Immortal Muse

by Stephen Leigh

  A shrug. “Ay, puñeta! Slow. I’m in the middle, and there’s always a point there where I think I’ve totally lost my way, and everything I write just seems to suck.” She spread her arms wide. “Guess I’ll be keeping the day job for now.”

  “Would you like me to read the new material you have? I’d be happy to do that. Why don’t you e-mail me the section you’re working on? Maybe a set of fresh eyes on it could give you an idea of what you need to do. It’s the least I can do.”

  “Sure.” There was little enthusiasm in her voice.

  “Mercedes, you have the talent to sell your novel,” Camille told her. It was the truth; Mercedes’s green heart was limited; it wasn’t a massive radiance like David’s or like others that she’d known in her life. Yet she possessed talent, and more important than that, she had the dedication and necessary passion for her art. Camille knew all too well that someone who plumbed the depth of her talent to its final essence might be more important to her discipline than someone with greater potential who never utilized that talent to full extent. Camille had helped Mercedes find all the pathways within that green heart, but the woman had done the rest herself, and the drive that Mercedes possessed was something no muse could provide. “You need to keep believing in yourself.”

  Mercedes favored her with a dim smile again. “Thanks,” she said. “I try. And I am happy for you. David’s a lucky guy. I hope he knows it.”

  “I’ll try to remind him.”

  Their conversation trailed off into small talk about the group and about the small triumphs and failures they’d all seen: the jazz band Kevin had put together to play his original work; Rashawn selling a painting; Joe’s play closing after a disappointing week and bad reviews; James finishing the book based on his dissertation. As Mercedes was checking her cell phone to see if it was time to get back to the office, Camille asked the waitress to bring their check.

  “Oh,” the woman said. “There’s no check. A gentleman paid it for you.”

  “Who?” Camille asked. She could feel the pendant around her neck as if it were made of lead. She glanced at Mercedes, who shrugged.

  “He’s already left,” the waitress said. “But he said to give you this.” She placed a napkin on the table. On it, in smeared ink, was drawn a crude image of a guillotine. Seeing it, Camille’s breath was snared in her throat.

  “What did he look like?” Camille persisted. “Was he short?”

  The waitress nodded. “Yeah. Shorter than average, anyway. Light brown hair, kinda long. A nice smile. About your age. Not bad looking; had a little bit of an accent, maybe. You know him?”

  “Yes,” Camille said. She found that she could barely breathe. “I think I might.”

  “Camille?” she heard Mercedes saying as she stared at the napkin. “What’s the matter? Does that mean something to you?”

  Camille finally drew in a long, shuddering breath. “I’m sorry,” she told Mercedes. “It’s really nothing.” She crumpled the napkin in her hand, crushing it tightly as if she could somehow squeeze the life from the hand that had drawn it. “It’s a poor attempt at a joke from a former lover. It just …” She forced a smile to her lips. “It startled me. I didn’t know he lived around here. And, hey, at least we get a free lunch from the bastard, right?”

  The laugh she gave was mirthless. The sound hung in the air, weighted and unconvincing.

  Outside, she looked around carefully, searching for Nicolas, for anyone whose features were somewhat familiar, anyone who appeared to be watching her. She saw no one; the crowds on the sidewalk passed by without a second glance, and she noticed nobody loitering or pretending to be looking into a shop window while really watching her. She hugged Mercedes and walked with her to the corner where they separated.

  She stood there, turning slowly. No, no one appeared to be observing her or taking notice. The napkin was still balled in her hand. Nicolas. It has to be Nicolas. He wants me to know that he’s found me first. That he’s hunting me, too.

  “You bastard!” she shouted suddenly against the clamor of traffic. “You coward! Show yourself! C’mon, you sadistic son of a bitch! Let’s have it out between us right now, right here! Let’s finish it!”

  A taxicab honked as it changed lanes; the person the driver had cut off laid on his own horn. The people nearest glanced at her strangely, then—in proper New York fashion—ignored the crazy person’s outburst entirely. Otherwise, there was no answer.

  There was a trash can on the corner. Camille tossed the napkin toward it. It bounced once on the rim and fell back onto the street. Sighing, Camille picked it up again.

  She put it in her pocket.

  *

  “Hello?” Camille called into Walters’ office. There was, as usual, no one in the small reception room, but the door to his office was closed—which was unusual, and through the speckled, translucent glass of the door, she could see a figure moving around, though she heard no conversation.

  The figure in the office moved toward the door: a splash of blue pants and a yellow shirt, far too thin to be Walters. The doorknob turned and Camille saw a woman standing there. She looked to be in her early-to-mid-twenties, with curly, dirty blonde hair cut short. It was her eyes that caught Camille the most: her mascara was smudged and ruined, and there were tracks on her cheeks from tears. The woman ran a hand over her face as she glanced at Camille. “Can I help you?”

  “I’m looking for Mr. Walters. I’m one of his clients, and we had an appointment to talk this morning.” The woman looked as if she were about to cry once more. She pressed her lips tightly together. Camille remembered Walters mentioning a granddaughter—about your age—and she felt a sudden quick stab of fear. “Are you Beth? His granddaughter?” she asked. “Is everything all right?”

  The young woman shook her head wordlessly. “Grandpa …” the word came out choked and solitary. “He’s …” She couldn’t say more. The tears came then, unbidden and full. Camille went to her, taking her hands and leading her to the receptionist’s chair. Beth’s shoulders shook with her sobs as Camille crouched down in front of her, still holding her hands and feeling tears well up in her own eyes in sympathy.

  “I’m sorry,” Beth said after a few moments, taking in a long shuddering breath. Her fingers pressed Camille’s fingers. “This is hard … We got the news late last night. Grandpa’s dead.” It was all she could say. She bit at her lower lip, closing her eyes.

  Camille felt the shock hit her: a fist of cold air. She gasped, a hand going involuntarily to her mouth. Be really careful about this … Those had been nearly her last words to Walters. And now … “What happened?” she asked Beth.

  A sniff. Beth plucked a Kleenex from the box on the table and dabbed at her eyes. “No one’s really sure. They found him in an alley. He’d been …” She stopped. Took a breath. “… burned really badly,” she continued, “but they told me it wasn’t like he’d been set on fire, more like he’d been struck by bolts of lightning—but there wasn’t a storm or any clouds last night.” Camille shuddered at that. Nicolas. This has to be Nicolas. “They’re thinking it may be the same person that killed all the other people, the Black Fire murders, but …” Her eyes found Camille’s, stricken. “The detectives all remember Grandpa. They said they won’t stop until they find the person who did this. Gina Palento—she was one of Grandpa’s friends in the department, and was his partner just before he retired—anyway, she’s coming over this morning to look into Grandpa’s case files. I thought I’d try to straighten some things up … thought maybe it would help …”

  The tears came again, and Camille waited them out, holding Beth’s hands. “Can I get you something,” she asked. “I could make some coffee, or get you a glass of water?”

  “I’m fine,” Beth said. “Gina, I mean Detective Palento, should be here in a few minutes, though. She might want to talk to you since Grandpa was working on something for you.”

  The thought caused the coffee she’d had that morning to rise to
her throat, burning. Camille swallowed hard. “Sure,” she told Beth. “If you think that might help. Look, why don’t I make some coffee? Detectives always drink coffee, don’t they?” She laughed shakily at the poor attempt at a joke, which garnered the barest of smiles from Beth but allowed Camille to rise and walk over to the cheap Mr. Coffee machine on the side table. She busied herself finding what she needed, putting in the filter, measuring the coffee, getting water, all the time thinking about how she might answer the questions this Palento might ask. What she didn’t need was the NYPD looking into this case and her background—Walters might not have cared that she was using a dead child’s name and social security number; the cops definitely would.

  “I think I may have dropped something outside,” she told Beth. “I’ll be right back. The coffee should be ready in a few minutes.”

  Camille opened the office door, closing it again behind her as she stepped out on the little porch. She went down the battered concrete steps to the sidewalk. She stood there, caught in uncertainty. If you leave, that detective’s going to be even more suspicious, and then you may never find out what Walters discovered. If you leave, you’re also leaving David, because you’ll have to change your identity once more, have to leave the city, have to run. You’ll lose this chance to take care of Nicolas, too.

  She took a deep breath, glancing up and down the street. People moved past her on the sidewalk on their way to errands or appointments; taxicabs, cars, and small trucks moved slowly down the one-way street toward the skyscraper canyons of mid-town. The city breathed all around her: loud, odoriferous, and relentlessly, defiantly alive. Somewhere out there, a small darkness lurked—a darkness that was attached to her, that was her responsibility.

  “Fuck,” Camille sighed, the obscenity tasting harsh in her mouth. She turned and trudged back up the steps. She hesitated there for a moment with her hand on the doorknob.

  She turned it and pushed the door open. “Found it,” she said to Beth. “Is the coffee ready yet?”

  *

  “Thanks for taking the time to chat with me, Ms. Kenny.”

  Gina Palento looked to be in her late thirties. A wedding ring glistened on her left hand, and her navy pantsuit was pressed, new, and fashionable. Her glossy, dark hair was clipped very short, the kind of cut with which one could step out of the shower, towel dry, and not worry about having to fuss with the hair. She wore minimal makeup; just a touch of eye shadow and foundation. She certainly didn’t have the stereotypical rumpled and tired look that Walters had possessed. Her eyes were an icy and startling blue that verged on gray, set deep in a thin face with sharp cheekbones. She also had a green soul-heart; Camille could feel it, the radiance shining around her, though Camille didn’t dare to touch it. She wondered what sparked that creativity in the woman.

  “So …” Palento said, “just what had you hired Bob—Mr. Walters— to do for you?” Her voice was a gravely alto, and she cocked her head slightly with the question. She’d set a small recorder between the now-neatly stacked papers on Walters’ desk; Camille could see an LED blinking on the device.

  “He was trying to track down someone for me. A stalker. All I had to give him were a couple of photographs. No name. I … I know I hadn’t given him much to go on.” Camille looked at Walters’ desk. She wanted nothing more than to dig into the papers there and see if she could find some clue to what Walters had found—what had caused him to be killed. But she doubted that Palento would let her look, and she didn’t want the detective prying into her life. She shrugged. “I was going to tell him today to stop looking, that it was a waste of his time and my money.”

  Palento nodded. “Then you don’t think your investigation had anything to do with his death?”

  Camille shook her head. “I don’t possibly see how.”

  “Uh-huh.” Palento was nodding her head. Her finger hovered over the button of the recorder, then withdrew. “Stalkers can be violent. Was yours? Did he ever threaten you or hurt you?”

  “Not really,” Camille told the woman. The lie was bitter ash on her tongue. “He was just some guy I kept noticing following me. I didn’t talk to him or confront him.”

  Another nod. “And you never reported this to the police?”

  “I didn’t think anyone would pay attention. After all, I didn’t know who this was and hadn’t had any contact with him. I figured you had more important things to worry about.”

  “So you were willing pay Bob a nice little fee to find out? Let Bob follow you and hopefully come across this character?”

  “I thought if he could get me a name and maybe more information, then I could go to the police. But maybe the guy gave up on me, or maybe he saw Mr. Walters, or maybe I was just wrong.” She thought she lied well; she had long practice at it. Palento was nodding again. This time, her finger did press the button and the LED flicked off.

  “Well, thanks for talking to me, Ms. Kenny. If I have further questions, I’ll be in touch. In the meantime, here’s my card. You see that guy following you again, call me, okay? I hate jerks like that.” Camille took the card from her, rubbing the cheap stock between her fingers. “You can tell Beth to come in now. I’m ready to talk to her.”

  Palento pocketed her recorder in her suit jacket. She picked up one of the numerous manila folders on Walters’ desk and opened it. Her gaze flicked up to Camille as she rose from the chair across the desk, then back to the folder. It was obvious the detective was dismissing her.

  “Beth,” Camille persisted, “mentioned that you think it might be one of the Black Fire murders.”

  Palento stared at her. “It’s possible,” she said. An eyebrow lifted.

  “Well, I hope you find him. The guy who did this to Mr. Walters and those others.”

  “We will,” Palento said. “Thanks again, Ms. Kenny.”

  Camille nodded, and left the office.

  *

  She said nothing to David, mostly because she wasn’t certain how to explain it or to tell him just how frightened she was—how frightened she was for both of them. He’d insist that they go to the police about her “stalker,” and that would be a disaster: it would expose the fact that she’d never filed any report in the first place, as she’d told David she had; worse, it would arouse Palento’s suspicions and she’d end up with her own false identity exposed.

  In her older lives, having to change identities hadn’t mattered as much, but in recent decades, that was becoming increasingly difficult, and it wasn’t something she was willing to undertake lightly.

  Camille consulted her Tarot, and laid out a reading so dismally bleak that she gathered up the cards before even attempting an interpretation. The second layout was nearly as foreboding; she put the cards away, shivering at the implications.

  So she said nothing, and tried to make it appear that her mood hadn’t changed, that she wasn’t constantly looking over her shoulder whenever they were out together, that she wasn’t scanning the street outside David’s apartment to see if she recognized a figure watching in the darkness, that she wasn’t afraid to return again to her own apartment because—if Nicolas had been in contact with Helen—he now knew the name she was using and probably her address; that she made sure she kept the Ladysmith with her.

  From the scrolls she’d acquired in her current collection, she prepared the ingredients for the few spells she’d managed to master, and made certain they were cemented in her mind. She went to the sword on her dresser, went over and pulled the katana partially from the black, lacquered saya, looking at the glossy, oiled steel. She sighed and put the weapon back on the stand.

  When David mentioned that Jacob Prudhomme had invited them to his annual birthday party a few days later, she agreed to accompany him, though without great enthusiasm. Still, after days of hearing nothing from Palento nor glimpsing Nicolas, her initial panic had calmed somewhat. “What are his parties like?” she asked him. “What should I wear?”

  He grinned at her. “Anything you like. Jacob
will have everyone there: from rich customers in formal dress to desperate artists wearing ripped jeans and grimy Tshirts. He likes to have what he calls ‘a shocking mixture.’ Says the result is more like actual art, then. The stranger and more outrageous you can dress, the happier he’ll be. Pick out whatever you think makes you look good, or whatever you’re comfortable in. It honestly doesn’t matter.”

  “You do know that’s absolutely no help to me, don’t you?” she told him. “In fact, that just makes it worse.”

  He laughed. “Then wear nothing at all. He’d love that. Jacob’d probably claim you were a living sculpture. A vision of the Muse.”

  She scoffed nasally. “Yeah. That’s so not going to happen,” she said.

  “He’ll be disappointed.”

  “Him, or you?”

  “Both of us.”

  “Then you’ll both need to get used to disappointment.” She managed a smile, then another thought struck her. “Helen won’t be there, will she?”

  David shook his head. “No. I seriously doubt it. Jacob knows that we’ve broken up, and I’m his client. I don’t think he’d invite her.”

  That eased her mind. In the end, she decided on the classic little black dress and heels, with the sardonyx pendant dangling openly over the neckline. Into her small clutch purse, frowning as she did so, she placed a few vials and managed to cram in the Ladysmith as well. “What’s the matter?” David asked, as she kept glancing out the rear window of their cab, trying to determine if the black Mercedes two cars back was following them.

  “I keep thinking I’ve forgotten something,” she told him. “Sorry.”

  Jacob Prudhomme had rented the penthouse suite in the Hotel on Rivington for the party. David flashed their invitation card to the security guard at the elevator, and they rode up in silence with two other couples, one in formal attire, the other dressed in what Camille assumed was an attempt at haute couture: matching silver jackets in metallic threads, bright red capri pants, she in purple stiletto heels and he in scuffed Chuck Taylors, both with spiked and product-laden hair, both of them wearing too much eye makeup for Camille’s taste. She could see both couples trying to gauge her and David, trying to determine if one of them was someone whose name they should know, but saying nothing as the elevator made its long climb to the 20th floor.