Gwendolyn Jenkins reached into the pocket of her cloak and drew forth some rope and a long strip of cloth. She tossed the shovel aside and dropped to her knees, acting with feverish haste. She wrapped the rope around the old man's ankles and then tied his hands together behind his back. She wrapped the long cloth around his mouth several times and knotted it behind his head. Then, smiling, she returned to her digging.
Wilkes managed to drag himself back up to full awareness very quickly, and felt a surge of panic when he realized that he was bound and gagged. His eyes darted frantically around and he struggled impotently against the ropes. Gwendolyn threw shovel after shovel of dirt onto the ever expanding pile beside the ever deepening hole, hopping at last into the hole and continuing to dig. Wilkes tried to scream, tried to cry out for help, but the gag muffled his cries. His wrists became bloody from his struggle with the bonds, but the knots were too tight for him to escape them. He writhed about on the cold ground like a trussed and terrified animal.
Gwendolyn threw one last shovel of dirt from the hole and then climbed out. Wordlessly, ignoring his frenzied, spasmodic motions, she rolled him over a few times and then pushed him into the pit. She stared down at him unemotionally, watching as he shook his head in an attempt to free his eyes of the dirt, watching as he struggled, listening to the muffled cries, gazing impassively into the angry, frightened eyes. Then she smiled coldly, inhumanly, and laughed. "Ministers!" she said. "How I do hate ministers!"
She picked up the shovel and began to throw dirt into the pit. Wilkes felt his heart rising to his throat as the cold stones and flakes of earth struck him in the face and fell heavily onto his chest and legs. He tried to scream, and found that terror had rendered him dumb.
"Shall we pray together, minister?" Gwendolyn asked. " 'Tis, your last chance this side of the grave." She continued to toss the dirt back into the hole. "Come, let us pray. Our Father, who art in heaven—come now, minister! I can't hear you!—Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be Thy name . . ."
Wilkes jerked his body in frenzied, desperate movements, as if he hoped he could snap the thick ropes with his old, tired muscles. His heart began to beat faster and faster. Pains shot through his chest.
". . . Thy Kingdom come, Thy will he done on earth as it is in heaven . . ." Gwendolyn continued to toss the dirt onto the old man's face and chest and legs. ". . . Give us this day our daily bread and forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us . . ."
The cold earth was smothering him, weighing down upon him, impeding his futile, senseless struggle. The woman's voice was becoming muffled and indistinct as she filled in the grave, as the heavy dirt filled his ears and eyes and nose. He struggled to breathe, and inhaled only the smell and substance of mold.
" . . . Lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil, for Thine is the Kingdom . . ."
He tried to draw air into his lungs. There was no air.
". . . and the power . . ."
Wilkes tried to move, but each motion caused the loosely packed dirt to fall in on him more tightly. He was at last immobile.
". . . and the glory . . ."
His chest exploded in pain as his old heart succumbed to the terror.
". . . forever and ever. Amen."
Gwendolyn Jenkins piled the dirt high over the impromptu grave, and then stood back to admire her handiwork. "I thank you, minister," she said softly. "I hated my uncle so, and never had the chance to kill him. He was a minister, like you. So you stand in his stead." She laughed bitterly. "So many ministers in my life—like unto that fool who insulted us a few days ago—and so few opportunities for vengeance. I thank you, Reverend Wilkes. Meeting you today was a great pleasure for me."
She looked up at the sky and smiled at the dark clouds which drifted over the face of the moon. "I do believe 'twill snow tonight, minister," she whispered. "Your silly God shall give you a white blanket for your final bed."
She gazed intently at the pile of earth, watching for any movement. The dirt seemed to settle slightly, being compacted by its own weight. She laughed softly and vindictively and then spat on the grave. "Ministers!" she muttered.
She picked up the shovel and left the cemetery quickly, tossing the tool casually into the bushes which bounded the cemetery entrance. She moved quietly down the cold, deserted road, seeming at last to disappear into the darkness. And then the old town was silent once more, but for the low moan of the wind.
Chapter Nineteen
December 29
Mark Siegal breathed deeply as he stood back and surveyed the end result of all his labors. When Simon had decided to use the old ramshackle barn which had been decaying for years behind the old Proctor Inn, it had fallen to Siegal to oversee the renovation. Of course, renovation was the last thing Simon Proctor intended for the barn. In its present state, it was a perfect setting for the wedding ceremony as he had envisioned it. The silent, lofty timbers, the cracked and weathered planks of the walls, the rust and the dust and the gloom, were ideal surroundings for a satanic ritual. Such renovation as Siegal had done related merely to the shoring up of several potentially dangerous beams and wall sections. For the rest, his job had been twofold: to decorate the barn in an appropriately macabre manner, and to assist the cameramen in the process of hiding film equipment at various places around the interior of the old structure.
As he swept his gaze from right to left, he had reason to be satisfied with the job he had done. The interior of the barn was, of course, a large, open rectangular room, and he had placed a long narrow table at one end to serve as an altar. He had draped the table with purple cloth and placed a candelabrum at each end to balance on each side the large, freestanding gold-painted pentagram which stood in the middle of the table. He had found a carpenter over in Piermont who had been able to produce the symbol quickly and well, and who had wondered who would want a five-pointed star enclosed in a large circle carved from wood and painted gold.. Siegal offered no explanation, and the carpenter had not pressed the matter. He was paid in cash for his labor, and that was sufficient.
The rear wall of the barn, directly behind the table and pentagram, had been decorated with a large inverted cross which was painted a bright, brilliant red. Siegal had objected, saying that the absurd combination of colors—purple, bright red, gold, black, and so forth—was jarring rather than atmospheric, bizarre rather than macabre, but Simon had been insistent. Simon had absolutely no sense of the visually aesthetic. It seemed as if all his artistic sense had been channeled into music, leaving nothing for the other muses to work with.
Siegal complied without serious argument. It was, after all, Simon's pseudomarriage, not his, and the video would sell and rent by the hundreds of thousands regardless of the colors of the decorations. Simon had arranged with the television people to obtain the clip of Eisenmann's death on the Campbell show, and small payments to the late professor's few distant relatives had made it possible to include it in the final version of the video. It would begin with the Campbell show, go through the tour and the songs in the Corwin Museum, and end with the wedding.
Well, he may not have much of an eye for color, Siegal thought, but he certainly has a mind for business. We're all gonna make a fortune out of this.
He continued to examine the interior of the barn. The wedding was to begin very shortly, and any last-minute changes needed to be made now. He saw nothing which needed his attention. The artificial cobwebs which he had brought with him from the theatrical props store in Manhattan were strung between the rafters and the walls; the hideously ugly gargoyles which he had managed to find in antique shops stood at judiciously chosen spots around the room; the entire barn would be lighted by candles for the ceremony, and the two hundred black candles he had managed to purchase were awaiting the lick of the flame.
Looks good, he thought. Good? It looks horrible! But that's what we want.
Siegal then turned his attention to the important, the crucial elements of the prepara
tions: the recording equipment. He and Simon had decided to limit the film crew to two people, one of whom would be secreted in the shadowy recesses of the loft until the beginning of the ceremony, the other of whom would be in a hastily constructed shed connected to the west wall of the barn, where he could film through a hole which had been drilled in the wall. They had briefly contemplated using two more cameramen, but had decided not to risk it. Gwendolyn had been very clear about the seriousness of this ceremony, and she would be furious if she knew it was to be filmed and used for commercial purposes.
So two cameramen, no more. They had hidden microphones in a dozen places around the barn so as to be able to record every sound, every word, no matter where spoken. The camera in the loft would be able to take panoramic shots, and the exterior camera could handle profile close-ups. Full face would have been better, but more cameras and more people would have endangered the secrecy.
Siegal was satisfied. He left the barn after calling out a muted good-bye to the two cameramen and walked out into the cold evening air. Sunset in fifteen minutes, he thought. The wedding in a half hour. Then we can all go home and forget all this nonsense. He indulged himself in a few minutes of self-pity. I'll bet Charlie Watts doesn't have to do this kind of shit for Jagger!
He jogged across the white ground, listening to the hushed crackle of the snow as it was crushed beneath his boots. How the hell can Simon like it up here? he wondered. Gets more snow in one day than New York City gets in a month!
He pushed open the side door of the old Proctor Inn and then shut it behind him quickly, grateful for the warmth of the interior. Siegal stamped his feet a few times to dislodge the snow from his boots and then walked over to the doorway of the sitting room. "Anybody seen Simon?" he asked.
The other band members were sitting around impatiently, smoking cigarettes and joints, drinking bourbon and wine, wishing they were all home, wishing that this day were over. The tour had been long and hard and harried, and this unexpected extension of their working commitment had pleased none of them. They were all already attired in their Witch's Sabbath costumes (except for Herricks, who had none), and Siegal could tell by the expressions on their faces that they were not in the best of moods. Herricks exhaled a blue cloud of intoxicating smoke and answered, "He's upstairs gettin' dressed."
"Thanks," Siegal said and began to walk toward the stairs. "Hey, Markie," Strube called out, "you wanna blow some weed?"
"Not now, Carl. Maybe later." He turned and moved toward the stairs.
"Hey, Siegal!" he heard Herricks call out. "Tell Simon to get his ass in gear, will you? I want to get the hell out of here, get back to civilization."
"Yeah, yeah," Siegal said testily as he bounded up the stairs. He went to Simon's room and opened the door. He entered to find his friend seated on the wooden chair which had been moved to a position in front of the dresser. Simon was staring absently into the mirror, gazing into his own eyes. Siegal smiled. "Admiring your own beauty?"
Simon jumped slightly at the unexpected voice. "Oh, Mark. You startled me. I didn't hear you come in. Is everything ready?"
"Yup," he replied, pulling up a chair and sitting down. "All we gotta do is light up the candles and roll the cameras."
"Shhh!" Simon said quickly. "Gwen and Adrienne are in the next room!"
"Sorry" he shrugged. "They almost ready?"
"Beats me," Simon replied, returning his gaze to the mirror. "They won't let me in to check on them. Can't see the bride before the wedding, and all that stuff." He reached beneath the cowl of his black monk's robe and scratched the back of his neck. "They should be ready pretty soon, though."
"Good. The guys are all waiting downstairs, bored to death. And they're smoking a lot of dope down there. I mean, your old man's got to smell it!"
Simon shook his head. "Dad's over at the parsonage with Row and the Sloan kid."
Siegal laughed. "Getting away from his guests?"
"Yeah," Simon grinned, "partly. He really just wants to keep an eye on Jeremy. He likes that little bastard."
"So does Rowena."
He snorted. "Don't remind me."
"His uncle ever turn up?"
"Hmmm?" Simon was staring at his own reflection. "The old minister, his uncle. He ever turn up?"
"Nope. Nobody can figure out what happened to him. Just seemed to vanish." Simon's goatee felt a bit loose, and he pressed it hard against his chin. "That's really why Dad's over there. The boy is real upset."
"Can't say I blame him. No clues, no note, nothing?"
"Nothing." Simon slumped down in the chair and sighed slightly. "Maybe he got assumpted or something."
"Got what?"
"Whatever the word is. Taken up into heaven by God or something. Who knows? Who cares?"
Siegal took out a cigarette and lighted it. "I take it he wasn't on your ten favorite people list."
"Far from it. I wasn't on his, either."' He paused. "Funny that we both used the past tense."
Siegal shrugged. The conversation was growing tedious. "You want to go over to the barn, check it out?"
"No," Simon replied, shaking his head. "I trust you, Markie. I'm sure you did it up good." He squinted his eyes at his own reflection. "Enough makeup, you think?"
"Yeah, sure. You look great." Siegal studied him closely for a moment. "Simon, is something bothering you?"
He shrugged. "No. I don't know."
"Hey, come on, man," Siegal said, reaching over and punching him familiarly on the shoulder. "You look depressed! And on your so-called wedding day!"
They both laughed. "Yeah, right," Simon said. "My wedding day!"
"Oh, damn!" Siegal slapped his forehead. "I totally forgot!"
"Forgot what?"
"We didn't throw you a bachelor party!" He laughed again. Simon just smiled, and then he sighed. "Come on, Simon," Siegal said seriously. "What the hell's the matter?"
He stood up and began to pace the room, the oversized monk's robe trailing behind him. "You know, Markie, when I first thought this up it all seemed so easy, such a good idea. But everybody keeps telling me that I'm doing something terrible to Gwen, and it's starting to get to me."
He shrugged. "I haven't told you that."
"No, but Dad has, and Row. Even Jeremy and his uncle. Of course, you got to expect it from a minister, I suppose, but—"
"You talked to the minister about it?"
"Not personally. He sent me a hellfire and damnation warning through my father." He found Siegal's tone odd. "Why do you ask?"
"Just curious. I mean, the old guy has disappeared, after all."
"Yeah, yeah, the cops asked me all about it. Last time I saw him, me and Gwen were arguing with him."
"The cops suspect you of doing him in?" He grinned at the joke.
"No, of course not. I was with everybody else, drinking over in Piermont, remember? You, me, Gwen, Lucas, everybody."
"Yeah, yeah. Sorry I asked. Just curious."
"But anyway, I'm starting to feel, I don't know, guilty or something. I mean, this girl really thinks she loves me. And I don't love her, not really."
"You screw her often enough," Siegal pointed out.
"What's that got to do with it?"
Siegal shrugged. "Nothing, I guess. But look, Simon, the chick is really crazy, right? She thinks she's some old-time witch, right? So marry her for the video, and maybe someday she'll decide that she’s somebody else, and take off and that'll be the end of it. Why worry?"
"Yeah, yeah, I know." He sighed again. "Still makes me feel funny"
"So call it off," he suggested.
Simon laughed. "Hey, it doesn't make me feel that funny!"
"I didn't think so," Siegal said, joining in the laughter. "I think we stand to make a bundle off this whole video thing."
"Yeah, probably." He paused. "I think maybe it's time to take the money and run, you know?"
"What do you mean?"
"I think we should call it quits after this video. I mean,
we've made money on the tour, more money than we've ever made. This video should make us a lot more, and that dumb movie is doing really well. Maybe we should just quit while we're ahead."
"What do you mean 'we'? Except for Tommy and his rock club, the rest of us are still just working stiffs! Maybe you can afford to retire, but we can't!"
"Listen, Markie, you're gonna see at least a hundred grand from the tour and the video, maybe more. That's enough for anybody to lay back and cruise on."
"Okay, sure, but two hundred grand is better than a hundred grand, and three hun—"
Simon laughed softly, refusing to take his friend's concern seriously. "Easy, Mark. You don't want to make too much money too quickly."
"Hey, it beats making too little too slowly" he muttered. "Look, man, I'm serious here! If we don't—"
He stopped speaking as the door swung open and Adrienne Lupescu leaned her head into the room. "Excuse me," she said quietly.
"Hiya, Adrienne," Simon said. "Come on in."
"No, by your leave," she said. "Gwendolyn asked—I mean Abigail asked me to tell you that she is prepared. You should await us in the place which has been made ready."
Has to try to remember to say Abigail instead of Gwendolyn, Simon thought. I wonder how much of this resurrection crap they really believe? "Okay, fine," he said. "You'll be right over?"
"We shall," Adrienne replied. "We lack but one element for the ceremony. When I have fetched it, I shall come. Gw-Abigail says that she will follow soon after you when you go." She withdrew and pulled the door closed.
Simon turned to Mark Siegal. "Well, let's do it." He rose to his feet.
Candlemas Eve Page 34
