Lady Sativa

by Frank Lauria

  “Please come along, doctor,” the detective said “Yon m need medical attention.”

  Orient straightened up and a wave of dizziness came over him. He stumbled after the detective toward the warm, distant lights of the house.

  There were hundreds of questions to answer and countless forms to fill out over the next two days. At first Orient was confined to his room under guard, but after all the details had been examined and everyone’s statement taken, he was allowed to have visitors.

  Lily came to his room that afternoon.

  She was dressed in a velvet jumpsuit that matched the golden color of her skin and she was carrying yellow flowers. “Couldn’t find roses,” she explained, putting them in a vase by the window. “How are you feeling?” She came over and sat at the edge of the bed. The sunlight streaming through the window behind her sprayed a halo of metallic glints around her bronze hair.

  Orient grinned. “Like a man who’s just been brought flowers by a beautiful woman.”

  She smiled and narrowed her amber eyes. “You’d better get well before I get to New York,” she said softly. “I want you in one piece.”

  “Healing fast.” He lifted his arm and flexed his fingers. “A lot of blood, but I guess it was superficial Didn’t even need stitches.”

  “Thank heavens the police were following you,” she said with a slight shudder.

  Orient didn’t answer. The sequence of that night’s events were still scattered through his mind, like confetti in a windstorm. There seemed to be so many small pieces missing.

  “Maxwell said she may have killed some others before Neilson and Carl knew about it,

  “I don’t know,” he murmured. “She seemed terrified.”

  Lily leaned over and gently kissed him. “Probably didn’t know what was happening, poor thing: frightened out of her wits with paranoia.”

  Orient rubbed the back of her neck with his fingers. The skin was tender and warm. “I suppose so,” he sighed. “The violent part of her personality must have made even the simplest act a frightening experience.” As he spoke, he knew that it was logical. Everything fit the pattern. A double personality—one homicidal and the other timid. Periodically, the violent personality dominated and acted out savage physical attacks. A clear case of schizoid Lycanthropy. “Still can’t figure out why she sent me that note,” he mused as he continued to massage her neck.

  “You were handy,” Lily purred, her eyes half-closed. “We were playing bridge, remember? I must say she made the best choice even though she didn’t take advantage of it properly.” She kissed him again, her lips cool and moist against his. “I’m going to miss you,” she whispered. “And I rarely miss people.”

  “When are you leaving?”

  “The police said we could go when we like. I’m catching a train in a couple of hours.” She lifted her head and looked at him, her eyes smoky and teasing. “Still want me to come visit you?”

  He smiled. “Just send me a message.”

  “And I won’t forget the roses,” she murmured, brushing her mouth against his ear. She stood up and caressed his face with her hand. “Ciao love, take care until I see you again.”

  Long after she’d gone, Orient could feel the lingering warmth of her fingers on his skin.

  Later that afternoon he was visited by Sybelle.

  “Owen, darling, we’ve been frantic with worry. Are you all right? She stood at the door, smiling uncertainly, her pink hands rubbing against her navy silk trousers. As she came into the room, Orient saw that Germaine was behind her.

  “How are you, doctor?” The tall man’s melodious voice was- hearty but somewhat labored, as he drew up chairs for himself and Sybelle.

  “I’m fine,” Orient held up his arm and flexed his fingers for them. “I can even carry my own suitcases. Are the police still here?”

  Germaine smiled slightly. “They’ve gone. We’re all free to go.”

  “There’s a train in about four hours,” Sybelle said hopefully, “but if you don’t feel up to it we can wait until tomorrow.”

  “I’m up to it.”

  She breathed a long sigh of relief. “Well, that makes it easier, darling. Anthony has been acting like the rude pig he is and wants everyone out of here as soon as possible. Maxwell and Lily left for London a little while ago, and Professor Hazer left this morning. He asked me to tell you he was sorry he couldn’t wait. But I know how he feels. I’d like to leave this house, too. I find it so depressing now. Poor, tragic Hannah.” She dabbed her eyes with a blue handkerchief and looked at Orient. “I hope you don’t hate me for bringing you here. But I just didn’t think anything like this could ever happen.”

  Orient didn’t answer. His mind was still considering the fact that Lily and Maxwell were together.

  The thought evoked a faint trace of annoyance and doubt. She was under no obligation to him in any way, but he would have felt better if she’d told him.

  “I’m sure Dr. Orient doesn’t blame you,” Germaine was saying. “After all, he escaped with minor injuries and won a substantial sum of money, isn’t that so, doctor?”

  “Of course, but I’m sorry none of us could do anything to help Hannah.”

  Sybelle lowered her voice and leaned closer to Orient. “They should investigate Anthony’s background. I’m positive they’d find plenty. If Hannah was mad, he had something to do with it.”

  “I’m afraid the police consider the case closed.” Germaine smiled. “A homicidal maniac killed during an attempted murder.” His gray eyes were steady and penetrating. “Doesn’t your statement back their pronouncement?”

  “As far as I knew, Hannah sent a note to meet her then became frightened and attacked me. She had fantastic strength.”

  “Classic case of schizophrenia,” Germaine said. Orient nodded

  Hours later, however, on the train ride to Stockholm, he patiently told and retold the story of Hannah’s death for Sybelle; and each time he reconstructed the events of that night he was left with the feeling that his version was incomplete. As if he’d left something of significance behind in the mud of the dark churchyard.

  8

  The restaurant was small, dimly lit, and casual by New York standards. The waiter didn’t seem overly offended by Sybelle’s request for a second drink after dinner.

  She was relieved. The evening was too lovely to rush. She sipped her Grand Marnier and gazed at Sordi’s pensive face over the rim of her glass.

  “So Hannah Bestman tried to kill the doctor,” he was murmuring. “It’s unbelievable.”

  “The whole thing was simply dreadful,” she agreed. “This is the first evening out I’ve been able to enjoy since I’ve been back.” She frowned slightly. “Didn t Owen tell you anything?”

  “Very little. He told me we’d be able to keep the house so I knew he won the prize. But murder is serious business. No wonder he’s been so closed up and nervous lately.”

  “Both Carl and Hannah were so dear to me,” she sighed. “And that nice Mr. Neilson. I didn’t want to believe it myself. Poor Hannah. But the facts were there. She was a schizophrenic Oh, it was heartbreaking.” She took a long sip of her liqueur. Sordi’s fine-featured face was drawn with concern. It made him look attractive, she reflected, like a Renaissance scholar pondering a philosophical problem.

  I guess that’s why the doctor hasn’t been able to settle down,” he ventured. “He needs a vacation after all that.”

  Sybelle nodded emphatically. “Oh, I’m sure. The poor darling was in bed for two days after the attack. And Anthony Bestman was just horrid. He practically threw him out of his sickbed.” She smiled and lowered her voice. “But let’s talk about something else now. Dinner was divine.”

  Sordi’s smile softened the lines around his mouth. ‘It was a nice victory celebration. Even if the guest of honor couldn’t make it.”

  “Isn’t that just like Owen to become so involved with something at the last minute?” she asked sympathetically. But actually she was plea
sed that she and Sordi were alone. It had solved a problem for her. “Maybe we can all have dinner at my place soon,” she purred. “Just the three of us.”

  “Great.” He signaled for the bill. “The doctor needs to get out and relax.” His private beliefs were less optimistic. If anything, Orient had returned in worse shape than when he left. He wasn’t himself. In the past, he’d shown a tendency to shut out reality with his work. But he hadn’t done anything at all for two weeks except take long walks at night. This talk with Sybelle had cleared up the reason.

  It was just a matter of time before the doctor got back to his routine. He paid the bill and looked up at Sybelle. “Still early,” he said softly. “Would you like to go somewhere? This is a celebration for us, anyway.”

  She was delighted with the suggestion. “Let’s go dancing,” she whispered. “It’s just the thing for getting rid of gloomy memories.”

  As she stood waiting at the entrance for Sordi to bring the car around, she wondered if it was too soon to ask him over to her apartment for a nightcap.

  Orient had gone through two hours of physical exercise, but he couldn’t seem to loosen his muscles. He stretched out his legs and stared up at the indirect glow of colored lights shading the ceiling. His concentration was way off. It had been three weeks since his last successful meditation

  He rolled over, sat upland folded his legs into the Lotus position. The aggressive mass of rock and yielding pooI of water set off harmonies in the room that serenaded his awareness as he started the breathing pattern.

  His consciousness extended, then seemed to cringe, withdrawing instantly from the suspension point and leaving him completely drained. He felt the nudge of a headache at the base of his brain. He did a few exercises to loosen his neck and upper back, then decided to give it up. He left the meditation room and went downstairs for a long, hot shower.

  He was more relaxed after his workout and bath, but a small vein in his temple was still throbbing unpleasantly.

  As he drew on his shirt he saw the pale outlines of new skin on his arm, covering the gashes he’d received when he’d been attacked. The cuts had started healing immediately and were almost invisible. There wouldn’t even be a scar in a few days.

  He had a lot to be thankful for. He took a cigarette from his silver case. “Om, Aing, Chring, Cling, Charmuda, Yei, Vijay... ” he whispered, repeating the Brahmin Mantra for the consecration of Bhang.

  He leaned back on the bed and wondered if he could bring himself to do some work in the media lab. The throb in his temple intensified and he had an urge to go outside for a walk. But he remained on the bed, staring at the glowing tip of his cigarette, trying to focus his concentration.

  It was useless. Since he’d come back from Sweden, the only progress he’d made was cashing the check SEE had awarded him.

  His thoughts drifted back to Lily. He could still recall the warmth of her hands and the silky feel of her hair.

  In a week she’d be going through her Lunar Cycle. He stood up and began to pace the floor, his mind nicking from emotion to memory like a restless insect.

  He remembered Hannah’s terrified face and flew over the flashing scenes of the attack once more, searching for an image he’d overlooked. But there was nothing but the dull weight of the headache pulling at his flight.

  His senses bristled with impatience. He felt the need for unimpeded motion. He stubbed his cigarette and finished dressing. Perhaps a long walk would help assemble the scattered fragments of his memory. And then he could do some work.

  But it wasn’t until a week later that he was able to bring himself to think of work again. He decided to test his equipment by editing some old tape in his workshop.

  He moved carefully through the tangle of lights and cable, as if he was visiting the studio for the first time.

  When he reached his worktable he leaned against it for a moment and considered going to see a movie instead. His project couldn’t really begin until Lily arrived. Still the equipment had to be tested and ready. He looked around for the screener. It wasn’t in its usual place on the worktable. His previous indecision turned into a persistent, impatient hunt for the missing tape viewer. After a few frustrating minutes, he went over to the intercom on the wall and jabbed the button. “Get down here, Sordi,” he barked into the speaker. “In the studio.”

  He came back to the studio area and continued looking for the machine, his frustration mounting until it frayed his temper.

  “Where the hell’s all the equipment?” he yelled as Sordi hurried into the room. “I can’t find a goddamn thing around here.”

  Sordi stopped and narrowed his eyes. “What equipment?” he asked calmly.

  “The goddamn screener.” He mimicked Sordi’s even tone of voice. “Where did you put it?”

  Sordi walked through the equipment section to the library area. He picked up a suitcase that was on the floor, next to the roll top desk, and brought it back to the work-table.

  “It was where you put it when you came back.”

  “Why wasn’t it set up?” Orient demanded.

  “I didn’t know you wanted to start working right away. I thought you wanted to rest.”

  His placid explanation infuriated Orient. He felt his face flush as the blood in his neck boiled up into his brain. “I’ll let you know when I need rest,” he spat through clenched teeth. “From now on, I want everything ready in this studio. Is that understood?”

  “Of course.”

  The unruffled answer further goaded at the anger gushing through Orient’s body. Fists closed and chest heaving, he stood glaring at Sordi for a moment before he turned, walked quickly out of the room, and left the house.

  The city’s nightly display of blinking neon obscured the stars above the Hudson River and dumped garish pigments into the dark water. A chill, constant wind sent the colors shimmering across the river’s surface.

  The wind also made it uncomfortably cold, but Orient was unaware of the temperature or the scenery as he wandered through the streets, trying to control his fury.

  The vein in his temple pulsed like a broken tooth, shooting spasms of pain through his thoughts. He slowed down and took a deep breath, trying to clear away the confusion. At last he stopped completely and began a formal, meditative breathing pattern, digging deep past the numbing hurt for his concentration. The anger subsided, but the throb in his temple continued to send painful twinges through his brain at regular intervals like the ticking of some torturous clock.

  As he began walking again, he continued the breathing pattern, trying to make his reason function despite the discomfort. He shouldn’t have lost his temper like that. He would have to apologize to Sordi. A fresh spasm of pain in his temple mocked his remorse.

  He kept walking for a long time, drifting further and further downtown before he stopped to get his bearings. He was near the Port Authority building on the West Side. He could go there and find a cab that would take him back home....

  But as he ambled toward the transportation center, he passed a bar decorated with gaudy lights and heard the electronic beat of rock music spilling through the door. He hesitated. A drink might help calm his nerves before he went home. He could use some relaxation. He hadn’t had a night out in weeks. He walked over to the entrance and stepped inside.

  The room was narrow and noisy and filled with customers. As Orient entered, he saw that it had been crudely set up to utilize all available space. The chrome bar broke off at right angles in the rear of the room and a four-piece band was perched on a stage above the shelves of bottles. Their amplified sounds pounded monotonously over the garbled static of the crowd The enveloping smoke and rhythmic din seemed to help untangle the conflicting emotions in his thoughts. He found an empty stool in the corner, and signaled for the girl working behind the bar.

  As she came near, Orient saw that her thick make-up wasn’t enough to conceal the age lines on her face. She was wearing an abbreviated bikini joined, top and bottom, by a strip o
f sequins that inadequately covered the swelling folds of her sagging belly. She leaned over the bar and smiled. There was a trace of lipstick on her front tooth and Orient knew that she was the kind of woman who could look messy even completely nude. Her fleshy untidiness excited him.

  “If you don’t see what you want, ask for it,” she rasped cheerfully.

  Orient grinned, took a folded bill from his pocket, and stuffed it into the top of her bikini. “A double anything. In honor of you and yours.”

  She laughed and wiggled away. Orient stared at her rolling thighs and felt a brief itch of desire.

  She came back with a double Scotch and he gulped it thirstily, letting the warmth spread through his stomach and ease the tension in his neck and shoulders as he looked around the room. Most of the women looked as if they were waiting to go onstage, with exaggerated make-up and complicated wigs. He glanced along the bar and spotted a tall girl with long brunette hair sitting nearby, talking to a bald man. She was turned away from Orient, but he could feel a familiar sexual vibration, emanating from her slender body, like heavy perfume.

  The barmaid came over with another drink. She leaned over so that her powdered breasts hung down to the bar and swayed her shoulders in time to the music, as she set the glass down. “This time they’re both on me,” she leered. “Have a ball.”

  Orient picked up the drink and toasted her. “Let’s all three of us have a ball,” he suggested.

  “A girl has to make a living, daddy. Maybe in a few hours.” She winked and moved away to serve another customer.

  As Orient drank he noticed that most of the people in the bar were sweating—everyone except him. He felt cool and dry in the airless, overheated room. The revelation amused him and he began to laugh softly to himself as the constant throb of electrified sound massaged his brain.

  He lifted his head and saw that the brunette down the bar had turned and was looking at him. Her face was narrow and angular with black eyebrows that slanted severely over green-shaded eyes. Her skinny arms were marble-white against the black leather vest laced tightly around her body. He stared back at her through the smoke and waited.