Book of Shadows

by Marc Olden

  “I’d be glad to,” said Marisa. “And thank you for asking. I can’t think of anywhere I’d feel safer.”

  Bess looked shocked. “You would?”

  “I would.”

  “Robert might—”

  “Robert who?”

  Bess smiled. “That’s great. I mean … well, you know what I’m trying to say.”

  “I hope so.”

  The silence lay between them as they stared at each other. And then the telephone rang.

  Marisa smiled, her voice mildly taunting. “Saved by the bell.”

  Bess looked away.

  She picked up the receiver. “Yes? Just a minute.”

  She held the receiver out to Bess.

  “Sergeant Bess,” he said into the phone. He looked at Marisa, then quickly looked away.

  She watched him listen in silence. He was a bundle of contrasts and all of them attractive. There was danger in him, a barely controlled capacity for violence which he seemed at ease with. On the other hand, he was shy and unsure of himself when it came to women, or so it appeared to Marisa. He was a loving father but at times he was so absorbed in police work he forgot everything and everyone. He was compassionate, yet his world began and ended with being a cop, making his ideas about right and wrong absolute. Nothing in between.

  He was intelligent, but he hid it. He had a sense of humor but at times it crossed over into bitterness. There was a decency in Joseph Bess, but the death of a man like Raymond didn’t seem to bother him in the slightest.

  A man of contrasts. And all of them attractive to Marisa.

  Bess hung up. His chin was on his chest.

  “What’s wrong?” asked Marisa.

  “One of our informants died. Call came in to the precinct a few minutes ago. They found him down on Avenue A in an abandoned building. Needle was still stuck in his arm. He OD’d. Only twenty-two. Fact is, his twenty-second birthday wasn’t until next week. He was going to have a party, invite me and Felix and a few other friends. Princess Grace.”

  “I remember,” said Marisa. “Gina said he was one of your informants. And he’s dead?”

  Bess nodded sadly.

  Marisa said, “I’m sorry.”

  “He wasn’t a bad guy. He studied art and was pretty good at it. Just fell in with the wrong crowd, that’s all, and he needed money to keep up with them, so he hung some paper—”

  Bess looked at Marisa. “Sorry. He forged a few checks and ended up in the slammer. I felt sorry for him and went out of my way to work something out with the parole board. In one sense it was too late. He, Harold, was never the same after prison. They raped him in there, beat him, and when he came out, he just didn’t feel like being an artist anymore. So he went back to those friends who’d gotten him in trouble in the first place. He survived any way he could, but he never forgot my getting him out of prison so he gave me stuff from time to time. He was a slim blond guy who kind of looked like Grace Kelly, so everybody called him Princess Grace.”

  Bess sighed. “Damn good artist, that kid. Did a sketch of Gina that is really beautiful. Tell you one thing.”

  He looked at Marisa. “Harold hated junk. Tried it once and got sick as a dog. Did other drugs but stayed away from heroin.”

  “So what happened? I mean, he died of a heroin overdose, right?”

  Bess nodded. “That’s what it looks like. I say Bofil killed him.”

  “Why?”

  “Because somehow he learned that Harold was my snitch. Because with Raymond, Fancy, and Harold dead, the trail’s come to an end. It’s going to be hard to nail Tony Paul now. Hell, it’s going to be impossible. Tony Paul’s got a reputation of taking care of his enemies. Never figured he’d do that to Harold but he did. He did.”

  Bess turned his back to Marisa. She saw his hand come up to wipe his eye and she said nothing.

  Bess said, “Let’s get some air. I feel like walking.”

  “I’ll throw a few things in a bag.”

  Outside they walked in silence, Marisa’s arm in his. The rain had stopped but the sky was still gray and thunder rolled across the heavens as if nature was angry and preparing to destroy.

  TWENTY-TWO

  GROGGY FROM A PAIN-KILLING injection, Cornell Castle, his eyes and hands bandaged, lay naked on a leather couch in the doctor’s small reception room.

  The office also served as an apartment and while no patients were expected on a Saturday, Dr. Michaels, a member of Herod’s coven, wanted no blood on his silk sheets. Nor did Dr. Michaels like the idea of taking Cornell’s keys and going to his apartment to bring back a change of clothes. But he’d gone anyway, leaving Cornell alone with two Siamese cats who’d gotten bored with staring at him and were now asleep in the next room under an X-ray machine.

  The injection was wearing off; Cornell could feel the skin on the left side of his face starting to itch and his left eye, the one that had suffered the most damage, was throbbing. The doctor had done his best, but he wasn’t an eye specialist and that’s what Cornell needed.

  It wasn’t easy to locate a specialist who wouldn’t ask questions; all Dr. Michaels could do was promise he’d find one as soon as possible, which wasn’t what Cornell wanted to hear. He wanted one immediately. Only a specialist could determine if permanent damage had been done.

  Meanwhile Dr. Michaels had enough to do. He’d treated Alison; she could walk, but she’d been hysterical and had to be sedated. Bofil insisted that neither she nor Cornell return to their apartments; the coven would find somewhere for them to stay until it was learned if the police were after them.

  Dr. Michaels had a wife, who was spending the weekend visiting their son in a military school upstate; she and his practice were the reasons he gave for not wanting Cornell to stay beyond tomorrow night. The real reason was Cornell’s hostility. When Michaels expressed surprise that a woman had done this much damage to Alison and Cornell, Cornell had lost control and kicked him. That’s when the doctor knew the less time spent with Cornell Castle, the better; after tomorrow let someone else in the coven take over his care and feeding.

  When Michaels returned he would find that Cornell, sullen with pain, had urinated on the reception room rug. Unable to see, Cornell hadn’t even bothered to find the bathroom. Let the doctor worry about cleaning up.

  That cunt Marisa Heggen. Because of her Cornell was blind and his hands hurt like hell. He wanted to kill her an inch at a time and drink her blood. If he had killed her immediately, as he had wanted to, this never would have happened. Fucking Alison. She was in bad shape emotionally and worried about permanent scars. She was also worried that Bofil might blame her for what happened.

  When he’d heard the news, Bofil had exploded, but he calmed down enough to have Dr. Michaels pick them up in his car and bring some of his wife’s clothes for Alison to wear. Alison was the one who had to tell Bofil face to face what had gone wrong; Cornell was too shaken by his blindness to speak coherently.

  Cornell could care less about any of it now. Let Bofil worry about the Comforts. Cornell wanted his sight back; he wanted to be able to use his hands and not have to piss on the floor like some old rummy with bladder trouble. Even Michaels’ two cats were better off than Cornell. At least they could see.

  He shifted on the leather couch and listened. There was the sound of a key being inserted in a lock and Cornell, holding his arms straight out in front of him, struggled to sit up. The two Siamese cats silently sped past him toward the front door.

  Cornell’s voice was slurred. “Reggie, you fuckin’ son of a bitch. You leave me alone here and go off and you don’t even turn on the radio. Next time, man, turn on the fuckin’ radio.”

  The door opened then closed, and footsteps came towards him.

  “Reggie, your goddam phone rang a couple of times. You—”

  The footsteps stopped in front of him. Cornell waited.

  “Reggie? What the fuck’s wrong with you, man?”

  The two Siamese cats hung back, the hair
rising on their backs, their tails straight up in the air. The frightened animals spat and hissed.

  Cornell, sitting on the edge of the couch, licked his lips nervously, his arms outstretched in front of him.

  “Reggie, if you’re running a game on me, so help me, I’ll—”

  “It’s no game, Mr. Castle,” said Rupert Comfort softly. “It’s all quite real. We’ve only got two days left and we thought we’d ask you a few questions.”

  Bofil sat at his desk and stared at the ringing phone for a few seconds before reaching for the receiver.

  When he’d placed the receiver to his ear, he said nothing.

  “Solomon, this is Michaels. I’ve got—”

  “Did you forget your coven name?” asked Bofil.

  “Look, just cut the crap. We—You’ve got a problem. I don’t know how long I can stay on this phone. All hell’s broken loose and the cops … just listen. I’ve got a message for you from the Comforts.”

  Bofil chewed the inside corner of his mouth and stared at a wall aquarium of tropical fish. “I’m listening.”

  Dr. Michaels’ voice was high-pitched with fear. “They know what you tried to do with the book. I’m supposed to tell you—to tell you they’re going to kill you.”

  Bofil blinked and squeezed the receiver until his knuckles were white.

  “When did they tell you this?”

  “Minutes ago. It’s the only reason I’m still alive. They needed a messenger boy. Otherwise I’d be dead.”

  Bofil switched the receiver to another ear. “What’s that noise in the background?”

  “Fire engines, cop cars. I told you all hell’s breaking loose around here. I’m calling from a public phone a block from my apartment, but the cops might chase me away because they want to use it. Just listen. I can’t keep my hands from shaking. I’m scared out of my gourd. They put the fear of God in me, man. They caught me just as I was coming off the elevator in my building. I was on my way to get some clothes for Cornell—”

  “How did they know where to find you and Cornell?”

  “Jesus, how do those two know anything? They just know, that’s all. Who knows how many people Alison’s talked to in the last hour? Maybe Cornell used the phone as soon as I left him alone. How the hell should I know, and what difference does it make? They know. They dragged me into a stairwell and asked me questions and man, I told them everything they wanted to know.”

  Bofil said coolly, “What do you know?”

  “I know Alison and Cornell were sliced into chopped meat when they went to the actress’s apartment to get the Book of Shadows for you. I know you didn’t tell the Comforts you’d located the book. That’s what Cornell said.”

  “Ah, Cornell. I must sit him down for a little talk. Soon.”

  “Don’t bother. He won’t be talking back.”

  Bofil said nothing.

  Michaels said, “When the Comforts finished asking their questions, they told me to pass the word along. The word is you’re a dead man. They only have two days to recover the book and return to their village and they don’t want to waste that time in a war with the coven. The only person they have a problem with is you. The rest of us will be all right, providing we don’t get in the Comforts’ way.”

  Bofil snorted. “Translation: If none of you helps me.”

  Michaels pounded on the phone door with his fist. “Bofil, you did a lot of things without consulting the coven. Let’s face it: You blew it, and blew it good. The Comforts want that book and they don’t care who they’ve got to hurt to get it. You know and I know what they’ve got at stake. You should have thought about that before you began treating the Comforts like schmucks.”

  “So it’s on me now, is it? And all of a sudden everyone’s ready to start taking orders again. England cracks the whip and you jump. They say squat and shit and you don’t even bother to ask what color. Well, friend, I’m not ready to lie down and die just yet. Like the man said, the opera ain’t over till the fat lady sings. If it’s not too much trouble, would you mind telling me about Cornell? Or is he off somewhere showing the Comforts the latest disco steps?”

  Doctor Michaels turned around in the phone booth and looked down the street. There were fire engines and squad cars and a crowd in front of his apartment building.

  He said, “There’s a fire going on. It started in my office. They … the Comforts took me back upstairs and made me watch. They asked Cornell some questions and then …”

  Michaels swallowed, then blinked tears from his eyes. “They made me watch. They cut his throat so he couldn’t yell and they found a broom and one of my rocking chairs that had a cane bottom and they pulled all the straw out of them and sprinkled the straw over Cornell. Then they set fire to the straw and I had to stand there while the flames—”

  Bofil’s voice was small. “The Wickerwork Man.”

  Michaels said, “They wanted me to watch so I could tell you that this is what they’re going to do to you and anybody else who gets in their way.”

  He began to sob.

  Bofil said, “Have you talked to the rest of the coven?”

  “The Comforts made me promise I’d call everybody. I … I had no choice.”

  “Did you talk to them? Did you warn them against me?”

  Dr. Michaels sniffled and stared at a policeman who was walking toward the telephone booth, waving his arms as he shooed people away from the area. In front of Michaels’ apartment building firemen on a parked fire truck ran a ladder up into the air and into dense black smoke swirling from a window. A siren wailed and the crowds grew thicker.

  Bofil shouted. “Did you—”

  The cop waved Michaels away from the phone booth.

  “I’ve got to go,” he said to Bofil. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

  Bofil heard a click, followed by the droning of the dial tone in his ear.

  TWENTY-THREE

  SHORTLY AFTER MIDNIGHT MARISA awoke from a troubled sleep to find Gina standing at the foot of the bed and staring at her.

  The child stood rigid, silhouetted against pale moonlight coming through the window behind her. Sensing Gina had been there for some time, Marisa was about to ask why when Gina said, “I have to go to the bathroom.”

  And then she was gone, leaving Marisa alone in the bedroom.

  Marisa and Gina weren’t getting along. The tension between them, unspoken and controlled, had been there ever since Joseph Bess had told Gina and Edith Gupta that Marisa would be staying in the apartment for a couple of days. He had brought people home before in connection with his work—a witness, an informant, other policemen. Marisa, however, seemed to be the only guest Gina had a hard time accepting.

  The actress took Gina’s coolness in stride, remembering that the child was at that age where she looked upon all women as her competitors for her father’s affections. Marisa herself had gone through this phase, temporarily hating her mother because mother and father shared secrets and a bedroom. Fortunately most daughters outgrew that particular hostility, and Marisa felt Gina would, too.

  Meanwhile, since the two were under the same roof, a truce was called for. Tomorrow, Sunday, Marisa was going to treat everyone to brunch in the Village. There were plenty of good restaurants to choose from in its narrow, winding streets. Both Edith Gupta and Joseph Bess were delighted with the idea. Edith had gotten so excited that she’d taken a taxi to her own apartment and brought back her best dress and pair of shoes.

  “If you have any objections to a woman paying,” Marisa said to Bess, “I don’t want to hear them.”

  “I never argue with a lady holding a credit card,” replied the detective.

  Gina said nothing. After glaring at Marisa, she ran to her room and slammed the door behind her. Throwing herself on the bed, she resumed drawing animals and trees in a loose-leaf notebook, using a pen that left thick, purple strokes. Bess went after her and the two talked quietly behind the closed door; when the detective came out he said that Gina wasn’t feeling
well but was looking forward to brunch tomorrow.

  Marisa knew he was lying, but she said nothing. She would do her best to reach the child, but if Gina insisted on being a pain in the ass, Marisa was going to ignore her. And while Gina had her problems, Marisa’s sympathy had its limits. Besides, a child didn’t need much of an excuse to be a tyrant—which was one reason Marisa didn’t want children.

  She noticed Bess didn’t tell Gina or Edith why Marisa was staying with him. He simply mentioned that Marisa was having some trouble and it would all be cleared up in a few days. No one asked what kind of trouble or who was causing it. Marisa guessed that Gina and Edith assumed “the trouble” was criminally connected, a common occurrence in the life of a man whose job too often found him in bad company. What’s more, Bess was used to being close-mouthed, which also made it easy for him not to explain his actions.

  Marisa and Gina shared Gina’s room, which had twin beds. Edith Gupta, whose absences from her husband didn’t seem to disturb either one of them, slept on the living-room couch. Joseph Bess had a bedroom to himself. The large rent-controlled apartment was on the top floor of an eight-story building just off Sixth Avenue. Getting an apartment like that had involved more than luck.

  “It involved bribery,” said Bess.

  “Oh?” said Marisa.

  “Two thousand dollars to a theatrical producer who used to live here and who was leaving for Hollywood to finally sell out after years of artistic integrity on Broadway.”

  “In that case, I approve. I’ve tried integrity myself. It’s a great way to lose weight.”

  As for the Book of Shadows, Bess had decided to keep that a secret as well. The book, still in a shopping bag, was placed on a shelf in his clothes closet and covered by an old overcoat. Marisa knew where it was, but she and the detective agreed that it was best to keep quiet about the book around Edith and Gina: It made no sense to worry them about Druids and covens. And who would believe Marisa’s story? That was her problem; only Bess believed her.