While she was flattered by this kind of attention-heady stuff for a girl who usually thought of herself as some drab and crippled drudge-it also unnerved her. She didn't know how to respond.
When the two young men left, one of them pointing to a copy of an art magazine with a beautiful nude on the cover, Richie said, "Boy, you've got fans everywhere."
"They're nice guys. They come in here a lot."
"And I know why, too. To see you."
"They really like science fiction."
"They like you better."
"Strawberry."
"Huh?"
Tired of the subject of other boys-wanting to talk about
Richie if the subject had to be about boys at all-she said, "Strawberry. My Blizzard."
"Oh."
"You sound disappointed."
"Somehow I thought you'd be more adventurous. You know, a Blizzard with everything in it."
"Everything?"
"Sure-M&Ms and strawberries and 7-Up and-everything." He laughed. "It's the only way to live."
"Well, if you're going to go macho on me again I don't suppose I have any choice. Everything."
He was already on the way out the door. "You won't regret it. Believe me."
Then he was gone, the bell above the door tinkling, the air the sadder for his absence.
She couldn't believe how much closer she'd felt to him during the past fifteen minutes of conversation.
That was one thing her first date fantasy hadn't allowed for-real friendship to accompany the passion.
***
"Then do you know of a Marie Fane?"
"I think she's Kathleen's daughter. I'm not related to Kathleen but I know of her through a relative. She's like a shirt-tail cousin or something."
"How old would Marie be?"
The woman on the other end of the phone paused. "High school age or thereabouts, I'd guess."
"And her mother's name is Kathleen?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"I'll give it a try then. And thank you very much."
"Oh, you're most welcome. Like I said, we watch you on TV all the time. We like you a lot."
Chris Holland smiled. Sometimes a compliment could make you feel better than getting a new car. "Thanks again."
The woman hung up.
Chris put the phone down and said to Emily Lindstrom, "According to her there's a Kathleen Fane."
"Wonder why it isn't in the book?"
"Don't know. I'll try information."
They were still in the apartment Dobyns was using. The dead meat smell was as bad as ever.
When the wispy voiced male operator said "Information." Chris gave him the city and name she was looking for.
After half a minute, the live operator vanished and a recording took over.
"We're sorry but at the customer's request, the number is unpublished."
"Shit," Chris said, slamming the phone down. Then, "Excuse my French."
"What happened?"
"Unlisted number."
"Oh. Great. We've got to find this Marie Fane and warn her. Dobyns is on the way right now."
Chris snapped her fingers. "Cameron."
"Who?"
"Frank Cameron. He's a cop I know. He'll get the number for me."
She quickly dialled the Sixth Precinct. She wasn't used to rotary phones so the dialling was somewhat awkward.
"Detective Cameron, please."
She waited.
"Hello."
"Frank."
"Oh, God."
"You know who this is?"
"If I didn't, would I have said 'Oh, God'?"
"Good point."
He laughed. "It's something illegal, isn't it?"
"What is?"
"What you want me to
do."
Cameron loved to tease her and she loved to be teased by him. He was like an older brother. A divorced man with three kids, Cameron had asked her out a few times. Great fun but no sparks alas. Fortunately both of them felt that way. Now they were just friends, just two more overworked, overstressed lonely middle class people anonymously going about the business of living and dying.
"Well, I'm not sure, actually."
"So what is it? The shift commander's called a meeting in five minutes."
"Unlisted number."
"Is that all? You mean I don't have to plant any evidence or run any drugs?"
"Not tonight."
"What's the name?"
She told him.
"Hold on a sec," he said.
"He's getting it for you?" Emily Lindstrom asked.
Chris nodded.
He came back moments later and gave her the number.
"You owe me a lunch," he said.
"McDonald's all right?"
"Sure."
"Good. That I can afford. I'll call you next week."
"Really?"
"Sure really. You helped me, didn't you?"
"Actually, it'll be nice to sit down with a woman who isn't a cop and talk. I'm not doing too well in the old dating department."
Chris laughed. "Well, I'm not doing too well in that department either, Frank, so we can commiserate."
"There you go again with those big words. Talk to you later."
After hanging up, Chris waved the number at Emily Lindstrom. "Well, here it is. Let's just hope somebody is home."
Emily crossed her fingers and held them high.
Chris dialled Kathleen Fane's number.
And waited for somebody to pick up on the other end.
***
Dobyns reached the street. In the pale glow of the mercury vapour lights, he stood taking polluted air deep into his lungs and getting himself ready to walk inside the bookstore.
A pimp and a hooker passed by. The pimp was obviously upset with the heavily made up black woman. He had gripped her tight by the elbow and was shaking her as they moved toward a Caddy convertible.
What am I waiting for? Dobyns wondered. I should just walk right in there and-
