Abracadaver (Esther Diamond Novel)

by Laura Resnick

  Breathing hard, Quinn tossed aside the censer and looked around the room, his expression shocked.

  Max stood staring at the letters on the wall while the priest, standing on a chair, continued praying frantically. John tossed aside the lamp, tucked his injured hand against his chest, and went to help Lucky. I joined Max and stared up at the steaming letters on the wall under the broken window.

  They just looked like abstract doodles to me. I said, “Let me guess. Aramaic?”

  “A very old form.” Max’s voice was a little hoarse.

  “Does it mean anything to you?”

  The letters were already evaporating and fading away, disappearing as if they had never been there.

  Max turned his troubled blue gaze on me. “I asked the entity what it wants. Why it’s doing this.”

  “And?”

  “If I have interpreted those symbols correctly, it has given us its answer,” he said. “‘To live again.’”

  14

  Father Tiano left rather precipitately, not even pausing to take his gear with him. I had the impression he had just decided that exorcism wasn’t his vocational path, after all.

  Although Lucky must have been tired, he decided to go straight to Victor Gambello’s house and tell him what had just happened, since it had involved the Shy Don’s great-nephew. It was late by now, but I knew from previous incidents that Don Victor was a night owl and the two men often conferred at unconventional hours.

  Quinn, the only person in the room whom the entity had not directly attacked (probably because it still needed him), decided he should leave the funeral home before anything else happened tonight. We all enthusiastically supported this plan.

  Max wanted Quinn to return to the bookstore with him, so he could keep him (and the demon) under observation. But Quinn had had enough revelations for one night about the true nature of his problem. He said he just wanted to go home and pretend, if only for a few hours, that he was merely crazy, rather than suffering from demonic oppression.

  “But I’ll be in touch soon, Max,” said the detective. “Believe me, I want this thing gone.”

  John quietly closed up Antonelli’s and said he’d explain the ruined stained glass window to his father in the morning. “I think that Dad’s had enough stress for tonight,” he said, “and I’m sure that I have. It can wait until tomorrow.”

  He insisted on driving us home. It was a suggestion we welcomed, since it solved the problem of transporting Nelli and I was way too tired to take the subway.

  “This was a challenging day,” Max said on the ride home, as John drove the hearse through dark, slippery streets. “But we have learned a great deal.”

  “Such as, the entity attached to Quinn is very powerful and unbelievably scary?” I said.

  “We have learned what it wants,” said Max.

  “To live again?”

  “Yes. And we know the peculiar medium through which it is attempting to do so.”

  “Dead bodies.” I frowned. “I still don’t understand. Why does it want a cadaver? Why doesn’t it just possess Quinn?”

  “I postulate that although it can oppress and manipulate the living, it can only invade and possess the dead.”

  John said, “That seems pretty inconvenient for a being that wants to live again, in the biological sense.”

  “Indeed.”

  “Why only the dead?” I wondered.

  “Because it’s a house without an owner?” John guessed.

  “Well put, John.” Max said, “This entity is apparently unable to move into an ‘inhabited dwelling,’ so to speak.”

  “I agree it’s an inconvenient limitation, but even so,” I said, “three thousand years, give or take, seems like a long time between houses.”

  “Not to a formless mystical entity for whom time is a meaningless construct—at least when it is not functioning in human form,” said Max. “We also don’t know whether it has been steadily attaching to the living for eons in search of its next host, or whether it has been drifting through dimensions and absent from this one for centuries at a time.”

  “What was it doing before it attached to Quinn, do you think?”

  “It may have been attached to someone else, someone who was not servings its goals—a person who did not come into contact with fresh corpses,” said Max. “Or it may have been long dormant and inert. In any event, when it encountered Andrew Quinn at some scene of death or despair, it felt an attraction, found his vulnerabilities, and attached to him.”

  “You make it sound like a relationship,” John said with interest.

  “It is, in a sense,” said Max. “But a very negative, destructive one in which Quinn’s participation is not voluntary and was, until today, unwitting.”

  “Hmm.” I pulled my coat more tightly around myself as I thought about everything I had seen this evening. I tried to imagine Quinn’s feelings as he realized all that disturbing stuff came from something which was attached to him. “You know, Nathan’s description of Mr. Capuzzo was eerie, but it didn’t sound menacing. Yet Grace Chu was definitely menacing, don’t you think?”

  “She also got a lot farther from her resting place than Capuzzo did,” John added.

  “Yes, the entity is rapidly getting stronger,” Max noted.

  “And it certainly got plenty of sustenance tonight,” I said sourly. So many negative emotions had been generated in the past few hours, the demon could probably animate all the residents of a large cemetery at this point.

  “We must prepare promptly for our next encounter with it,” Max said. “Now that it knows we have identified its nature and mean to exorcise it, it will be very intent on finding a host. And it seems clever enough to manipulate Quinn into situations that are propitious for its own intentions—and probably very dangerous for him.”

  “You mean it might try to get Quinn killed?” I asked in alarm. No, I hadn’t really warmed up to the guy—but still.

  The old mage nodded. “It is an opportunistic entity, and it seems to be learning quickly.”

  “So how do we prepare for our next encounter with this thing?” I asked with growing dread.

  “I vote against summoning another priest,” John said as he steered the hearse around a tight corner. “I’m not being anti-clerical. Just practical.”

  “The message we saw on the wall tonight was very useful,” Max said. “Writing changes over the centuries, and its evolution is easier to trace than that of oral language. By analyzing the entity’s script, I may be able to narrow down the era when it last ‘lived’ to within a century or two. That, in turn, will give me a region and a timeframe in which to search for references to it—and, I hope, an indication of how to combat it.”

  “Good. We need that information.” Like Quinn, I wanted this thing gone.

  John dropped Max and Nelli off at the bookstore. Max intended to go straight to bed, get a good night’s rest, then start researching Quinn’s problem in the morning.

  Then we drove up to my apartment in the West Thirties. But unlike Max, I expected to toss and turn most of the night, fret in fear of the demonic entity, and weep over the loss of my stormy almost-relationship. Not looking forward to any of that, I felt like lingering in the car to chat.

  So John pulled the hearse over and parked. The spot wasn’t exactly legal; we were blocking the entrance to a construction site at the end of my street. But I hadn’t seen anyone working there since before the holidays, never mind late at night, so I figured we were okay.

  “What do you think of all this?” I asked him.

  He had seemed to be a skeptic when we met, and he was never quite on board with the theory of the cursed fortune cookies. But he certainly wasn’t trying to explain away the weird incidents in his family’s funeral home tonight.

  “Well, speaking as a scientist,” he said, “it’s all pret
ty freaking weird and really creeping me out.”

  I smiled. “Good summary.” After a moment, I asked, “Does it change how you view the world? What you think the nature of reality is?”

  “Well, sure,” said John. “But that’s something that changes all the time, anyhow.”

  “It is?”

  He nodded. “That’s why I like science—if you survive your undergraduate education, then after that, it’s mostly about asking questions you don’t already know the answers to.”

  I thought that was something Lopez liked about police work, too. That, and helping people.

  Stop thinking about him.

  “What we’ve seen lately doesn’t seem very scientific,” I pointed out.

  “Maybe that’s just because we don’t even know the questions yet,” he said. “I mean, sure, Max talks in mystical terms, but what if that’s just another point of view? For centuries, astronomy and astrology were basically the same thing, for example, with people observing the heavens and recording what they saw. Whether what they observed up there was magical or ‘mundane,’ they were all looking at the same things. And whether what they saw foretold fate, explained human nature, or threatened the foundations of the Catholic Church with scientific principles . . . that all depended on how they interpreted what they saw.”

  “How do you interpret that big crucifix repeatedly trying to run you through tonight?”

  “I interpret it as cause to celebrate that I’m still alive.”

  “Yeah.” I wasn’t amused now. “Agreed.”

  “Look, Max interprets these events in terms of a demon, an evil entity. But when I recover from my terror, which may happen in a week or two,” he said wryly, “then I’ll start asking myself, what if it’s something else? And I’ll try to figure out what else it could be. The world is an amazing place full of mysterious things we still can’t explain scientifically—like what happened tonight. It’s also full of things we couldn’t explain a thousand years ago, or even ten years ago, that we can explain now—because we kept looking for the right questions.”

  “I like that perspective,” I said. “It’s got balance.”

  “Well that’s life, isn’t it? Going from day to day, trying to find a working balance between faith and intellect, instinct and reason, hope and experience.” After a moment, he looked at me and said in a different voice, “The spiritual and . . . the physical.”

  I sensed a shift in the atmosphere between us. Less relaxed now. After a moment, he said softly, “Maybe you’ll tell me it’s none of my business, but I feel like I really need to ask, Esther.”

  I thought I already knew the question. “What?”

  “Is it over between you and him?”

  “I’ve got to stop, Esther,” he’d said.

  I nodded. “Yes.”

  “Are you sure?” John shifted a little. “I just mean . . . he doesn’t look at you like it’s over.”

  “I have to be stronger than this.”

  “It’s over,” I said.

  “Okay.” John nodded, accepting my word. “Then I . . . Okay.”

  Avoiding his eyes, my gaze landed on his hands, which were still resting on the steering wheel. The right one had two angry cuts across the knuckles, and there was some fresh bruising and swelling.

  “Whoa! That thing really hurt you, John.” I took his hand and pulled it closer to me, trying to see the damage in the dim light from the streetlamps.

  He flexed his fingers, then drew in a sharp breath through his nostrils. “Yeah, I guess it stings a little.”

  “You should put something on this.”

  “Oh, it’ll be okay,” he said dismissively.

  “What is it with guys? You’d better come upstairs with me,” I said, getting out of the car. “Germs breed like rabbits in this city, even in winter. I’ve got lots of first aid supplies, and I don’t want your father blaming me for your hand turning gangrenous and falling off.”

  “He wouldn’t blame you,” John said as he got out of the car. “He’d blame Uncle Lucky, who’s supposed to look after me when Dad’s not there.”

  I smiled at that. John’s mother had died while her two sons were still young, and what little I knew about it was that Lucky had been there for the family then—and ever since.

  A bone-chilling wind whipped down the street as I picked my way gingerly over the icy sidewalk.

  “Here.” John offered me his good hand, which I took, and we kept each other from falling down as we made our way down the slippery street, going toward my building.

  I knew what I was doing. Of course I knew. It was after midnight, and I had just invited a man up to my apartment. A man who had made his interest in me clear, and to whom I was attracted. And I was doing this under the influence of a wounded heart and a bruised ego, having just been dumped by my lover (though we’d only spent that one night together, almost a month ago).

  I didn’t have any specific intentions, and my judgment wasn’t as its finest just then—but I knew what I was doing.

  We got to my building and climbed the steps, then I let go of John’s hand to unlock the door. Once we were inside, he took my hand again, hesitantly, and met my gaze. There was no pretense now of helping me balance. He just wanted to touch me, and he let me know it—and silently asked if this was all right.

  “So you’re saying you want to walk away from this?” I had asked. “From me?”

  “No, I’m saying I think I have to.”

  I stared at John uncertainly, my feet frozen to the spot.

  “Esther?”

  “It’s convenient for you that I’m so crazy about you I keep kicking things under the carpet for your sake.”

  Memories were crowding in on me. Surrounding me, taunting and hurting me.

  “Are you okay?” John asked.

  Get out of my head, I thought. I want you out of my head!

  I wanted him out of my heart, which suddenly hurt so much it felt like it was screaming.

  Seeing me standing there before him in numb paralysis, John said, “Maybe I should go, huh? I’ll call you and—”

  “John. No.” I grabbed his coat collar as he turned away and pulled him toward me.

  A tall, strong man, and an agile, experienced martial artist, he fell against me without resistance and let me have my way with him.

  His cheeks were cold from the bitter night air, his mouth warm, his tongue soft. I slid my arms around him and clung, kissing him hungrily, beating back the bitter hurt inside me. I chased his warmth like it would save me, stroking his soft black hair and closing my eyes so I wouldn’t think of another man’s equally dark hair. We kissed and clung and kissed harder, and he fumbled through the folds of my coat to touch my body, no longer hesitant or asking permission.

  I was dizzy, warm, and breathing hard when he finally pulled away.

  Laughing a little as he nuzzled me, he said, “You don’t actually live here in the hallway, do you?”

  “Oh! No. Hm.” He kissed me again. “Upstairs.” And again. “One flight.”

  “Good,” he said. “That’s about all my legs can handle right now.”

  I took his hand and led the way, practically flying up those narrow, uneven stairs to the next floor. When he reached the landing, he pulled me into his arms again, and we slumped against the wall together, kissing dizzily and fumbling at each other’s heavy clothing.

  “Mm. Mm.” My mouth still on his, I was gesturing to and stumbling toward my front door, trying to get to it while I still had enough dexterity left to open it. As I turned away from him to wrestle the key into the lock, his hands were—“Oh!”—not at all shy with me now.

  As soon as we were inside the apartment with the door locked behind us, we both dumped our coats on the floor, and then his arms were around me again. He backed me toward the couch as his mouth clung to m
ine. John and I fell onto the thing in a heap, jostling it hard enough to make it slide a little and thud against the wall, and we both laughed breathlessly.

  We writhed around together, kissing, stroking, shifting to get closer—and my whole body went zing! with primal excitement when our hips slid neatly together and I could feel, through the weight of our winter clothes, how excited he was, too. I sighed mindlessly and pressed myself against him, moving without inhibition.

  He whispered my name and sat up, breathing hard, to pull off his suit coat, his tie, and his shirt as fast as he could. I sat up to pull his undershirt over his head, and when his torso was finally naked, I ran my hands over him, enjoying his body, his kisses, his whispers.

  He pulled my turtleneck sweater over my head, then his warm lips explored my neck and my cleavage while his hands sought the fastening of my bra. I held his head, sighing as I arched against him, and felt him unhook my bra and start to peel it away from my breasts.

  And that was when I panicked.

  One moment, I was passionately craving John, clutching him as if trying to absorb him into my body—and the next, I gasped in cold shock, rolled frantically away from him, and scooted to the edge of the couch, where I sat with my back to him, clutching my bra to my chest with one hand and holding the other hand over my mouth in stunned mortification.

  Behind me, I could hear John breathing hard. So was I. I felt him shift a little on the couch, but he didn’t come closer.

  “Esther?” he murmured, sounding confused—as well he might.

  I felt like someone had gathered a big bucket of icy slush from the street below and dumped it all over my half-naked body.

  John shifted a little more and risked touching my shoulder. Just his fingers. Gently, no pressure. “What’s wrong?”

  Oh. My. God.

  Well, wasn’t this just a perfect ending to another perfect day? If my life got any more wonderful, I might ask Quinn’s demon to move in with me so we could share the joy.

  “Esther?”

  How could I possibly face John now?

  But I had to. There were some things in life you simply had to do, and this was one of them.