The Pariah (The Lt. Hastings Mysteries)

by Collin Wilcox

  “But that prayer was never answered, because Elton was never normal. I can say that now. I’ve got to say it now. That’s why I’m here, what I’m going to do …” As she spoke, she turned to face her husband, still standing a few feet away. His face, she saw, was pale as death. And his mouth was twisted into a death’s-head smile. Did he seem to be shrinking inside his clothes, shriveling to the size of an ordinary man?

  “Look at Holloway,” Friedman whispered. “He’s green.” Sitting far forward in his chair, his eyes intently fixed on Marvella’s face, Hastings made no reply.

  “Cut,” Flournoy hissed. “Cut to the choir.”

  “The truth is,” Marvella was saying, still facing her husband, “that Elton was insane. He was always insane, probably. But when he got close to twenty, he got worse, much worse. And it had to do with—with sex. It started when Elton would begin by preaching to prostitutes on the streets, or wherever, then end up shouting at them and beating them. Once he was badly beaten himself by one of their pimps. We thought Elton would lose an eye that time. And I remember thinking, then, that maybe he’d stop, because of the beating. And he did stop, too. At least we—we thought he’d stopped. But then the—the prostitutes started to die. They were strangled. At first I—I didn’t believe that it was Elton. I still can’t believe it was Elton, even though I know, really, that he did it, killed those women. But the police never came, never asked about Elton, about the killings. Not until—” She broke off, took her eyes from the sickly spectacle of her husband’s face, looked reflectively down at the purse. As if they were a stranger’s fingers, part of a stranger’s hand, she saw her fingers working at the clasp, opening the purse. And now her voice, too, was a stranger’s:

  “Not until just this last Wednesday,” she was saying, “did the police come. And then, the next day, Lloyd started following Elton, wherever he went—”

  —as the fingers closed around the cold steel of Austin’s revolver—

  “—just like Lloyd followed my daddy, all those years ago—”

  —as, yes, the revolver was free of the purse, coming up to chest level—

  “Christ!” On his feet, Hastings drew his revolver, raised the weapon. Shouting, “Hold it,” as the sights steadied, lined up on Marvella’s chest. “Hold it!”

  Beside him, above the sudden frenzy of hysterical voices Friedman was shouting, “Wait, Frank. Wait. Don’t.”

  Conscious of the scene’s slow-motion momentum, aware that he was helpless, an actor rooted to the stage, Holloway saw the revolver—yes, his own revolver—moving inexorably toward him, immobilizing him, impaling him, draining him of everything but fear. As it moved, the muzzle grew larger, as someone had once said it would, aimed directly at him now, with Marvella’s face behind the gun. And behind Marvella’s head, just to the left, he saw the camera lens. Finally, the red light had gone out—too late. More than two hundred affiliates, all of them witnesses …

  … all of it consumed in a flash of blinding brightness.

  Gone.

  Seeing the pistol drop to the floor of the stage beside the pulpit, murmuring something that could have been a prayer of thanks, Hastings lowered his revolver, unfired.

  Turn the page to continue reading from the Lt. Hastings Mysteries

  SATURDAY FEBRUARY 3

  10:15 P.M. HER STOMACH was contracting. She was drawing in her breath, about to speak. He raised his hand sharply, to silence her. Fury was a factor now. But manageable, controllable, instantly optimized. Because for now, only for now, this moment and the few moments to come, fury must be sublimated, everything in the balance, so exquisitely calculated, one instant to the next instant, one sensation to the next sensation.

  These moments, yes, controlled. Calculated and recalculated. And the other word. Optimized. Yes. Delicious, that word. Deliciously descriptive.

  Later, though, she must pay. She knew it, knew she must pay for what she’d almost done, the words she’d almost uttered. Her eyes told him. The illumination was enough, then: six large altar candles, calf high, six smaller candles, guttering on the floor. In their hammered gold receptacles, authentic Mayan, the candles alternated, low and high, all twelve in a semicircle. The light was metered, checked and rechecked, enough light for the camera, enough light to let her pick up her cues, yet not too bright, never intrusive.

  Catching the hand signal, she had responded instantly. He would remember that she had reacted so quickly. She would see that he remembered. It would be a plus. Yes. A small plus, but nevertheless significant. Yes.

  Yes.

  They were both immobilized now, as they must be, he sitting in the carved baroque chair, she kneeling over the stone sculpture. It was an early Crawford, derivative but relevant to tonight’s game, a different game every time they played. The game changed, but the rules remained the same. And she’d startled him when she’d almost spoken.

  So she must pay.

  She was naked; he was clothed in his silken robe, the fabric so sensual against his skin, the perfect complement to her touch when the time came, and she approached. The silken robe was a constant, yes, the single element that must never change.

  Never.

  With the forefinger of his right hand he touched the camera’s electronic wand, the only discordant element but nevertheless essential. The videotape was his medium. Therefore, without the camera, there was no purpose, no focus.

  He shifted his gaze from the crouched woman to the three-dimensional wooden collage on the wall behind her. It was a Penziner abstract, just completed, still untitled. Was the drapery around the collage correct? Should there be a spotlight? Another touch on another console would tell him. But, with his hand above the console, he hesitated. He could feel his body quickening, the first imperative. He looked from the woman, enslaved, to the low table, fashioned from rough-hewn planks, secured by hand-forged black iron studs. The stone of the sculpture, the inherent complexity of the collage, the drapery, the table, the iron studs—they were all unified. Complexity within complexity, a textural unit.

  Yes.

  All complemented by the naked flesh of the woman and his own naked flesh, tumid now, caressed by the soft silken folds of the robe falling around his feet as he rose from the baroque chair. Two steps between the candles and, yes, he was standing above her. As, yes, she was holding her supplicant’s pose, both hands pressed to the stone, her face carefully averted. Her breasts, surely, were her premier attribute, almost perfectly proportional, contoured to fulsome perfection by the pose he’d selected, tonight’s variation.

  On the table lay the four flays. They were meticulously arranged fanwise, the steel-studded flay to the left, the silken flick on the right, with the knotted rope and the plaited leather between. As he moved his hand toward the table, yes, her body was slightly shifting, so that her eyes could follow his hand.

  As always, yes, he first picked up the steel-studded flay, the crudest of the four. Watching her eyes, he gently hefted the flay. Yes, the response was satisfactory, an acceptable pantomime of maidenly fear. Therefore he could replace the flay on the table, consider the plaited leather, then the rope. Finally it came down to the silken flick, as it always did, an ancient emperor’s bauble, exquisitely embroidered and tasseled. Because she’d almost spoken, a transgression, he laid the flick across her shoulders, a wrist-snap, artistry incarnate. Eyes widening, pleading, she gripped the stone of the statue, knuckles white. At the second ministration she flinched, shied, drew a sharp, involuntary breath. But her eyes held steady with his as, ceremoniously now, he replaced the flick on the table. He turned to face her squarely. He stood motionless, hands at his sides. His chin was elevated, a haughty pose, momentarily frozen until, yes, he could lower his gaze, as if to finally notice her, some pathetic waif clinging to this rough stone surrounded by the golden light of the candles.

  As they held their tableau, he the lord, she the cast-up wretch on this alien shore, they might be utterly alone.

  Except for the camera’s w
hir, utterly alone …

  … as, yes, he stooped, knotted his fingers in the luxuriant strands of her thick hair, drew her to her feet.

  In the alcove, draped in black, lit like a sepulcher, the final element of the night’s creation awaited them: the bed.

  Step by step, stumbling, he with his hand gripping her hair, roughly dragging her, they moved to the bedchamber. Now they were beside the bed, she on her knees, crouched, he standing erect, still with the fingers of one hand locked in her hair. The hair was done in thick plaits, according to his instructions. And, yes, she’d remembered her mark, for the camera.

  And now, desperate entreaty, she raised her eyes to his. Would he forgive her? Would he spare her, just this once?

  Scowling, his face as fierce as a headsman’s behind the ceremonial black hood, he sharply shook his head. Entreaty denied.

  Her eyes implored him.

  He gripped her hair, flexed his knees. As, on cue, she gathered herself. A choreographed heave, and she lay across the bed. She lay on her back, legs drawn up, breasts heaving, a perfect pantomime of terror. As he bent over her, anticipating, she began to writhe: slowly at first, sinuously. Her eyes, wide, were one with his. In the universe, there was nothing else. As the moment lengthened his flesh lost substance, became amorphous, dissolved into pure sensation. On the rich damask of the bedspread, her fingers were widespread; the carmine fingernails, meticulously groomed, gripped the gold brocade of the spread, desperation incarnate.

  With his body arched above her, their eyes consuming, flesh transcended, his fingers touched the flesh of her throat.

  Sharply she drew in her breath.

  Beneath his fingers, her flesh was warm. Beneath his fingertips, the pulsing of her blood was strong.

  Slowly, inexorably, his fingers began to tighten.

  TUESDAY FEBRUARY 13

  10:55 A.M. EVERY PROFESSION, Albert Price reflected, exacted its own particular penalty. For the cabbie, traffic was the trauma. For athletes, it was the aging process.

  For him, it was the eternal push-pull of the objective-subjective, the constant necessity to remain aloof, the chronic clinician, never the friend, never the real participant. As actors must project emotion, he must project detachment. As pagan priests codified entrails, he codified his patients’ tics and twitches.

  And when the patient was a beautiful woman—Meredith Powell, a tawny blonde, her body radiating an electric sensuality that was all the more provocative because she sought so strenuously to suppress it—then must he be especially conscious of his role: the psychiatrist projecting the priest. Therefore, his voice must be soft and gravely modulated, his manner once removed, judiciously measured.

  “We haven’t talked much about your marriage, Meredith. You say he abused you.” As Price paused, he automatically registered her subliminal reaction: a telltale tightening of the mouth, an involuntary wince. These, he knew, were the small, cruel barbs of memory, pain revisited.

  “Yes …” As she nodded and looked away, Price allowed himself a moment’s wayward pleasure as he noted the line of her cheek and the particular curve of her jaw. It was a wide, aristocratic jaw, tapering to a decisive chin. Greta Garbo’s jaw had flared like that. And Grace Kelly’s, too. The evocation: Town and Country covers, tweeds, vintage limousines drawn up to pillared porticos.

  “But he never actually struck you,” he prompted.

  Drawing a deep, unsteady breath, she shook her head. “No. He—” She hesitated, forced herself to look at him directly. Would he help her, release her from the necessity of answering?

  No. He would only look at her—and wait.

  “He—sometimes when he’d been drinking, and he wanted to—to make love, he’d be rough. But I can’t say he ever actually hit me, not with his hand.”

  “So it was more psychological abuse, then.”

  She nodded.

  “Meredith—” Gently admonishing, Price gestured to the tape recorder that rested on the desk between them. “Words, remember. Not gestures. We’re saving on secretarial fees here.” He smiled. He was a thin, wiry man in his forties. His face, too, was thin and wiry. His pale blue eyes were intense; his mouth was humorless, tightly compressed.

  “Sorry,” she answered quickly. Automatically Price noted the characteristic reaction: the quick, masochistic assumption of guilt, therefore blame. “Gary was—is—very smart, very intelligent,” she continued. “But when he was drinking, he—he berated me. That’s the only way I can describe it. He taunted me.”

  “Did he ever threaten you, threaten to harm you?”

  “No, it wasn’t that. He just made me feel worthless. It—it’s hard to explain.”

  “When did you decide to take back your maiden name, Meredith?”

  “I decided to do that when I came back to San Francisco. After the divorce.”

  “How did that make you feel, to have your maiden name again? Did you feel that it was a plus—a victory? Or did it feel like a defeat?”

  “Well, it—” She bit her lip, shook her head, slightly frowned. “It didn’t feel like either, really. I mean, I was born in San Francisco, you know.”

  He nodded. “Yes, I know you were.”

  As if he’d admonished her, she looked at him anxiously, then tried to explain. “I mean, it seemed to fit, somehow. This is the only place I ever felt like I—I belonged. And I was Meredith Powell here. In Los Angeles I was Meredith Blake. Someone else. Not me.”

  To encourage her, he smiled again. This time, though, it was a small, impersonal smile. Then, glancing surreptitiously at the small clock placed to face him on the desk, he allowed the smile to fade. The clock read 11:10; their hour was almost gone. It was time for the hard part.

  “We’ve talked about the men you’ve been with. And we’ve agreed, I think, that there’s a common thread—a pattern. That’s to be expected, of course. We all have our own particular personality patterns. And it’s entirely predictable that people with particular patterns of behavior seek out people whose patterns mesh with their own. You’d agree with that, wouldn’t you?”

  “I—” Uncertainly she nodded. “I guess so. Yes.”

  “But sometimes,” he continued, “these patterns don’t mesh properly. Sometimes they clash. And if the clash is bad enough, and the same clashes are repeated over and over, then it’s a problem. And the longer it continues, the bigger the problem gets. Is that a true statement, would you say?”

  “I—” As if she were deeply resigned to some crushing inevitability, she nodded. “Yes, I—I’d say that’s true.”

  “Good.” To encourage her, he nodded gravely. “And would you also say that your present relationship fits this scenario?”

  “I—yes,” she answered. “Yes, it—it does.” She spoke very softly. Her eyes were downcast, her fingers fretful. It was the classic attitude of guilt, of the penitent in the confessional.

  “Except,” he said, “this relationship you’re involved in now is worse than the others.”

  “Yes …”

  “In fact, this relationship is a culmination of all the others, wouldn’t you say?”

  She nodded, murmuring “Yes, I would.”

  “And, in fact, that’s why you’re here. You’ve seen the pattern developing, and you’ve decided to take action.”

  “Y-yes.”

  “The only question is,” he prompted, “what kind of action? You’ve already decided that you want to get out of the relationship. Right?”

  “Yes …” It was a timid, tentative response that signified hope, not determination.

  “You know what you want to do, but you’re not sure how to do it. Is that a fair statement?”

  “Yes.” For the first time she registered animation, a kind of wan conviction. “Oh, yes.”

  Once more Price glanced at the clock. Seven minutes remained. Should he try for a firm response, a commitment to action? Or should he begin tapering off, bringing her down? But down from what? During the entire interview, they’d hardly
connected. He’d done all the talking. Passively, she’d simply agreed. And passivity, in fact, was Meredith Powell’s problem.

  Therefore, he would change tempo, change timbre, administer a quick, therapeutic, plain-language jolt.

  “So why don’t you call this guy and tell him to get lost? Tell him you’re through playing his sadistic little games.” He let one quick, taut beat pass. Then: “Tell him, in the vernacular, to fuck off. As your psychiatrist, I heartily advise you to do it. In fact, I urge you to do it. Immediately.”

  As he’d calculated, the obscenity had gotten to her, shaken her up. Now, for the first time today, she looked at him full face. Now, in this moment, they were engaged. The next moment, up or down, could be the ball game. Their eye contact held. Would it work, then, this session, score one for the home team? Her eyes were wonderful: a deep, vibrant violet. And the bones of her face were nature’s work of art, the ultimate female essence.

  For a moment, one single moment, he saw conviction flicker in the violet eyes, saw determination work at the corners of her mouth.

  But, as quickly as it came, resolution faded. No, she wouldn’t make the call.

  11:15 A.M. To himself, Charles grimaced. If there was a pillar in this bustling lobby—an ornate marble pillar—would he be skulking behind it? Perhaps there would be a potted palm beside the pillar, all the clichés pulled to the stops. He would stand behind the potted palm, the fronds parted, plying his petty spy’s gameful gambit.

  It was a turn-of-the-century melodrama, a nickelodeon plot, beginning with the damsel mincing across the stage. Enter the slick-haired lover, downstage. Ah, she sees him. She flutters. The lover advances. She shrinks away, prettily.