Incubi

Chapter 11

The subway took Faye Rowland to Capitol South Metro in about twenty minutes. Late morning had thinned the crowds; it was a pleasant, sedate ride which urged unimposing thoughts. Her coming tasks at the Library of Congress didn’t worry her. If there was information to be found, she would find it. Simple. She thought instead of Jack Cordesman. What was wrong with him? She knew little of police procedure and even less of police. Something shattered seemed to brood behind the man’s eyes, a drowned vitality. Something, or a combination of things, had left him standing on the edge of some oblique ruin. She could name no specific reason for feeling this; she knew it was pointless to care about every sad person in the world. But Jack Cordesman had passed that point. He wasn’t sad, he was crushed. He was a crushed man, yet somehow he prevailed.

Faye Rowland had prevailed too. The broken pieces she saw in Jack Cordesman’s eyes she often saw in her own. She’d been in love once in her life. Once was enough. He’d run out two weeks before the wedding. “I’m sorry,” was all he’d said. Perhaps love was indeed blind; her reaction made no sense. Faye blamed herself. She hadn’t been considerate enough. She’d failed to compromise. She’d pressured him, she’d been lousy in bed. She’d spent a year asking him to forgive her for flaws that hadn’t existed. She’d later learned that he’d been sleeping with other women for most of their relationship, but that was Faye’s fault too. She reasoned that she must’ve failed to meet his sexual needs and had left him no choice. Self-pity often bred self-indictment.

A year later, she finally came to see the truth. Her only flaw had been in trusting someone who was not trustworthy. The real thing seldom ever turned out to be real.

Once is enough, she thought, stepping off the car into the subway’s bowels. Here was where her real failing came. What scared her most of all was the risk of being hurt again. Faye Rowland would avoid that at all costs, even if it meant being alone for the rest of her life.

So why was she thinking so intently of Jack Cordesman?

He was a slob. He was skinny, pale, out of shape. He had long hair — which Faye hated on men — and he was probably an alcoholic. It was something inside that attracted her. Prevalence, perhaps, or shared negations. Jack Cordesman had prevailed and so had she. They both knew the bottom line because they’d both been at the bottom.

The escalator lifted her from darkness to light. First Street stretched on as a crush of dirty sunlight and harried pedestrians. Black limos roved past ranks of bums in rotted clothes. Pigeons excreted en masse on pristine white government buildings. To Faye’s left stood the Supreme Court. To her right stood a hatchet-faced black who asked, “Cokesmoke, frog, ice? I got whatcha need.”

The Adams building loomed over Second Street, a cluttered ugly edifice. Getting started always took a while: there was a text limit and a half-hour wait on book requests. The reference index ran on a data base now, which was quite simple to use. She punched up the subject file, then punched in O.

O, for Occult.

“Where did you disappear to last night?” Veronica complained, walking barefoot through the plush backyard grass.

Ginny looked remote, or tired. She wore white shorts and an orange halter, and sat poolside with her feet in the water.

“I was with Gilles,” she said.

Veronica joined her. Morning blazed through the trees. “What happened?” she asked, and lazily rowed her feet in the water.

“After dinner, if you can call that disgusting shit dinner, Gilles took me for a walk. The estate is huge. He took me along all these paths in the woods. I didn’t get to bed till two.”

Veronica remembered what she’d been doing at two. The whole thing now seemed dreamlike. What Marzen had done, and had made her do, confused her. She wanted to tell Ginny but it seemed too weird to communicate.

“I don’t even remember how it started,” Ginny was going on. “He took me to this kiosk at the end of the main path. He said I looked beautiful in the moonlight — Christ, what a line. I knew what he was planning. Next thing I know I’m bare-assed on the floor of this kiosk, the moon in my eyes. I never saw his face.”

Veronica chewed her lip. She hadn’t seen Marzen’s face either. “What happened next?”

“He went down on me,” Ginny said bluntly. “Pretty good technique, I can tell you that. Average guy doesn’t know what he’s doing. Anyway, I’m just about to get off, and Gilles stops.”

Veronica didn’t have to ask the rest. “I got the same treatment from Marzen,” she admitted. “He told me I had to love myself before I could love someone else.”

“Gilles said the exact same thing to me!”

“Transposition,” Veronica mumbled.

Ginny laughed. “Boy, are we a couple of dopes. At least I don’t feel so silly now.”

Veronica watched the pulse of ripples in the water. Then she thought of her orgasms, their ferocity, the raw wildness of their release. “I wonder what kind of game they’re playing.”

“I told you. They’re trying to mystify us. Men think women are impressed by shit like that, the idiots. But…”

Ginny’s eyes beseeched her. Ginny was the most straightforward person Veronica knew, yet now there was only confusion in her expression, utter doubt. “I think I could fall in love with the guy,” she said.

“That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard come out of your mouth. Some French musclehead makes it with you, and you’re ready to fall in love? You? The literary destroyer of love?”

Ginny didn’t answer. She returned her gaze to the water. Eventually she said, “I started my story. Did you start your painting?”

“Sort of,” Veronica said, remembering Khoronos’ request that they create while they were here. She hadn’t put anything on canvas yet, but she knew she would paint her dream. The Ecstasy of the Flames, she might call it. Or The Flame Lover.

“My story’s going to be about—”

“Don’t tell me!” Veronica insisted. “Khoronos said we weren’t supposed to talk about our projects till they’re done.”

“Speak of the dilettante,” Ginny said. “Here he comes now.”

They stood up quickly. Khoronos was crossing the yard with someone. “I wonder who he respects more, artistically,” Ginny ventured with some resentment. “Us or her?”

“I couldn’t care less,” Veronica claimed, yet she admitted a little resentment of her own. The woman Khoronos led across the yard was Amy Vandersteen, who seemed to have achieved the best of both worlds: the only thing bigger than her bank account was her critical acclaim. Veronica liked most of her movies — psychologic sojourns of womanhood insinuated through a dark Polanskiesque eye.

Khoronos approached them, in gray Italian slacks and a black silk shirt. “It’s my pleasure to introduce Amy Vandersteen,” he said. “This is novelist Virginia Thiel and expressionist painter Veronica Polk, both quite well-received in their fields.”

They exchanged smug handshakes. Amy Vandersteen wore clothes that reminded Veronica of Stewie: white leather pants, black boots, and a Day-Glo red cardigan over a bright blue T-shirt which read “Birdsongs of the Mesozoic.” New-wave Cleopatra, Veronica thought. The woman’s hair hung perfectly straight, with high straight bangs, and was dyed snow white. Designer contacts made her eyes purple.

“I’ve seen your books in the stores,” she told Ginny. She had a cool, nasally voice. “I’ll have to read one sometime.”

“Don’t hesitate to buy film rights,” Ginny joked.

“Unlikely.” Amy Vandersteen wasn’t joking. “I write all my own scripts.” She turned to Veronica. “I haven’t heard of you.”

“You will,” Veronica said.

Then she turned back to Khoronos. “I’d really love to see the rest of the estate, Erim. You have impeccable taste.”

Khoronos led her back toward the house.

“Jesus,” was all Veronica could comment.

“You were right,” Ginny said. “She is an asshole.”

“Stewie!” Jeri blurted over the line. Some unnamed excitement raged in her voice. He’d hired her from St. John’s as a secretary. “You got a call on line one! It’s the—”

“Calm down,” Stewie replied. He felt disaffected today, depressed or something. “Who is it?”

“It’s the Corcoran!”

This sounded funny. “What do they want? A donation?”

“They want you, Stewie! They want—”

“I got it,” he mumbled. He punched the extension. “Stewart Arlinger here.”

“Mr. Arlinger,” came a dry and rather sexless voice. “This is D. F. Pheeters. I am the director of the schedule of events for the Corcoran Gallery of Art.” The voice pronounced schedule as shed-yule. “You are the agent of Veronica Polk, the expressionist?”

“Yes,” Stewie perked up, “not that I’d label her as an expressionist. I believe my client’s work transcends categorization.”

“Yes, of course.”

It was true, Veronica had gained some notoriety over the last year. Making waves was the name of the art game. But had she made enough waves for the Corcoran?

“We’d like to do a show,” the voice told him.

This statement, coldly conveyed, locked Stewie up at his desk. “You mean a joint show, a filler or something?”

“No. We’d like to show Ms. Polk’s work exclusively.”

“Uh, when?”

“First week of next month. We have a cancellation, Shiver, the abstractionist. We want your client in that slot.”

This was difficult to believe so abruptly.

“Mr. Arlinger? Are you there?”

“Uh, yes, yes, I was just thinking.”

Now the voice seemed impatient. “Well, are you interested or not?”

“Yes, uh, yes, we are—” How should he address the genderless voice? Sir? Ma’am? Director? “There’s a minor probl—”

“Mr. Arlinger. Surely you’re aware of your own client’s schedule. She is either available or not. Which is it, Mr. Arlinger? If you’re not interested in showing your client at the Corcoran, I’m rather certain I can find someone who is.”

“We are interested,” Stewie said, but what else could he say without sounding incompetent? “My client is out of town for a short time. I’m expecting a call from her very soon.”

“Is your client prepared to show new work?”

“I—” I don’t fucking know! he wanted to yell, because I don’t know where she is, and I have no idea how to reach her! “I’m not sure to what extent, and I apologize for this inconvenience. She wanted to get away for a little while. I’m certain she’ll be in touch very soon.”

“Very soon, you said that twice, Mr. Arlinger. How soon?”

“I’m not sure,” Stewie confessed. “It wouldn’t be wise for me to make a commitment before talking to her first. She’s very secretive about what she’s got ready to go. But I’ll get back to you the minute I hear from her. I just need a little time.”

“A week is all the time I can give you, Mr. Arlinger. If I don’t hear from you by then, I’ll presume you are not interested in showing your client at the Corcoran Gallery of Art.”

“I understand,” Stewie said. “And thank you very m—”

When the line went dead, he yelled, “Goddamn it to hell!”

Jeri’s college-girl face appeared at the door. “Stewie, w—”

“Get out!” he bellowed. He threw the phone at the wall and knocked out a chunk of sheetrock. Jeri disappeared in terror.

How the hell could he manage Veronica’s career when he didn’t even know where she was? She hadn’t left Khoronos’ address or number. She’d promised to call him every day, but he had yet to hear from her since she left with goddamn Ginny three days ago!

This was the third gallery bid he’d gotten since she left. The first two were smaller, and he’d dogged them easily. But the Corcoran was a different matter. The Corcoran meant nationwide credibility, higher sales values, even fame. An art agent dogging the Corcoran was like an unpublished novelist dogging Random House. Professional suicide.

She’s my life, he realized, looking at the prints of hers in the office. Stewie had been two-bit before Veronica. Without her, he’d be two-bit again. But was that all of it?

He knew it wasn’t. Veronica was also his friend. He felt protective of her, like a brother. She went off on tangents: she was a confused girl with a lot of confused ideals. This Khoronos thing was a prime example. Veronica’s reclusion as an artist made her vulnerable as a person. There were a lot of sharks out there; Veronica, on her own, wouldn’t stand a chance against them. Just who was this Khoronos guy anyway? What did he want?

He stared out his office window. A cop car driving by reminded him of Jack. Stewie and Jack were polar opposites, but Stewie was honest enough to realize that Jack was Veronica’s best protection against her vulnerabilities. She’d been content with him, and she’d worked better; on the same hand, Jack’s own problems diminished. They were good for each other, and Stewie could see that. He could also see that, apart, Veronica was all alone with her confusions. Experience, she’d said a million times. But experience had many faces, some very ugly. Stewie had seen a lot of them.

Complete strangers. That’s what Khoronos and his two friends were. Art eccentrics, rich, good-looking. Veronica would be putty in their hands.

Stop worrying, he thought, quite uselessly. What could be do? Nothing. She’d either call or she wouldn’t.

Maybe he’d go out tonight. Yeah. Dress up, grab a handful of rubbers, and a head for the singles bars. Get drunk, get laid, get his mind off it. One good thing about bisexuality was you always had twice as many prospects to choose from. But as he thought about it now, staring out the window, nothing could’ve seemed more remote.

“Stewie?” Jeri’s voice peeped from behind. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” Stewie said.

“Don’t worry about Veronica. You know how she is, she just forgot. She’ll call soon.”

Nice try, Stewie thought.

“See you tomorrow. And stop worrying!”

“Sure. Good night, Jer.”

Stop worrying, he thought when she left. But that was it. Stewie was worried, all right. He was worried to death.

“I wonder what she dug up,” Jack said. He looked out his office window. The moon was rising in the rim of dusk.

“Probably nothing. It’s been that kind of day,” Randy Eliot said. “The harder we bust our humps, the less we get.”

That much was true. After meeting with Jan Beck, Jack had spent the rest of the day helping Randy interview Shanna Barrington’s “acquaintances.” They’d all recounted similar stories: I met her at the club. She came onto me, so I went with it. We had a few drinks, danced a few dances, then she wants to go back to her place. You have sex with her? Sure. How long were you there? Most of the night. You ever call her again? Most had not. She knew the score, a one-night thing, no big deal. She seem level-headed to you? Sure, she wasn’t a nut, if that’s what you mean. You have sex with her more than once that night? Most had. Several repeatedly. One guy said, “six, seven times. The usual.” She do drugs, coke, anything like that? No way. You use rubbers with her? Of course, I ain’t crazy. She into kinky stuff? Kinky like what? Kinky like maybe she wants you to tie her up, gag her, blindfold her? No way, man.

Nearly half of Shanna Barrington’s address book had been interviewed. Randy put tails on the few weirdos in the bunch, but Jack knew these were strikeouts too. He could tell by looking at them: they were weirdos, but they weren’t murderers.

“Those things’ll kill you,” Randy said when Jack lit a Camel.

“Are you my mother?” Jack’s mother, by the way, had died of oat-cell lung cancer. “Cigarettes help me think,” he said.

“Great. I’ll ask you what you’re thinking on the respirator.”

On the wall hung a layout of the Bayview complex, and blowups of Shanna Barrington’s walls. The bizarre red glyphs seemed three-dimensional, the star-pointed triangle seemed to hover in space, with its proclamation in blood.

“The Triangle case is going nowhere fast,” Randy concluded. A sip of Jack’s coffee made his lips pucker.

“I already told you, the only way we’re going to nail this guy is by taking apart his M.O. Rome wasn’t built in a day.”

“You’re right. It took fifteen hundred years, and I don’t think Olsher plans on giving us that much time.”

“We know plenty more than we did yesterday.” Jack was trying to sound confident, and failing, he supposed. “We know his blood group, gait, approximate height and weight, probable hair color. We know he’s hung, and we know he wears a wig. And Beck thinks he’s a foreigner, Slavic or East European.”

“How’d she get that?”

“She indexed the scale count of his pubic hair. And that jibes with what Panzram suggested. He’s probably from abroad, a mover.”

“What about this researcher?”

“She’s green, but she seems pretty squared away.” Jack glanced at his watch. “And she’s late. Maybe that’s a good sign.”

“Rumor has it she’s staying at your place.”

Jack quickly smirked. Fucking grapevine. “I offered her one of my spare rooms to cut down on her drive time. And I’m not—”

“I know you’re not,” Randy said. “It just might not look too cool — a thirty-three-year-old captain and a twenty-two-year-old state employee.”

“She’s only twenty-two?”

“That’s what Olsher said. Graduated early, got a double major in library science and Latin. Anyway, she’s young, and she’s been subcontracted from the state. The C.E.’s office might not like the idea of her staying at a county captain’s place.”

“Bugger them,” Jack said. He knew what Randy meant, though. The people upstairs were axmen. Don’t give them a reason to chop off your head.

A few minutes later, Faye Rowland straggled in, briefcase in tow. She looked disheveled and tired. Jack introduced her to Randy, then cleared room for her at his desk. “Well?” he said, and put a cup of coffee in her hand.

She took one sip and pushed it away. “I identified the term aorista and its applications to the occult. It took all day.”

“Is that good or bad?” Jack asked.

“Let’s just say your killer is into something very authentic.”

“You identified the ritual?” Randy asked.

“Aorista denotes a process that doesn’t end?” Then she said to Jack, “You were right to apply the term directly to the ritual, you were exactly right. The word is a general reference to a type of sect, cult, or schismatic religious unit that practices a specific ritual in a manner that is philosophically indefinite. Just think of it as a general term — an aorist sect. They were big in the Middle Ages; in those days the ruling classes were unduly influenced by the Catholic Church, so if you weren’t in the Church, and if you weren’t nobility, you were a peasant. Witchcraft and demon worship grew out of a rebellion to organized Christianity. Devil worship was the social counterculture of the times, the poor man’s way of striking back against his oppressors, and the aorist sects were the most extreme mode of this rebellion. While the average peasant was saying Black Mass, the aorists were killing priests, burning churches, and sacrificing children. They were the transitive component of a belief that was largely intransitive.”

“Action instead of words,” Jack speculated.

“Right. The aorist sects were to satanism what the Jesuits are to the Catholics.”

Randy loosened his tie. “What about the sacrifice angle?”

“Mankind has been making sacrifices for the last thirty thousand years. The only way I can identify this specific ritual is if I’m lucky enough to match its protocol to your crime scene.”

“What do you figure your chances are?” Jack asked.

“Not good,” Faye Rowland admitted. “The fund of information is too obscure. There aren’t any reference books I can just whip open and identify our sect. It’s like a needle in a haystack.”

Jack crushed out his Camel and lit another. He was thinking, thumbing his eyebrows. “Protocol… Ritual… Our forensic tech determined that the knife used on Shanna Barrington was made of some kind of brittle stone. Flint maybe, or obsidian.”

Faye looked at him baldly. “Many civilizations, once they’d begun to develop organized religious systems, believed that fire was a gift from the gods. Flint sparks, so they used flint for their sacrificial implements. The Toltecs are the best example, and the Seleucids of Asia Minor. And a lot of the aorist sects used knives chipped out of volcanic glass—”

“Obsidian,” Jack muttered.

“—for a similar symbolic reason. They worshiped demons, which they believed lived deep in the earth, so they crafted their tools out of materials that came from the same place. They were using what they’d been given to exalt the giver. Gifts of the devil to people of the devil.”

Jack felt a weird chill run up his back, the same chill he felt anytime he asked himself how far madness could go. Madness could have order, couldn’t it? It was a creepy thought.

“They were called dolches,” Faye added. “Not knives. Dolches.”

Randy looked disgruntled. “We were hoping it was just some crackpot or a random nutcase who’s into the occult.”

“Oh, no,” she assured. “Whatever your killer is into, it’s not something he read in some paperback occult manual. It’s very deep and very intricate. The aorist sects were the ultimate form of religious sedition in the Middle Ages. They butchered babies, roasted virgins on solstice feasts, gutted priests like deer.”

“Great,” Jack sputtered.

The pale lamplight made black punch holes of Faye Rowland’s tired eyes. “This guy’s no crackpot, Captain. He’s the real McCoy.”