She had replied, “There’s always something to worry about; a mother is always worried. You’re a part of me, Genie. You’re the deepest part of me, and you always will be. You ask me not to worry, but that’s impossible. It’s like asking me to sever one of my own limbs. We’re connected. We’re the same blood. I’ll always worry about you. And I wouldn’t want it any other way.” A mother is always worried—ain’t that the truth? Misericordiae worried incessantly about her daughter. My mom worried about me until the day she died. Probably Virginia’s mother worried about her. Even Poison Rose would have worried about her kid if she’d…
If she’d had one. Stop. Rewind. My memory reached out and back, struggling to recall, clawing into the past, straining for it… Snatches of conversation with Littlestone, that day I questioned Rose in Detectives HQ, moments and words and half-sentences, popping into consciousness and fading and reappearing and fading once more… Something she had said about Rose having a daughter, probably rumors, giving the child up for adoption and going back to her hell-bound life, no, maybe rumors…maybe truth… And something else was there, fighting for my attention, the image of a blood-red tattoo on a white breast, stark and beautiful… And something else again, something Misery had said and something Rose had said and something Littlestone might have said…
Intuition: there it was, the thought igniting in my brain. I couldn’t think it through right now, the argument would fall apart due to lack of evidence. But it felt true. It nagged at me, a subconscious itch, a whisper from the universe. It wasn’t strictly germane to the investigation but on a personal level I had to know for sure.
I had to know. I had to go. I had to talk to Misery.
I was beyond exhausted by now but ignored it and kept moving.
By the time I met Misericordiae in Golden Park it was after three in the morning. I was pushing through the tiredness, pushing through my doubts and limitations. She had agreed to meet me when I phoned Caritas, more forward in my manner than before, more urgent. Ileana had called her to the blower and Misery, presumably awake, presumably prowling the long dark hallways of her empty home, answered the call promptly. I didn’t even introduce myself: “We have to meet.” She told me when and where.
The place was beautiful by night, in the snow. Golden was the largest forested park in Hera, more forest than park really—thick armies of deciduous and coniferous trees, broad paths snaking between them, over hundreds of acres, thousands. Unruly and elemental, a controlled wildness. The trees looked scary and intimidating and saintly under the light of a half moon, snow on the pathways reflecting the blue light back to the heavens. It felt like being inside a snow-globe, trapped within its glass dome but unwilling to leave. The stars sounding like a music-box, the moon a mournful horn. I met Misery by the Fallen Officer monument, a giant, abstract stone shrine to all the HCPD women who’d died in the line of duty. It felt appropriate. I laughed nervously to myself when I got there and thought, Let’s hope it’s not a portent as well.
Then Misery appeared, crunching through the snow in fur- lined boots and a long, dramatic coat. She looked smaller than I remembered; I figured it was the moonlight casting funny shadows, distorting perspective. Ileana followed in her train, four or five steps behind. She seemed to have a slight limp, though again it was hard to be sure of any visual information in the ghostly ambience. No, it was there: that airless, hovering motion was slightly off…
They stopped ten feet from me. Misery said, “Detective Auf der Maur. An interesting place and time for a meeting. I won’t deny that I am intrigued. Please.”
She gestured towards me with both gloved hands. I lit a cigarette with my own shaking hands, the smoke thick and milky in the freezing air. I flicked the match away and spotted the moon in my peripheral vision, glowing against the inky blue- black sky, diffused, velvety. The Goddess Rising. Did LaVey and her cronies really believe in all of it? That this indifferent satellite somehow possessed a supernatural element, a spiritual core secreted within the blank, lifeless rock? Something so precious and enormous that it was worth killing for?
I looked back at Misery and surprised myself by saying straight out, “I think Madeleine was Poison Rose’s daughter.”
She surprised me even more by coming right back with “Yes. She was.”
I eased out a breath, unsure of where to go from here. Misery said, “Come. Walk with me, please,” and resumed her slow stately progress, away from the monument, back into the black womb of the forest, Ileana close behind.
I walked by the old lady’s side, smoking, not speaking. After half a minute she said, “My doctor recommends I walk regularly. For my joints, you understand. It need not be vigorous, she says, just regular. Do you trust doctors, Detective?”
“Do I…? Uh…yeah, sure. I suppose I do.” “What did your mother die of?”
The question took me by surprise. I regained my composure and said, “Heart attack. A hereditary condition. Nothing anyone could have done, I don’t think.”
“She died quite young, I believe.”
You believe, my ass. You know. “Yes. 51. Which is young, I guess.”
“I’m sorry for your loss. I know how it feels to lose your mother. How did you know about Rosemary Manning?”
“Um…I’m not sure I did, until you confirmed it just there.” I chanced smiling at her; could that have been a tiny smile in reply? “I thought it, I had a hunch. I go with hunches. They’ve served me well in the past.”
“I mean, what brought on this—hunch? I’m simply curious. I don’t deny any of it.”
“A few things. I’d heard cop rumors that Pois…that Ms Manning had had a child, years back. Gave it up for adoption. Also, she seemed fond of Madeleine. She told me, Rose, she said she felt comfortable around the girl. Madeleine used to take care of her some, give her money, tell her look after herself; like she had a vested interest, some emotional tie. And then there was her tattoo, a rose, a red rose… I don’t know. I just, it all seemed to fit together in my head.”
“I see. Well, it’s true. I presume you want to know the details of the matter?”
“Not unless you want to tell me. As a cop, I don’t need to know. As a woman, I’d like to know.”
The moon passed behind a pillow of cloud for a brief moment, dimming the light, like a curtain being dropped and then raised again from the stage. Misery said, “I knew Rosemary Manning. Knew her before her—descent into prostitution. Her life… It’s a sad story. I knew her when she was a teacher. You are aware of her distant past, I presume. Rosemary taught English Literature at my old alma mater. After my own time as a student but I was on the board of management for a spell. We worked together during that period. A fine mind. A fine woman. Elegant, refined, so learned and widely read… Well. Something happened to Rosemary when she was about 25 or 26. I never knew what. Some things are beyond even my reach, Detective. Something dreadful, anyway. Life-changing. It changed her. She began to drink heavily, her work suffered. There were missed days, lost papers, carelessness; one or two unpleasant incidents with parents, though the children seemed to still like her well enough. The school was impatient with her; we all subsequently regretted it, but… Ah. No point to such regrets. We were too hasty— Rosemary was let go. There is the sum of it. A generous severance package but she drank it all within months. And there was no way she was going to get another job in Hera. Not one in education, at any rate.”
Misericordiae coughed a few times, saying, “Excuse me. A chest infection. They can be difficult to shake. So: thus began Rosemary Manning’s decline and fall. Within a year or so she was a full-blown alcoholic, selling herself to perverts to pay for her addiction. Such an unfortunate story… I don’t particularly blame myself for it, but I do feel some measure of guilt for abandoning her so readily to her fate. A few token efforts at mediation and help, in the early days; but once she slid into that morass, that moral swamp, I left her to it. I left her.”
“With all due respect, I don’t think yo
u’re to blame for any of it.”
“No—certainly not all of it. We each of us choose our path, to a greater or lesser extent. Madeleine did. And Rosemary reacted poorly to the vicissitudes of life. So it is with certain people. Yet I still felt in some way…perhaps ‘responsible’ is a more appro- priate word than ‘guilty.’ I felt compassion for that woman. I admit that I truly am a bitch, Detective; but I’m not an absolute monster. I may not want people to know about it—bad for my reputation, you see—but I too can be charitable. …She contracted a sexually transmitted disease and gave it to dozens of—what do your colleagues in the police force call them? Johns? Clients? That, I believe, is where the nickname originated. ‘Poison Rose.’ They considered her to be poison. Such…filthy animals, how dare they cast judgment on anyone…?” She paused. “Rosemary was beaten close to death by a number of clients. Those— disgusting women. They were angry with her for giving them the disease. …Yes, I felt compassion.”
I said nothing. This story wasn’t necessarily going anywhere in a hurry, but it was fascinating all the same. Misery continued, “When Rosemary awoke from her coma the doctors told her she was pregnant. She didn’t want her baby to grow up as the child of a prostitute so…an arrangement was made. An accommodation that suited all parties. Through my Church, through dear Mother Torres. I took charge of the girl, the infant, and passed her off as my own. I had wanted a daughter for years, but by then was too old to have one myself. Rosemary never knew who took the child. I’m not sure that she wanted to know—it might have been too painful, seeing the fruit of her womb growing up, going to school, moving into womanhood; having a familial relationship with a woman who wasn’t her mother. And then…then I brought Madeleine home to Caritas Heights and never saw Rosemary Manning again.”
“You had nothing more to do with her?”
“Nothing. The last time I saw her she was asleep in a hospital bed, knocked out with painkillers. And of course, I hadn’t spoken to her for a number of years prior to that.”
“Was she paid? Rose, did she get paid off?”
“Not a penny. We offered, Mother Torres did. She wouldn’t take anything. Once the girl was safe—that was all she wanted.” We’d reached a small clearing in the trees, a patch of grass and planted flowers, a rectangle of order cut out of the wild. Misery took a long look at it, bathed in the eerie but beautiful blue moonlight, then turned about and began walking back in the direction from which we’d come. I walked with her, Ileana as always floating in the background, watchful, ready, unnervingly soundless.
I said, “So, Madeleine: she knew? Which would explain the tattoo, the rose.”
“Yes, she knew. How, I’m not sure. Maybe pure instinct, some low note of blood humming between her and Rosemary, inaudible to everyone else… We never spoke of it, but she knew.” “Did you mind her getting that tattoo? Did it annoy you? Stop me if I’m overstepping the mark here, but I feel compelled to ask.”
“It’s alright. You’re a Detective, asking questions is part of who you are. …No, I didn’t mind. Her mother was her mother.
Madeleine had the right to express it. That was part of who she was. Though, having said that, I was her mother also. Every bit as much as if I had physically carried her and borne her. I was her mother, Madeleine was my daughter. Nothing matters but that. All the rest is—trifling detail.”
I lit another cigarette and said, “Okay, well I’m going to ask another one: did finding out about Rose drive Madeleine to her destruction? What I’m saying is, was that what knocked her off the rails? The shock of it.”
Misery considered the question. “No. I don’t believe so. We can never be sure about such things, but… Madeleine was a smart girl. She had understanding beyond her years, for all her faults. I think she understood this—this matter. How and why it had to happen. I don’t believe she would have harbored any…resentments, any anger or bitterness. She knew she was loved. Besides, the child was hell-bent on destruction anyway. Again, it was part of who she was. It was in her nature.”
I realized then, fully and for the first time: Misery was a bad woman in a lot of ways—a true bitch, as she admitted herself— but she was also a proper lioness. She hadn’t spelled it out but I knew she would protect or avenge her offspring at all costs, even the ultimate cost to herself, right to the end. Though Madeleine hadn’t been her biological daughter, she would still die for her or kill for her. And the fact that the girl was already dead didn’t change any of that. Love and yearning and the interconnect- edness of their years as a family, the way their souls had sewn together, deep and intricate patterns formed in the very depths of their being… Misericordiae was right. Madeleine was her daughter, she was the girl’s mother. The rest was just details.
I figured then, might as well get the whole truth, Genie. Might as well know it all while you have the chance to ask. I said quietly, “You knew she was a drug user?”
“I did.”
“From Chief Etienne?”
“Your superior officer…allowed certain information to pass to me. A confidence which I will honor. Ann Etienne is herself an honorable woman. She did what she thought was the most moral thing to do. I respect her. Don’t worry, none of this will come back on her.”
“I appreciate that. I respect her, too.”
“I knew already. About the drug abuse, of course I knew— what mother wouldn’t spot the signs? I don’t just mean the physical ones; Madeleine was an expert at covering her tracks. The pun is unintentional. No, I mean something more vague, less immediately tangible; those changes to the soul and the psyche, you understand? The way that poison scoops you out, the purest part of you… It leaves nothing behind. Just a shell of the person your loved ones once knew.”
“Was that very difficult for you? Was it hard to accept? I mean, uh, I mean a woman in your—position.”
She answered immediately: “Yes. It was hard. Very hard. But not the way you think. I don’t care, fundamentally, who else knows about this. I will endeavor to keep it secret, obviously, but that’s more habit than anything. My daughter is dead, Detective: why should it matter if all of Hera City now knows she was a heroin addict as well? She will still be dead.” She coughed again, deeper this time, a more ragged sound. “You know by this stage, I’m sure, what kind of woman I am. I believe in moral certainty, eternal truths handed down from distant ages. I see things in black and white, and do not apologize for that. Madeleine wasn’t some teenage single mother from the slums. Such women choosing narcotic oblivion, I can understand, if not condone. But Madeleine—she was privileged and protected. She had no need to use that filth. It was self-indulgent and debauched. She did it for no good reason, if indeed there truly are good reasons. She took drugs because she could. Such is the folly of youth. Madeleine was a deeply flawed young woman, Detective. I loved her more because of them, but I wish she had not had those flaws.”
The Fallen Officer monument was looming ahead of us, shimmering softly, appropriately spectral in the moonlight. Our feet moved quietly over the snow. It was weird talking to Misery: things were said, private, awkward things, dreadful things, and it felt okay; comfortable, almost. She had a way of expressing herself that seemed to add an invisible full-stop to the conver- sation. I didn’t feel obliged to respond, to dole out conciliatory platitudes, well-meaning waffle to soften her anguish. She had the strongest personality of anyone I’d ever encountered. She accepted how things were; further comment was redundant. The listener stayed silent.
What I did feel was an obligation to provide some feedback— she’d opened up to me, no harm in returning the compliment. I said, “I know who killed her. Madeleine, I know her murderer.” Misery didn’t reply. I went on, “A woman called Erika Baton. Hired gun. A very dangerous individual. She’s already tried to take me out. More than once.”
“But she’s not the real killer, is she?” “No.” Perceptive as always, Misery.
“She is merely the weapon,” she continued. “I want whoever ordered t
he murder. Somebody paid this woman to kill my daughter, is that not so?”
“Yes, Ma’am. That’s almost certainly what happened. Erika Baton is a professional assassin. She kills for money. Someone paid her to do this.”
We’d reached the monument and stopped walking. I shuddered in the cold, my body belatedly realizing that it wasn’t moving anymore.
Misery said, “And do you know who that someone is? Again, I respect the integrity of your investigation. But you understand my compulsion to ask, regardless.”
Should I tell her about LaVey? The debate raged inside my head, a slow-burn cacophony. To be honest I didn’t really give a shit about La Dame Azura or what happened to her when Misery was sure she was the one. I’d try to prevent any harm coming to her, of course—it was my job—but down in the viscera, I didn’t begrudge this bereaved woman her shot at vengeance. It’s not like LaVey wouldn’t deserve a horrible ending. That’s not what stopped me from speaking. I still had doubts of my own, about Virginia and what she’d told me: it felt true, but I couldn’t be definite. Could she be trusted? Maybe that was all just more lies, a whole bundle of them, dense and knotty, impossible to unravel. Maybe I should keep my trap shut for now, for just a little while longer, until I was absolutely positive that…
I felt her presence before I saw her coming. No, more than that: I felt Ileana feeling her presence before either of us saw her. I looked at the silent butler who was tensed like a guard dog at a wire fence. Then I looked beyond her and saw a woman approaching through the darkness, stepping into the light, a slow, strolling sort of shuffle, easiness in the movement, her limbs loose like swinging ropes. Something vaguely threatening about her, the way her face was half-hidden by the brim of a hat; suggestions of strength, unruliness, the possibility of sudden violence. Ileana made like a bodyguard and stepped between the newcomer and Misericordiae, flexing her fingers then balling her fists, rising ever-so-slightly on her toes.
The Polka Dot Girl Page 26
