The Madness of Mercury

by Connie Di Marco

  NINE

  I DROVE DOWN MONTGOMERY from North Beach and cut up to Union Square, joining the line of cars waiting to enter the underground public parking. After a five-minute wait, I finally pulled in, went down two levels, and parked. I took the elevator up to street level and joined the crowds of holiday shoppers.

  My business is generally slow around the holidays, although it always picks up after the New Year. With the recent bad weather and a retrograde Mercury, it was particularly slow this time around. I had only one more client to see that week, so I was especially grateful for the income from the Zodia column. It irked me no end that the Army of the Prophet was raining on my parade. On top of everything, I hadn’t done any shopping and needed to find some presents.

  I always keep a few bottles of wine and small boxes of truffles on hand in case a neighbor drops by with a present. And I send winter solstice cards to all my clients, offering them a discount in the first month of the new year, but my personal shopping list is small. My grandmother wouldn’t be back from her cruise until mid-January, but I wanted to shop for her now. Gale and Cheryl and I had agreed we’d keep it simple and inexpensive but creative. Also, I’d have to find something for Kuan. He never expects a present, but he’s more family than friend and I always enjoy looking for gifts for him. I’d secretly checked out his small library, the part written in English at least, and felt sure I could find a book on a subject he might like. That was my entire list.

  I hurried across Geary and turned around to look up at the tree in the middle of the square. It was magnificent, hung with huge glistening balls and sparkling with thousands of tiny lights. I love the holiday season—the cold weather, the smells, the lights and decorations. I guess I celebrate the solstice more than anything. The Romans called the darkest time of the year Saturnalia, and that’s how I think of the holidays. A time to drape evergreens over the mantel, light the Yule log, enjoy good food, and burn candles against the darkness. When January rolls around and all the decorations are put away, winter seems so much more bleak.

  I don’t have very clear memories of my parents, but I do remember lights on a Christmas tree. I remember my mother’s perfume and her auburn hair, the same color as mine; my father’s dark eyes and being lifted onto his shoulders. The smell of pine brings those images to me in a rush, and I’ve been known to stick my head between the branches of pine trees just to inhale that sappy aroma.

  On a side street near the Square, I found a small jewelry store and bought a garnet necklace for my grandmother. At Macy’s I purchased a soft plum-colored shawl that matched the necklace perfectly. Next I took the elevator to the ladies department to search for the sweater that I knew Cheryl wanted. She had shown me a picture of it in the latest catalogue and asked me what I thought. It was cream colored with tiny pearls splashed across the front. I roamed through every rack and counter on the floor and had no luck. In desperation I tracked down a saleswoman who remembered the item, but thought it was sold out and suggested I try to order online. I was frustrated and disappointed. I kicked myself for not starting sooner, because now I wouldn’t have enough time to find what Cheryl really wanted.

  I browsed through the large bookstore on the corner, hoping to spot something that Kuan might appreciate but probably not buy for himself. I discovered a reference book of Native American medicinal herbs. Perfect gift and something I thought he’d truly enjoy. The next person on my list was Gale, and she was always a problem. She had everything and could afford to buy anything she wanted. I needed something unexpected and unique, but not expensive. I didn’t have a clue, but maybe I’d find something in my travels.

  As I stood in line at the checkout counter of the bookstore, an uncomfortable feeling stole over me. Was I being watched? I turned slowly and surveyed the customers in line behind me. No one looked suspicious. No one turned away suddenly. Just holiday shoppers focused on their own business. As I turned back, my eye caught someone standing at a table close by, separated by a metal bar from the line of shoppers. A man—dark hair, black jacket—seemingly immersed in a book he was holding in his hands. No shopping bags in sight. Something about him … I mentally shook myself, pushing the thought out of my mind. I was being paranoid. Nerves were getting the better of me.

  When I reached the street, the wind had picked up. Shoppers were doing their best to hang on to their packages and hats and scarves. I pulled up the hood on my coat and, protecting my few finds, headed back to the square. I climbed the steps to the top of Union Square and took cover inside the small coffee shop. The aroma of freshly ground beans filled the space. I ordered a cappuccino and carried it gingerly to a stool near the window where I could watch the skaters on the ice rink under the tree. Maybe this was picking at old wounds. Maybe I just wanted to remember a happier time.

  The windows were completely fogged. I rubbed the condensation away with the sleeve of my coat and peeked out. The top of the seventy-foot tree and its huge bulbs swayed back and forth in the chilly gusts. Michael and I used to skate here. He was hopeless on his rented skates and wouldn’t believe me when I told him it wasn’t his ankles, his skates were too large. We’d manage a few passes around the rink before we’d collapse, laughing, on the ice. For a split second I saw his smile and felt the warmth of his hands, remembering how safe I felt when he put his arms around me. An aching so acute swept over me, I didn’t trust myself not to burst into tears. What is it about the holiday season that brings our missing pieces into such sharp focus? Loss and pain may be there at other times, but somehow it doesn’t hurt quite so acutely. Maybe stopping here wasn’t such a good idea. I needed to quit feeling sorry for myself. Michael would have been disgusted with me. I was pathetic. I snuffled and rummaged in my purse for a tissue, blowing my nose and wiping my eyes, hoping anyone watching would think I was down with the flu. Suck it up, Julia.

  Bundling up against the cold, I retraced my steps and approached the garage entrance. Two people, a man and a woman doing their best to stay warm under the overhang of the garage, were handing out flyers. One stepped in front of me, blocking my path, and shoved a flyer at me. Annoyed, I grabbed it and walked briskly into the garage. I glanced down at an announcement of services at the Prophet’s Tabernacle. I sighed, and crumpling the paper up, I tossed it in a nearby trash can.

  I took the elevator down to the lowest level, where I’d parked, then stepped out and glanced around. In contrast to the crowds of people on the streets, not a soul was in sight. I felt a frisson of fear. Why was it so deserted? My nerves were just on edge, I decided. I was imagining threats where there were none. I took a deep breath and hurried to my car, unlocked the door, and threw my bags onto the passenger seat. Before I turned the key in the ignition, I glanced in the rearview mirror.

  A face in a ski mask stared back at me, the eyes bright in the ambient lighting. A gasp caught in my throat. My heart raced as a gloved hand pulled my head back and covered my mouth. I felt the sharp prick of a knife point at my neck. I froze. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t speak.

  “Forget about the Prophet. Make sure you keep your big mouth shut or my next visit won’t be so nice,” he growled. He pulled the knife away, let go of my jaw, and jumped out of the car.

  I struggled to breathe. I was shaking, but I somehow managed to start the car and pull out.

  Where did he go? I thought I saw a shadow near the entrance to the stairway. I drove in that direction, but when I got there, I saw nothing. I circled the parking level and then the next two levels above, my tires squealing on the cement, but spotted no one who could possibly be my assailant.

  The shock was hitting me now. My hands were shaking and I was running on adrenaline. I pulled into an empty spot and hit the brakes. The tears came then. Tears of fright and anger and frustration. Who were these people? What did they want? And why me?

  When the sobs subsided, I blew my nose and wiped my eyes. I must have been followed. But from where? From my apartment? From the Gamble house? My instincts in the bookstore
were correct. I’d have to pay better attention from now on.

  Once out of the downtown area, traffic was light. I debated if there was anything I could do. My attacker would be long gone. I knew what this was about, but the police would never believe it or be able to do anything about it. Reporting it would be a waste of time. I refused to let these bullies get to me, and that’s what they were—dangerous bullies.

  I stopped at a discount store on Geary to pick up wrapping paper, ribbons, a few candles, and a wreath with a red bow. I was determined to live my life as normally as possible. Screw the Prophet. I may not have been in the swing of the holiday season, but I hoped that if I went through the motions, I’d catch the spirit or it would catch me. Either way was fine.

  My cell rang as I climbed back into the car. I recognized the number of the Mystic Eye. It was Cheryl. “Is everything all right?” I asked.

  “It’s fine. Just wanted to get hold of you to see if you could make a meeting at the Eye tomorrow night?”

  “Sure. How come? Other people being hassled?”

  “You could say that. Gale’s talking to her lawyer, but she wants to get everyone who’s associated with the Eye together, all our readers and friends, to hear their ideas before she does anything.”

  “I’ll be there.” We rang off.

  The wind buffeted the car in short angry gusts as I drove the length of California Street. I turned down 30th Avenue, relieved to see an empty sidewalk. The weather had undoubtedly helped. No crowd was at my doorstep. I pulled into the garage, made sure the door was shut and locked, and trudged up the back stairs with my loot.

  The adrenaline had left my system and I realized I was starving. I dug some leftover chicken from the refrigerator and wrapped it up in a flour tortilla with tons of mayonnaise and salt. It was almost ten o’clock. Ann’s shift at the hospital ended at eleven. She’d be home soon, but I didn’t want to bother her this late at night. I’d catch up with her in the morning. I devoured my chicken wrap as Wizard trotted into the kitchen, yawning, and waited by this bowl. I rubbed the top of his head, grateful we were both safe in the house, and dished some food into his bowl. He quacked back at me. When he finished eating, he jumped on my lap. I held him close and rubbed his fur. “Don’t worry, Wiz. I’ll keep you safe. It’s just you and me now. I won’t let anything bad happen to either one of us.”

  The message light was blinking. I listened to three heavy-breathing hangups. Lovely. A message from Don, asking me to call him at home. And at the end, a message from Ermie, my apartment manager, telling me to give her a call as soon as possible. I didn’t like the sound of that. I checked the clock again. I wasn’t sure what time parents went to bed, but hopefully if I called Don back now, I wouldn’t be waking anyone up.

  He answered on the first ring. “I think I know who’s behind your nasty emails.”

  “I think I do too, and they staged a march around my building today on top of everything else.” I decided not to tell Don about the man in the ski mask. He’d hound me until I made a police report, even though both of us would know it wouldn’t do any good.

  “Did you call the cops?”

  “My neighbor did, but my client was afraid to ring my bell. I had to rush to the Eye to meet her.”

  “Oh, no. I’m sorry, Julia.”

  “When I got there, a similar bunch had been picketing the shop and passing out leaflets. Scared the customers away. Gale’s called a meeting. I think she plans to look into getting a restraining order against them.”

  “Well, at this point you may know more than me, but this Prophet guy and his followers have targeted other people. I did a little research. He started his so-called ministry about five years ago. He has a nonprofit organization based in Louisiana and has applied for the same tax status in California. And his legal name is Royal Earl Potter.”

  “What kind of a minister preaches hate?”

  “That’s just it, Julia. He doesn’t. He preaches ‘love’ and ‘compassion,’ if you can believe that. He’s well connected to local charities and politicians, runs a soup kitchen for the homeless, set up some shelters. He has a big following. He carries on about sin a lot, but hey, what else would you expect, he’s a preacher.”

  “So it all depends on how he defines sin,” I replied sarcastically. I love California and I love the tolerance of people in San Francisco. The city certainly has its share of oddballs, but most people live and let live.

  “You be extra careful. This guy’s either a con or a megalomaniac. He may or may not believe what he preaches, but I think he’ll use anything to gain a power base. He’s appealing to elements of the population that feel disenfranchised. And they could turn violent. I’ll keep digging and see what I can turn up. By the way, don’t delete any emails, and like I told you, keep a log of the calls.”

  “I’ll be damned if they’re going to intimidate me.” Brave words, I thought. “My problem is that I can’t have clients coming here and dealing with this. It’ll wreck my business.”

  “I hear that. Just be careful. Call me if you have any more trouble. I’m only fifteen minutes away.”

  “Thanks, Don. Really. That means a lot.”

  I hung up. I was angry now, really angry, the more I thought about the monster hiding in my car. I grabbed a large pad of paper and forced myself to replay the three hangups, making evil faces at the machine each time I heard heavy breathing. I listened to the last message from Ermie more carefully. She was letting me know that my downstairs neighbors had complained to her. Now I regretted not checking my machine during the day and getting back to her. Hopefully she wouldn’t think I’d been deliberately avoiding her.

  After noting the time of each of the hangups, I kicked off my shoes and headed to the kitchen. I poured myself a generous glass of wine, turned up the heater, and arranged my new candles on the fireplace mantel while debating whether to hang my wreath at the front door or inside the house. I opted for hanging it over the fireplace, where the smell of pine would permeate the apartment. I hauled down the large picture over the mantel, slid it into the hallway closet, and hooked the wreath on the same nail. It worked perfectly. I propped my feet on the ottoman as Wizard ambled over and climbed on my lap, purring contentedly. I was too tired and shaken to even think about lighting a fire. I finished my wine and, picking Wizard up, headed down the hall to the bedroom.

  The phone rang as I passed by the office. I tensed. Then I thought perhaps Ann was home and trying to reach me. I looked at the display and saw Gale’s cell number. I grabbed it immediately.

  “Thank God you’re there.” She sounded very shaky.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I’m at the Eye. Something very strange just happened. I heard a knock at the back door. I thought it might be you.”

  “Are you alone?”

  “Yes. I closed up and sent Cheryl home. When I opened the door … oh God, Julia. Someone left a dead cat on the doorstep.”

  I cringed. “I’ll be right there.”

  “I’m sorry. You don’t need to come. I wrapped it up and put it in plastic in the dumpster. It looked like its neck had been broken.”

  “Don’t argue. I’ll be there in twenty minutes. Less than that.”

  TEN

  I DROVE THE LENGTH of California Street as fast as I could, slowing at each red light. Once I was sure no other cars were crossing, I ran through several intersections. Gale might be safe for now, but someone definitely wanted to send a message. When I reached the Eye, the shop was closed but the display lights were on in the front windows. I pulled down the alleyway and parked next to Gale’s car, then tapped on the door. “Gale, it’s me.”

  She opened the door immediately. The storeroom was dark. A stack of empty boxes and packing materials stood against the wall. Inside, the only light was a small desk lamp in the office.

  Gale is tall and self-assured, with a regal bearing. Tonight she was completely shaken. She hugged her arms, more from fright than from cold. “I feel bad now
that I’ve called you. I was just so freaked out. I recognized the cat—it was the little gray one that hangs out behind the apartment building next door. I think it’s a stray. Everyone around here feeds it, even the restaurant people, and it’s such a friendly little thing. Some sick bastard probably gave it some food and then snapped its neck. God, I think I’m going to be sick.”

  “Shouldn’t you call the cops?”

  “And tell them what? I found a dead cat? Please. Like they’d listen. Even if they thought someone had killed it, what could they do?”

  “It shows a pattern of harassment. Might be worth making a report.”

  She sighed. “Yeah. You’re probably right. I just wasn’t thinking straight. I was so upset.” She collapsed in the chair behind her desk.

  I shrugged out of my coat. “Why are you here so late?”

  “We just got a huge shipment of books and supplies in. Cheryl’s been working late every night, so I sent her home. I’d just finished stacking the boxes in the storeroom”—she shivered involuntarily—“when this … ” She stopped in mid-sentence.

  “What?”

  “What’s that on your neck?” She came close and touched the spot on my neck where the attacker’s knife had left a small mark. “What happened, Julia?”

  I recounted the incident in the parking garage.

  “Dear God. We’ve got to call the police.”

  “No.”

  “What? Why? You were physically attacked and threatened!”

  “I know, but it’s not going to do a damn thing except waste my time. Just like the cat. You know I’m right.”

  “I’ll have to tell Cheryl. If they did this to you, we’re all in danger.”

  “Maybe not. Maybe just me.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “My column reaches a lot of people. I’m more of a threat. And I’m wondering if the Prophet’s image isn’t a lot of crap. Don told me he preaches love and compassion and good works and all that stuff, but that doesn’t jive with what we’re all experiencing. Gale, there’s a much bigger game here. I’m just not sure yet what it is.”