When the sun retreats under the horizon and the buildings sway in the moonlight, Chicago comes alive. And after a long, brutally cold Midwestern winter, the restless were about to shake loose the cobwebs from their dusty bones. As much as Wesley and Aleksandra had looked for Aksel, only I knew how to find him. Now he, too, was coming out to play.
TWENTY-THREE
By nightfall, the blistering July swelter had turned to a muted stifle that stuck to your skin as you walked the streets. The dew clung to your hair, moistening the strands, plastering them to your face. Tourists walked along the lakeshore, stopping to snap pictures of the sparkling skyline; the heat doing little to deter the constant pattering of boisterous foot traffic in downtown Chicago. Their camera flashes blended with the city streetlights, mingled with headlights, and danced with starlight, as all weaved a glinted tapestry on the glass windows.
The subtle wind rolling off Lake Michigan did little to offer the city a reprieve from the summer’s venomous torment. Crowds continued growing on Navy Pier, the inebriated – or slightly so – passengers awaiting voyages on the few skyline boat tours running that evening. The shops showed no signs of slowing in their patronage. It would be a profitable night, the July heat keeping the tourists until closing time forced families and young people alike to retreat – the latter seeking refuge in noisy nightclubs, while the first only dreamt of those wild, carefree days.
I watched a crowd board a small yacht, waiting to go onto the lake. On board, a man waiting, ring in pocket, ready to ask the dainty blonde-haired woman next to him to be his bride. It would be a surprise.
I had to smile at the thought of a surprise – something so simple. Those things no longer exist for me.
There are no surprises left in my world. There are only certainties. I will wake to greet a new nightfall. I will feed from the living. I will kill again. No surprises.
The pier was not where I was supposed to be that night, though.
“This came for you.” Aleksandra tossed me a gold envelope. It was eight o’clock and I had awoken, still in my ruby dressing gown, now walking down the hall from my room. The envelope reminded me of delicate Parisian sheets beneath my fingertips, the sender having spared no cost. Turning it over, my fingers ran along the embossed letters. “Fancy,” she remarked.
“It is from the curator at the Field,” I noted. Her eyebrows arched as her slender arms stretched toward the ceiling. I followed her into the living room as the automatic lights flicked on. Wesley walked past us, pressing a button for the drapes to part.
State Street unfolded before me, the colored lights, the movement of people, of life circulating below. I shut out the thoughts and watched them move before me as ants, miniscule and pathetic. I could crush them. As I sat in my tower, I owned them.
“How is Peter?” Wesley asked as he lit the fire. He sat at the corner desk, opened the laptop and began fiddling with some financial documents. Aleksandra moved to his side, pointed to the screen, made a few remarks out of my earshot, and then walked to the bookcase where she stood for some time before removing a copy of Psychology.
“Not sure. I haven’t seen him in a few months. He took his wife to Ireland for their silver anniversary,” she replied.
I continued watching the ants below. I could smell their sweat through the distance, through the thick panes of glass. Weakness married the despair in their veins, their blood a thick river of rapids calling for me to tame it with my kiss. Peter Templeton and his wife Barbara were big ants. She was from old money, and he was from an old scholarly family, from England. Together, they could own half of Chicago and probably did in various investment deals.
As I watched the ants below, my fingers sliced through the gilded envelope. Inside was but a single sheet of ivory cardstock, its crimson lettering embossed into a bold, raised print.
“The Field Museum will be hosting an exclusive Vatican exhibit,” I noted, flatly, as I slid the invitation back into its envelope.
“Are you going?” Wesley asked.
“There will be a private screening of a special by-invitation-only portion and I am to be the curator’s special guest,” I replied.
“Is that a yes?” Aleksandra asked.
My shoulders hunched, I turned and left the room. Something did not feel right.
That had been three weeks ago. The invitation has sat since collecting dust on my nightstand next to a bottle of Imperial Majesty perfume. Every night, the torn envelope stared at me. My fingers traced its satiny edges. My eyes read over the embossed lettering. Each night I searched the invitation in hopes of discovering why it made me feel uneasy. Why did the thought of going to this gala prickle my skin and trouble my mind?
Being a museum patron, I attended most nightly events. My money ran as free as the expensive French champagne that the benevolent Chicago elite lapped up into their greedy mouths. Only a few, like me, would ever send in a check, and even mark it for an anonymous donation. Most of the people at these galas wanted accolades.
As they exited limos, their cheesy, falsified whitened grins flashed greedily toward the wanton cameras. As they ascended the marbled steps, they reached for only the hands of prominent people. They spent their night rubbing noses and hobnobbing with congressmen and senators and television stars and anyone who could make things happen; and they were all too eager to drop in their donation amounts. “Yes, we did have that situation with our plant in China – had to lay off three hundred workers, but these are priceless Italian relics! We could not see donating anything less than our usual two million.”
“You can always wear your Prada,” Aleksandra said, entering my room. I had been fingering the invitation, examining it. “Why are you hesitating?”
“Something feels off about this,” I told her. I placed the envelope back onto the nightstand and sat down on the edge of the bed. The cobalt velvet bedspread yielded to my weight as I traced wavy lines in the fabric.
Aleksandra moved to the corner cedar wardrobe where I kept my elegant gowns, opened the heavy doors, and began thumbing through the massive collection. Many of the dresses were now antiques, and she took special care not to disturb the oldest gowns near the back.
“You should have these preserved,” she remarked, as her fingers slid over antique lace, “or put them in a museum.”
“Look around,” I laughed, “this place is a museum.”
Remnants of ages past – a painting commissioned from Titian, a bust from Michelangelo, various vases and trinkets and tapestries from castles, and royal seals in glass cases – on display. To the world, this was a display of wealth, but to us, it was a scrapbook. It was our photo album, our history.
She pulled the coral, sleeveless, mid-length Prada from the closet, held it toward me. Frustrated, she placed it back into the closet. “You are hard to dress, you know?” “Just get my night clothes,” I told her. “I should not go.”
“Because of a feeling?” She continued to rummage through the closet.
“You are being ridiculous, mother. Peter will be offended; he invited you for a personal screening. Those do not happen all the time.” She finally selected two dresses and tossed them onto the bed. “Try these and pick one.”
An hour later, I descended in a darkened area near Soldier Field and walked toward the lit museum. Limousines and town cars lined Museum Campus Drive. Headlights blended with spotlights and blurred with flashbulbs as the Chicago elite stepped from their vehicles and entered the venue.
My vintage Gucci scoop-neck gown trailed behind me, the coral fabric enveloping me in wispy Italian lace. Tiered diamond studs hung from my earlobes. My lips were dressed in a dusky rose with my eyes a shadowy gray, lined in silver; a slight hue of Imperial Majesty, a smoky chestnut marrying the floral rose water, clung to my skin as morning dew clings to a blade of grass.
The flashes were blinding as I walked past the car processional and ascended the marbled stairs. I shielded my face from the photographers, as Peter’s assistant, Jody, a v
erbally expressive graduate student, greeted me at the top and ushered me in.
“Peter’s been waiting for you,” she said, handing me a program. A Byzantine era cross, gilded and jewel encrusted, stared back at me from the booklet - God’s Treasured Jewels: A Special Vatican Collection. A better title would have been – A Garish Abuse of Power Through Time, I thought.
“Waiting for me?” I smiled as we passed the senators from Illinois and Michigan.
“In his office,” Jody explained as we weaved through the main hall. She pressed down on the staff elevators and, sliding her key card, we entered. She pressed for the basement and we descended into the somber, sacred chambers where history slept waiting for its glorious reveal. A section of Grecian urns greeted our descent, the doors opening to their hidden lair. Racks upon racks of fragile pottery was being restored by the best in their field, working diligently for the masses to gawk and awe and never fully appreciate what it took to bring that treasure to them.
“What rare find has he come across this time?” Jody chuckled at my question. Peter had a penchant for discovering rare artifacts that both interested me and secured my pocket book. Most often, these items remained in the Field, endowed to the museum for future generations to enjoy. Then there was the treasure of a sentimental nature that I would have him seek.
“Usually he tells me, but not this time,” she said as we turned toward the Egyptian restoration section. A shipment of Greco-Roman period Egyptian artifacts had recently arrived. Large shelves contained items still waiting for cataloging. “It is this Vatican collection, something about it. It’s not sitting with him, Bree. Honestly, between us, he is not himself.”
Peter’s office was behind a drab, grey door. Jody’s cell beeped and she left to return to corralling Chicago’s elite.
The knob turned easily in my hand, the door giving way to a dimly lit office. “Peter, if you wish to be mysterious, you should lay off the cologne. I can smell you down the hall.” The door shut softly behind me.
“Hey, you gave me this stuff. If you did not like the smell of it, you should not have bought it.” He rose from behind the desk, stepping into the dim aura of the desk light. I moved to the wall and flicked the light switch and the room filled with a sickly neon glow.
“I didn’t tell you to bathe in it,” I tossed him a smile. “Still, I guess it is an improvement over that musty wet-dog odor you had been sporting.”
“Hush, the wife spent good money on that cologne in Germany,” he said, laughing. “Oh, it was awful, was it not? The guy who sold her that must have been a real looker!” He moved to the chair next to his desk and cleared a stack of books and papers from it. He removed a handkerchief from his back pocket, dusted the chair, and then offered me a seat.
“What is so important about this collection?” I smoothed my dress as I sat.
He opened the top drawer of his desk as he sat down and removed a small red box. It was no bigger than a ring box but aged, its hinges rusted and its velvet cover worn. Branded into the velvet was the papal seal, the triregnum, a crown with three levels, resting between two crossed keys. His thumb rubbed firmly across it.
“This item was not cataloged when it arrived on loan from the Vatican,” he told me as he handed over the box. “We immediately reported it missing to our insurance
company and to the Vatican’s. I suggest you take it and make it disappear.”
“Peter, neither of us trade in black market wares; that is not who we are.” I held the box out to him. He forced my fingers round the box and placed his hands around my own. “I am not selling it, Bree.”
“Peter,” I whispered. There were people approaching from the hallway – Jody and Barbara. They were laughing; Barbara had had too much to drink and it was far too early in the evening for that.
“You will want this,” he said as he stood, adjusting his tuxedo jacket. He took my purse and put the box inside it. “Open it when you get home. There should be a package coming to your house tomorrow night, by messenger, sign for it.”
“If you are in trouble,” I told him, but he cut me off. Jody and Barbara walked through the door.
“Of course we find you two here,” Barbara announced as she barged through the door. The twiggy, grey-haired elfish woman was resplendent in her Versace cocktail gown, the red silk hugging her body, but alcohol did not suit her. Jody’s constant vigilance was required. “The donors from Northwestern want their tour, Peter.” She clung onto her husband, much to Jody’s relief.
“I have tried stalling them, but they are insistent, sir,” Jody explained, apologetically.
“It is not a problem.” he nodded toward me, smiling. “Save me a dance now, Bree, got it?”
“Who else would I dance with, Peter?” I laughed as we walked from the room. I clutched onto my purse as if guarding a bomb. “All my dances are for you, as long as Barbara’s fine with that.”
“Oh, Barbara’s not going to mind,” Jody whispered as the older couple walked in front of us.
“I have a feeling you are right,” I replied as we gathered on the elevator and ascended into the Field Museum main lobby.
TWENTY-FOUR
Just open it.”
Wesley tossed the packaged onto the desk. It had arrived the next night, just as Peter promised. Aleksandra had signed for it, and she and Wesley had patiently waited for me to return from wandering the city with my mysterious box in tow.
I had fingered that box as I walked down West Ontario. A group of female tourists passed, their purses clutched tightly to their exposed chests. Their stiletto steps screamed on the pavement. They paused before entering The Red Bar Comedy Club, and all three women glanced at me before opening the door. My hand moved from my pocket as I waved and walked away.
A summer rain drizzled down, glistening Dearborn Park as I walked by. A couple huddled together walking a terrier, their oversized shared umbrella swaying in the lakeside breeze. Our State Street pent house was but a stone’s throw from here; the light from the Study filtered through the cracked drapes.
I watched my apartment from a park bench, the rain beading against my vinyl raincoat, the lavender fabric melting into the graying Chicago sky. The study’s drapes slowly opened, Wesley stood behind them, easing them away from the glass. His mouth moved freely, laughing and forming a perplexing smile before turning away. Light from the television flashed in the room and I could see his feet peaking near the edge of the couch.
I waited until the messenger rode away on her bike, the satchel now lighter from delivering my package. As her yellow jacket disappeared down State Street, I crossed at the crosswalk, the door attendant letting me in.
“A package just arrived for you.” The attendant rushed past me and grabbed the padded manila envelope resting on the security counter. “I was just about to take it up.”
“I have good timing then. Thanks, Bill.”
Taking the package, I entered the elevator and ascended. The metal box swiftly climbed to the pent house apartment and I heard Aleksandra and Wesley talking in the foyer before the thick doors opened. They were arguing, which is something they seldom did.
“This is not your decision to make!” Aleksandra was holding a ripped envelope, a letter inside. “Now what am I supposed to do?”
“You could speak at the conference, as you are scheduled to do, and thank me,” Wesley replied in a huff. “North Western’s getting a generous grant for this.”
“My research is not ready to be presented!” she stammered. “Mother,” she turned toward me as I stepped from the elevator, “talk some sense into your brother.”
“Oh, I am not sure that is possible,” I chuckled. “I have never been able to talk much sense into him.” I walked into the study and she followed. “Just present your preliminary findings; that should be enough. And send a research assistant.”
“They are expecting more than preliminaries, especially if we want to secure that grant funding,” Aleksandra said as she fell onto the settee.
“Is that it, then?” Her eyes moved to my hands.
Wesley came into the room and walked to the window, looking out on the busy street below. “What is in Peter’s mysterious package,” he asked. “Have you opened the box?”
“No.”
Slipping the rain slicker off and hanging it to dry near the door, I moved into the study and sat down, placing the package on my lap. Reaching into my pocket, I pulled the red box and traced the papal symbol with my fingers.
“Why would Peter risk his job for this?” I whispered. Dropping the box into my lap, I grabbed the envelope as Aleksandra and Wesley watched. “There is no sender identification and there should be.”
I tore the serrated tab and found a single sheet of white paper inside. Taking it from the envelope, I rose and walked to the fireplace, my back to Aleksandra and Wesley as I read.
The writing was in ink, smeared in spots where the writer had hurried or written with great emotion. My eyes began to water in the beginning as I read, “My dearest Bree,” and were nearly blinding me by the time I reached his name at the letters end.
“Bree?” Wesley moved to my side but I shrugged him away as I moved to the sofa and retrieved the box.
A portrait in my likeness lived within the velvet box – surrounded in opal and rich gilding, and blood stone set into the bottom of the amulet. I traced the face and saw him – watching the papal palace, observing strange rituals, observing the construction of this piece; observing as a skilled artisan painted my image on the jewel. Then I watched as he snuck into the Vatican and snatched the amulet, tucking it safely into the velvet box.
As I slept, he researched. He watched.
Wesley snatched the letter as it fell from my hand. I sat with the amulet, rubbing it repeatedly. As he stood by me reading, Aleksandra came near and read over his shoulder. She gasped. “What does this mean?”
Descent Into Madness Page 20
