‘Here. We were stopped just along here, I think it was.’ Lutz pulled over to the edge of the road and onto a grassy shoulder. A low barbed-wire fence ran along the border of the field, partially obscured by a fringe of tall weeds and brambles. The meadows rolled away on both sides of the road for hundreds of yards. In the distance a dark wall of trees could be discerned against the night skyline.
‘Who owns all this land out here?’ Lutz asked, getting out of the car and looking around.
‘I think it belongs to the Mason family, or a lot of it does. But they live most of the year in Florida. Lots of money in that family.’
‘Right.’
Lasker came around to where Lutz stood by the fence. ‘Where exactly did you see them?’ It was becoming a familiar question with him.
‘Straight out there.’ Lutz pointed.
‘You don’t see them now, do you?’
‘Smart-ass.’
‘Let’s take a look.’
Lasker stepped carefully over the rusty barbed-wire and set off across the field. Lutz caught up with him and a few minutes later they stood within thirty yards of the woods. All around them the blanket of field grass and wild flowers had been gouged and ripped up, leaving great jagged scars of bare soil about eight inches deep. The damage was unmistakeable, even in the poor night light. Both men stood staring for several moments in silence. Lasker felt an uneasy calm settle over him. Yes, it had been here all right. He was sure of it. Who would come out here and do this? Murderers? Vandals? Animal killers? Ghosts? Flying saucers? It? They? The wind? What tied everything together? What link? Why couldn’t he put his finger on it?
In the night air, slowly cooling, there was no breeze.
*
It wouldn’t do.
Sturdevent thumbed through the fat stack of notes, photocopies and documents that made up Ned Hanley’s instant file on the Richters. Of course he had received everything on the dead couple; everything and nothing. There was no indication that they had fooled around sexually with other people and that was what Sturdevent had hoped to find. They had no money problems (his family provided a discreet academic subsidy while Hal Richter worked on his thesis) and they had no known enemies. An intelligent young man. An attractive young woman. A handsome couple. With prospects. Unfortunately dead.
Doc Schmidt’s preliminary report wasn’t much help either. The man had been killed with the steel vase (as Sturdevent suspected) and the woman had been killed on the corner of the mantel (as Sturdevent had feared). Although the room was comparatively undisturbed the case was wide open, and could easily be related to the Donner case. It had to be. That feeling was closing in on Sturdevent again.
But he still wanted to believe it was a clear-cut murder, nothing more. Perhaps Donner had been murdered too — but that was a can of worms he didn’t want to re-open, at least not until he had to. Donner was a nobody, a pale grey bachelor clerk tending towards total invisibility. Sure, people talked about it some and wondered. It was a little odd, no doubt about it. But the matter of his death had faded quickly and without any real difficulty. Nobody could get too worked up about a guy like Donner.
Unfortunately, it would be quite a different matter with the Richters. They were young, which always counts for more with some people. There were two of them and one was a woman, which really made things a lot worse. And they were good-looking. And they had friends. And there would be a stink this time. And Sturdevent was more depressed than ever.
He had suckered himself with Hanley, too. That son of a bitch had worked all night on the Richter file, with three other members of the force. They had rung bells, pounded on doors, slammed brass knockers until at least four in the morning, talking to friends and even casual acquaintances of Hal and Lynn Richter. Waking people up, grilling them in the middle of the night practically until dawn… The desk already had half a dozen complaints and the leaden feeling in Sturdevent’s gut told him it wouldn’t stop there. Hanley was now home sleeping like a babe. He could dump crap on Hanley about it but he knew that wouldn’t do any good. Hanley would just shrug and say he was carrying out Sturdevent’s orders. Sooner or later, probably much sooner, one of those irate citizens will be in touch with the mayor’s office and when that happens Sherwin will be in here shitting ping pong balls all over the place, he thought. He’ll be steamed up about these two deaths as it is. Nice new apartment complex, and all that. Sturdevent wondered glumly why the mayor hadn’t been on the phone to him already.
He looked at his watch. Twelve-ten. He looked at the sludgy remains in the bottom of his coffee-cup. Shouldn’t drink so much of that crap, especially in this weather. Next thing, the doctor’ll tell me my blood pressure is doing a permanent rhumba.
He looked at his desk. It was a nice, neat desk, well-ordered and with few papers on it. The kind of desk that said not much was happening around here. Which was usually the case.
Sturdevent began writing on his memo pad. He drew up a list much the same as the one Martin Lasker was keeping, but shorter, starting with cow and ending with Richters. What did it all mean? This town… my town…
Too much brooding, Sturdevent thought abruptly. There are things to do, even if they prove to be of little help. He picked up the telephone and rang through to the basement. After several minutes’ delay, which annoyed the Chief, someone answered.
‘Anything in on the telex from Hartford yet?’
‘Nothing, Chief.’
‘I want it on my desk before the ink dries.’
‘I have a note on that, Chief.’
Sturdevent hung up. When it did arrive, the State’s list of known sex-offenders, murderers, manslaughter cases, assault-and-battery cons and anyone else remotely similar, would give his people something more to get busy with, but he didn’t expect anything significant to come of it. Go through the motions.
Hell, the Richter case wasn’t even a genuine sex crime. They’d screwed, yeah, but each other.
Sturdevent shook himself, as if physically to break loose from his gloom, and rose from his desk. He would go home and have lunch. His wife would cheer him up and get him ready for the next round. He wouldn’t even have to answer the phone if the Mayor called. Fed and refreshed, he would return to the office and jump up and down on Hanley. Just for the hell of it.
Then maybe figure some new angle of approach on these killings. There’s got to be a handle somewhere and I’ll find it. Some basic point. Maybe they ought to look more closely into the State mental-health records on people in this area.
Something.
*
Father Lombardy knew that some people thought highly of Peter Demianovich Ouspensky, but after a difficult half-hour of reading Tertium Organum the young priest was ready to give up. He had struggled on into the fifth chapter, but it seemed a fruitless, misguided exercise. Ouspensky was an ambitious but muddled thinker, and Father Lombardy was beginning to feel he had been silly to be persuaded to take the book from the library by its subtitle: ‘A Key to the Enigmas of the World.’ So far the Russian had succeeded at nothing but being mildly provocative, and even then he was still confusing.
‘It is possible that four-dimensional space is the distance between a group of solids, separating these solids, yet at the same time binding them into some to us inconceivable whole, even though they seem to be separate from one another.’ Ouspensky apparently thought that to be of some importance as he repeated the idea with variations several times thereafter. But Father Lombardy couldn’t follow it.
And again:
‘We may conceive of the three-dimensional bodies of our space somewhat in the nature of images in our space of to us incomprehensible four-dimensional bodies.’
It would be easier to believe in ghosts and demons than to get snarled up in all this mystical chic, Father Lombardy thought, as he tossed the heavy book onto his desk. Why had he even bothered to look at it? To prove he was open-minded? A waste of time. No, it was something else — a way of avoiding the sense of fear that h
ad started growing like a seed in his mind that first day with Joey Pomar. He hadn’t seen the apparition again, but it was no less real to him.
Father Lombardy lit a cigarette.
There’s good reason to worry, he thought, as if trying to persuade himself anew. He had read about the terrible deaths in the apartment building the other day, and about other strange things that had been happening in town lately. He was sure they were related in some way to the evil presence he had encountered. But how? And, more importantly, what was it? There was of course every chance that it could, and would ultimately, be explained according to the laws of science and man. But it was equally possible that all such explanations would fail, in which case he would be left with only — only? — the supernatural.
Somebody knocked timidly on his door.
‘Come in,’ the priest called.
The door opened a little way and the housekeeper stuck her face a few inches into the room. ‘Father Connors would like to see you, Father.’
‘Yes, all right.’
‘He’s in the sitting-room, Father.’
‘Thank you.’
The door clicked shut again. Father Lombardy rose from his chair, went to the sink, splashed water on his face and roughly combed his hair in place with his hands. The pastor probably wanted to discuss something silly, like having the faded white lines in the church parking lot repainted, but Father Lombardy welcomed the distraction. He knew he had spent too much time sitting around and brooding about his riddle.
He felt brighter and bounder when he strode into the ground-floor sitting-room, but that feeling was immediately deflated. Father Connors sat in his ancient leather easy-chair and there were several other people present. Father Lombardy recognised Art Pomar, but none of the others. Clearly a meeting was in progress and Father Lombardy felt uncomfortable in his sports-shirt and slacks. Everyone stood up as he entered, which only seemed to make things worse.
‘Father Lombardy,’ the pastor said. ‘Sorry to call you in without advance notice.’ The old priest looked grim but he still managed that sly flicker of a smile.
‘That’s all right. What is it?’
‘I believe you already know Mr Pomar?’
‘Yes, hello.’
Art Pomar nodded nervously to Father Lombardy.
‘This is Mr Mikenas,’ Father Connors continual. ‘And Mr Duhl, Mr Schreiber and Mr Henderson.’
Father Lombardy shook hands with each person in turn, then they all resumed their seats. A citizens’ committee, Father Lombardy thought unhappily. Something has happened.
‘These gentlemen are here about the sightings of the Virgin Mary that started with Mr Pomar’s children, Father,’ the pastor explained. He paused for a moment, but it was clear from the stoney look on his face that Father Lombardy was not going to say anything quickly, so Father Connors continued. ‘Since you were involved in this situation from the beginning, I’d be grateful if you would bring us up to date on your own activities and thoughts, Father, before we go any further.’
The old priest tried to look kindly and sympathetic but to Father Lombardy he merely looked distressing. The whole gathering seemed distressing. Why was he on the spot? Who were these people and what were they doing here? Was he being set up for something?
‘I’m sorry, Father Connors, but I feel like I’m dropping in at the deep end. This meeting has obviously already been in progress before I got here and I’d like to know just what it’s all about. Would you please bring me up to date?’
‘Well, I’m sorry,’ Father Connors responded immediately. ‘Of course, it must seem strange to you, coming into a room full of new faces.’ The pastor paused again as if to let Father Lombardy say yes, but the young priest remained silent. ‘As I said, these gentlemen are here about the sightings. You may or may not know that there have been several more sightings since you last spoke with Mr Pomar. Several more,’ Father Connors repeated.
‘I see,’ Father Lombardy said curtly. His uneasiness shaded into anger now. It was going to get out of hand.
‘It seems that many children, including the children of all these gentlemen, have now seen the — apparition of Our Lady. They feel, and I quite agree, that something must be done about it. The sooner the better. That’s what we are here to discuss. But first, we would like to know what you think. You have had time to look into the matter and think about it.’
‘Yes, and I’ve already told Mr Pomar what I think about this thing. That is, I don’t believe it actually is Our Lady. In fact, I’m sure it isn’t. I think the whole thing is ridiculous and perhaps even dangerous.’ Father Lombardy could see mounting concern on the faces of the parents sitting opposite him, but he continued without pausing. ‘I don’t pretend to know what the — thing — is, but I know it is not the Virgin Mary. I told Mr Pomar, and I still think it’s a plausible theory, that what the children are seeing may be some kind of gas cloud, caused by a pocket of pollution that has simply accumulated and hasn’t yet been dispersed by the wind. I felt it, and smelled it, and it’s nasty, believe me, which is why I say it may be dangerous. You say there have been many more sightings. If that’s true, then it means the cloud is still floating around. And may still be dangerous. I admit it’s an unusual sight to see, impressive even. But it is not Mary, the Mother of God, not by any stretch of the imagination. We’ve had hot, still weather for the last month or so, and it seems most likely to me that this cloud is nothing more than a mass of chemical exhaust from some factory or other. If there had been any wind to speak of, it would have been long gone by now.’
Father Lombardy now paused but no one else had anything to say. ‘That’s what it looked like to me and that’s what I think.’ Having said all that, Father Lombardy realised it sounded even more persuasive than he actually believed. But another look at the faces around the room told him his story hadn’t fallen on receptive ground. Even Father Connors looked unhappy, as if he had heard pretty much what he expected to hear.
‘Mr Pomar tells us that you were physically thrown through the air by this apparition,’ the pastor said. Is that right, Father?’
‘The cloud descended on us suddenly. We jumped and fell down,’ Father Lombardy lied with some annoyance. ‘And in any event, I never heard of Our Lady throwing people around.’
‘Nor have I heard of a cloud doing that.’
Father Lombardy had no reply to the pastor’s remark.
The pastor continued: ‘Did you see this — whatever — only the one time, Father?’
‘Yes. I went back to the place four times after the incident, always at the same time of day the children said it appeared. But I never saw it again. In retrospect, I’m sorry I left so quickly the day it was there. I should have stayed and taken a closer look at it, but I was concerned about the safety of Mr Pomar’s son.’
‘Of course.’ The pastor fell silent for a few moments, staring at his shoes. ‘It isn’t your fault, Father Lombardy, but I’m afraid what you have had to say isn’t very helpful at this stage.’
‘What do you mean by “this stage”?’ Father Lombardy asked tartly. This solemn-faced gathering seemed more and more ludicrous to him, and Father Connors, busy being dignified and magisterial, was lending it a sense of importance it didn’t deserve. Not this way.
‘Well, you aren’t the only adult who has seen — Our Lady. Mr Duhl and Mr Henderson here both say they saw Her.’
‘What? Her?’ Father Lombardy was stunned and he knew he wasn’t hiding it.
‘That’s right, Father,’ Mr Henderson said. ‘Don and I both saw Her.’
‘Where? When?’
‘Two nights ago,’ Henderson said. ‘We were driving home from Veterans’ Field.’
‘We had taken our boys down to watch a Babe Ruth League game,’ Duhl put in.
‘That’s right. We were driving back on the Old Springfield Road, about nine o’clock or so.’
‘That’s right, about nine. It was getting dark.’
‘In fact,’ Hender
son said, patting his paunch, ‘it was already pretty dark out on that road. Lots of trees, low in the valley, you know.’
‘Well, where exactly was — She?’ Father Lombardy asked, trying to cut through the extraneous matter.
‘In the woods out there,’ Henderson replied. ‘Like a great burning figure surrounded by a blue light.’
‘Surrounded?’ Father Lombardy could scarcely believe the word, which seemed to separate the figure from the rest of the apparition.
‘That’s right,’ Duhl chimed in. ‘Surrounded Her like an enormous halo.’
‘Well, or a cloud, I guess you could say,’ Henderson added.
Fearing that the two men would get into a full-scale search for the exact word, Father Lombardy pressed on. ‘Where in the woods? Presumably it wasn’t right by the side of the road?’
‘Right in the middle of the road, Father,’ Duhl exclaimed, quite excited now. ‘Bang in the middle.’
‘I was driving, Father,’ Henderson said, trying to assume control of the narrative again. ‘And as Don says, She was slap in the middle of the road. We came around a bend and there She was about thirty yards or so ahead of us. I wasn’t going too fast anyhow, you know what those back roads are like, but I had to break sharp as it was. We stopped about — well, pretty close to Her.’
‘Close enough to have a perfect view,’ Duhl said.
‘And you saw Our Lady?’
‘I swear, Father,’ Duhl said.
‘We talked about it most of the night, Father, because we weren’t going to get hysterical about it but, yes, we saw Her. I believe we did. She was right in the centre of the light. You could see Her all right. I can understand how you might think it was a gas cloud seeing it briefly and maybe not getting a good look, but we saw it close up and clearly, and it was Her, Father.’ Henderson rested his case with a sober nod. He had tried to sound mature and reasonable throughout.
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