by Gideon, John
Lindsay’s patience had crumbled when Hannie had started in about how Lorna’s corpse must have been stolen, how Craslowe had somehow arranged for it to be fertilized with the flesh-eater’s seed in order to bear its offspring. How even now Lorna was hanging in some unspeakable state that was a combination of life and death. Hannie, who fancied herself among the last members of an ancient Sisterhood of witches, had tried to enlist Lindsay’s participation in some execrable ritual aimed at destroying Craslowe and his creature.
And this is when Lindsay had thrown her out of the house. “Lindsay, what is it?” asked Dr. Esther Cabaza. “Are you still there?”
“Uh, yes, I’m still here. I was just thinking...”
About Hannie’s parting words, uttered desperately as Lindsay was hurrying her out the door, threatening to call the police if she didn’t leave quietly, to summon the men with white coats. “But surely you cannot believe that your nephew is just a sick little boy! Surely you can’t believe the rubbish that Hadrian Craslowe has told you—”
“I’m sick of listening to this insanity, Hannie! You need help—professional help—and I’m willing to help you get it, but I won’t sit and listen to any more of this—”
“But you can prove it for yourself girl! Check up on Hadrian Craslowe, and try to verify his credentials! Try to corroborate all that he has told you! And if for some reason you still don’t believe me, look at his hands, if you can! And Jeremy’s hands, too! By now the boy will have started to—”
“Get out, Hannie! Get out of my house right now!”
“His HANDS, Lindsay! Look at the boy’s HANDS!”
“I’m sorry, Esther, this may sound absurd, but I need to know how to go about checking on the bona Tides of a local shrink, a clinical psychologist. My nephew is a patient of his, and I was just thinking—”
“Hey, it’s not absurd. More people should do that kind of checking—not just on their shrinks but on all their doctors. A lot of grief would be saved. What do you need to know? Certification, schools attended, that kind of stuff?”
“Right. Who do I call?”
“The state board of clinical psychologists is your best bet. They can give you all the poop on the status of his license, the schools he attended, even his test scores, if you need them. Who is this guy, if you don’t mind my asking?”
“Not at all. His name is Hadrian Craslowe, practices in Greely’s Cove. He’s English, apparently went to Oxford and even taught there. He also has said that he’s practiced at some big mental-health outfit in Switzerland—Zurich, I think.”
“Ummm. His being a foreigner might complicate things a tad. Say, Lindsay, why don’t you let me check into this for you?”
“Esther, no. You’re busy enough as it is, and I couldn’t ask you to—”
“You’re not asking; I’m offering. Listen, until last year I served on the state board of medical examiners, and I know some of the folks on the shrink board. I can pull a string or two and get a first-rate vetting of this guy for you, probably in about one-fifth as much time. How do you spell his name, anyway?”
Lindsay spelled the name, wondering if she herself needed psychiatric help.
21
Police Chief Stu Bromton cruised by Liquid Larry’s roadhouse and pumped the brakes when he spotted a Volkswagen Vanagon with Texas plates in the lot. He made an abrupt turn, parked next to the van, and went inside.
Robinson Sparhawk sat alone at a corner table, well apart from the boisterous Sunday-afternoon crowd, nursing a double shot of whiskey and a short beer on the side. Clenched in his teeth was the well-chawed stump of a cheroot, which appeared to have gone cold and smokeless. His metal crutches leaned against a nearby chair.
As the police chief drew closer, he noticed the haggard expression on Robbie’s face, the drained and bloodshot eyes, and for a moment he imagined that the psychic’s hair was a shade grayer than it had been yesterday.
“Knock me over with a feather,” said the big man, pulling up a chair and sitting down. “I thought you’d be long gone by now. Mind if I join you?”
“Not at all, seein’ as you already have. Can I buy you a drink?”
“Sure,” answered Stu, throwing a wave at Liquid Larry, which meant that he wanted the usual—a draft Olympia, which was okay, since he was technically off duty and dressed in civvies. “But don’t let me tie you up. It’s almost three o’clock already, and you’ll probably want to get rolling, right?”
“Not today, Bubba. I got me a date with a bottle of Wild Turkey, and I mean to sit here and get pleasantly shit-faced, or get my sorry ass thrown out by that big old boy behind the bar, whichever comes first.”
“Sounds like a ton of fun. Where’s your dog?”
“Out in the truck. Seems animals ain’t allowed in this place.”
“Not the four-legged kind, anyway,” said Stu, eyeing the white tape around Robbie’s left wrist. “What happened to your arm?”
Hesitation, a deep breath, a quick concoction of a passable nonanswer.
“Cut myself last night,” said Robbie, studying his shot glass. “Not really deep, but deep enough to send me back to that emergency room in Poulsbo. Cute little nurse wrapped it up for me.” Then, to change the subject: “Y’know, I thought I’d pretty near seen most everything there is to see in this old world, until I laid my eyes on this place.”
He nodded toward a mob of young working-class males who had gathered around the pair of fish tanks against the far wail. One of them stuffed a dollar bill into a coffee can that wore a crudely lettered sign: “VICTIMS—1 BUCK.” Then he fished around in the goldfish tank with a long-handled net until snagging a squirming victim and, with a beery chuckle, flipped it into the neighboring tank, where lurked Hammerstein, the flesh-eating Oscar fish. The predator quickly cornered the panic-stricken goldfish and gobbled it. The spectators laughed loudly and dug for more dollars.
“Folks in this town sure must be hard up for entertainment,” said Robbie.
Liquid Larry appeared at the table with a mug of beer, which he placed before Stu. “Want me to tab that for you, Sonny Butch?” he asked.
“Take it out of this,” said Robbie, pulling a five from the stack of long green underneath his ashtray, “and pour me another Turkey when you get the chance.”
Liquid Larry made change and retreated to the bar.
After sipping his beer, Stu said, “Thought you might be interested in knowing that I got a call from a concerned citizen this morning, man named Dr. Hadrian Craslowe. Says you showed up at his front door late last night.”
Robbie said nothing and made a production of lighting a fresh cigar.
“He also said that you scared the living bejesus out of one of his resident patients,” Stu went on, “guy in a wheelchair. The doctor’s assistant described you right down to your fancy belt buckle and your van, too. Care to tell me about it?”
“One of his resident patients, huh?” Robbie harrumphed and sucked smoke from his cigar. “So, did this Craslowe fella swear out a paper on me? Is that why you sniffed me out?”
“No, nothing like that. He was concerned, though, and, being a doctor, was worried that you might need some help. You know how doctors are.”
The barkeep returned with another Wild Turkey for Robbie, collected more cash, and left again.-
“I really did think that you’d already headed for home,” continued Stu, “but I called the West Cove to make sure and discovered that you hadn’t checked out yet. Since you weren’t in your room, I just started cruising around town, figuring you’d turn up sooner or later. I’ll admit I was a little surprised to find you in this place.”
“Closest thing to a Texas watering hole I could find. So what’s the upshot of this Craslowe business?”
A roar of laughter rose from the lumpen crowd near the fish tanks as Hammerstein dispatched another hapless goldfish. Stu waited for the noise to die down.
“What were you doing out at Whiteleather Place, Robbie? I’ve got to ask—yo
u know that. Is there something out there I should hear about?”
Robbie shut his eyes a moment and fingered the turquoise slide of his string tie. The lines that scored his sun-browned face seemed deeper than they had yesterday; he looked older. A sip of whiskey now, another pull from his cigar, and he was ready. “No, nothing that should concern the police,” he said.
“Pardon me if that’s a little hard to believe,” said Stu in a low voice. “Yesterday you got knocked flat on your ass by a—a—feeling, some kind of psychic signal or whatever it is you get, and you told me that you steer clear of things like this. You were scared, man, and you were going to hit the road first thing today. Then I find out—”
“Now hold on, Bubba. I never said I got any kind of feeling.”
“That’s bullshit. You as much as admitted it yesterday in your motel room.”
“I never said it had anything to do with your missing folks.”
“For the love of God, Robbie, will you quit jacking me around? Put yourself in my shoes for one goddamn minute and tell me what the hell I’m supposed to think: I present you with evidence taken from the scene of a crime, and you get so sick that you blow chow all over my desk. You tell me later that the thing you felt, whatever it was, is something you never mess around with and that you plan to leave town in the morning. Then I find out that you’ve driven out to Whiteleather Place, of all places, after midnight, through fog and rain, to harass the assistant of one of the town’s leading citizens, not to mention a patient of his. Then I find you here, drinking your brains out like you’re trying to get ahold of yourself or maybe forget something ugly. So tell me what I’m supposed to think.”
“I can’t tell you what to think, Stu. All I can tell you is that there ain’t any police business out at Whiteleather Place.”
“Then what kind of business is it?”
“Something I’ve got to deal with myself; nothing that a cop can do anything about. Do yourself a favor and let it go at that. You’ll thank me someday, believe me.”
Suddenly Liquid Larry was back at the table. “You Mr. Sparhawk?” he asked. “Telephone call for you.”
Robbie frowned with bewilderment, wondering who in the world could know that he was exercising his elbow at this particular establishment. He had told no one that he was coming here.
“Be right there,” he replied to Liquid Larry while reaching for his crutches. He left Stu at the table and hobbled to the end of the bar, where the telephone waited.
“This is Sparhawk.”
“Mr. Sparhawk, you don’t know me,” said an aged-sounding Englishwoman on the other end, “and I do hope you’ll forgive this intrusion, but I really must talk with you—personally and privately, the very soonest.”
“Ma’am, can you tell me who you are and what this is all about?”
“Yes, of course, I’m sorry. I’m Hannie Hazelford, and I live here in Greely’s Cove. I want to discuss what happened to you last evening at Whiteleather Place.”
Robbie’s hands went cool and numb, and he began to feel slightly dizzy.
“You are an extraordinarily courageous man, Mr. Sparhawk, and you have gifts that are much needed here. You are just the sort that I can use. Can you come to my house, perhaps within the hour? We really mustn’t lose a minute.”
Robbie cleared his throat, hemmed and hawed. Other than a name, he had no idea who this woman was, or whether he could safely discuss with her the ordeal he had undergone the previous night.
“Ma’am, I’m not so sure—”
“I can well appreciate your misgivings, but do put them aside for the moment. Even though you’re a good man, and a strong one, you cannot possibly defeat this thing alone. You need allies, Mr. Sparhawk, as do I, so let us forge our alliance and do what must be done. Now, I live at Three Almdahl Circle, which is on Torgaard Hill—it’s a Tudor cottage with an entrance blackened by fire, a recent misfortune that looks more serious than it was. Please be here as soon as you can. And feel free to bring your dog, inasmuch as I get along very well with animals and enjoy their company.”
“Uh—well, all right, I s’pose I could make time. I’ll be there as soon as I can, Miss—uh—Missus...”
“Please call me Hannie. Everyone does.”
“Fine. One thing, ma’am: How did you find out about what happened to me last night? For that matter, how did you know to find me here?”
“Mr. Sparhawk, I really am surprised at you, someone with your unique abilities and powers, asking such a question! Have you never heard of a scrying mirror?”
Robbie had not.
“Well, you have now, and you’ll even see one when you get here—one of the few still in existence. Far better to demonstrate than merely tell you about it, don’t you think? Now do hurry, Mr. Sparhawk, because we haven’t much time.”
So Robinson Sparhawk did as he had promised and hurried away, leaving a frustrated and bewildered police chief at Liquid Larry’s to nurse his beer alone.
22
By midafternoon on Monday, Lorna’s Little Gallery on Frontage Street had become a nearly vacant storefront with featureless walls and bare floors. Carl Trosper, his son, and Renzy Dawkins had slaved throughout half the previous day and most of the present one, boxing and crating the artifacts of Lorna’s modest but loving enterprise: fixtures, paintings, posters, art supplies. They stacked them in the rear stockroom that fronted the alley. Later that week, hired movers would cart off the goods for storage until Carl could arrange for an auction.
Jeremy had proved himself an energetic and cheerful worker. He had shown none of the hostility or cruel astuteness that had so unnerved his father on Sunday morning. Around three o’clock they broke for Diet Cokes that Renzy had brought in a cooler from his boat, and Carl remarked that Jeremy looked a little tired—not surprising for a boy who had worked as hard as he had for the past two days.
“Why don’t you knock off,” suggested Carl to his son, “maybe walk home and watch a little TV? Renzy and I can finish up here. You know what they say about all work and no play.”
Home was only a few blocks away, as most places were in tiny Greely’s Cove.
“I guess I do have some reading to catch up on,” said the boy with a grin, sounding almost like a normal American kid. He wiped his brow with one of the bulky workman’s gloves that he had worn all weekend. “See you around dinner, then?”
“Around six,” confirmed Carl. “And don’t cook anything. I’m taking you both out for dinner. It’s the least I can do for a faithful pair of draft animals.”
After Jeremy had gone, Renzy lit a cigarette and smoked contentedly for a few moments, pacing lazily around the empty cavern that had been Lorna Trosper’s store.
“Know what, Bush? I need a get-rich-quick scheme, something that’ll get me back into the swim when my money runs out—which will be soon. What do you think of this? Genital cosmetics. I’m talking about a new rage here, a whole line of nicely packaged blushes, conditioners, liners, and scents for discriminating consumers of both sexes. It would be easy to do: Just adapt a bunch of existing products and launch them with a punchy ad campaign. Hey, are you listening to me?”
Carl was listening, but not closely. His gaze was far off, his face etched with worry, as it had been throughout the past two days.
“Sorry. I guess I’m a little preoccupied. Putting all this stuff in boxes, piling it up to be sent away—it’s like we’re getting rid of the last traces of Lorna. After the carpenters and painters are done, you won’t be able to recognize this place. There won’t be anything left of her.”
“Yeah, it’s sad. I feel it, too, but I keep reminding myself that this is the way she would’ve wanted it, and then I feel a little better. Are you sure there’s nothing else eating you?”
“It’s nothing, really. Unless you count the fact that virtually everything I own is in a moving van somewhere, probably overturned in a ditch in Kansas or Nebraska, buried in the snow until spring.”
“For Christ’
s sake, your stuff will get here okay.”
“Then there’s the two hundred pounds of legal paperwork I’ve got ahead of me concerning Lorna’s estate. I have to buy a car, furniture for the house and this place, law books, office equipment, hire a secretary—”
“It’s Jeremy, isn’t it?” said Renzy, his sea-weathered face growing serious. He dropped his cigarette butt on the floor, stepped on it, and drew close to Carl, who was staring downward in silence. “What happened, Bush? I thought everything was copacetic with you guys.”
“I suppose it won’t do me any good to keep it in. Yesterday morning he and I had a set-to over the dogs and cats he’d collected. Sometime Saturday night—after we’d gone to bed—or maybe even early Sunday morning, he got up and took them somewhere. Says he set them free, because he couldn’t stand the thought of sending them to the shelter. Wanted to save me the work of taking them there. Or something like that. Wouldn’t tell me where he took them or the real reason he did it. Then, when I pressed him on it and started giving him a lecture about truth and honesty, he—” This was difficult, and Carl’s dry throat forced him to take a gulp of Diet Coke. “He changed. I don’t know how to explain this without sounding like a stark-raving madman, but he changed, Renzy....” Renzy Dawkins listened quietly to the rest of the story, occasionally picking at his bluish stubble or absently practicing bowlines and hitches with the short hank of rope that he carried in his khakis. Carl left nothing out—not even Jeremy’s spiteful tale about Lorna and Renzy, or the one about Stu Bromton being a crooked cop who took bribes from illegal drug dealers.
“And it was like he was inside my head, Renzy, like he knew exactly the right buttons to push in order to get my goat and cause me the greatest possible pain. How in the hell he was able to imitate my father’s voice—even use Dad’s kind of language—I’ll never know. I’m not even sure I want to. And then, just as abruptly as it started, it was over, and he was back to his lovable self, apologetic and considerate, even cheerful.”
