Incubi

Chapter 26

Voices. Words.

White light like mist oozed through black like onyx.

Was she dreaming?

Transposition — You are not yet ready to transpose. — Imagine your passion. Which are you, Veronica? Real or fake? — Let the image transpose… Tainted-tainted-tainted…

Veronica roused. Aw, God. She’d fallen asleep at her work desk. Her mouth and eyes felt sealed shut; they opened stickily. She’d worked all day and all night, hadn’t she? Again she could not remember at first. After Khoronos’ guidance in the room of mirrors, she’d worked until 4:30 a.m. and had fallen asleep.

What strange dreams, if they’d been dreams at all. They’d been more like fragments of dreams tossed haphazardly into her head. Transposition. Awake or asleep, the word haunted her. Though she believed she understood its artistic meaning now, she couldn’t escape the suspicion that more of its meaning lay hidden, and that Khoronos wanted it that way. Why should she think such a thing, though? Khoronos had revived her, had given her a creative vision she hadn’t thought herself capable of. In three days she’d developed more as an artist than she had in the last three years.

Then the final mutterings of the dream idled back. Tainted-tainted-tainted. She is tainted. Who had Khoronos been talking about? Who was tainted?

Did he mean me?

She hadn’t dreamed of the burning man, though. Perhaps the vision had completed itself in the mirrored room, had shown itself fully, leaving her to paint it without distraction.

She rubbed her eyes, stood up. I’m a mess, she thought. She was flecked, spotted, and smudged with paint. She reeked of linseed oil. When she glanced down at her work, her breath froze.

The background was done. Every detail of the dreamscape lay before her on the tight, primed canvas. The grotto’s pits and rabbets, the rough curvature of its black rock walls. Each pointillistic feature melded to convey the background’s subterraneous dimension. Veronica could feel the transcension of the colors, and the image of the bottomless infinitude.

She’d never delved into such techniques before, utilizing impressionistic strokes and devices to communicate an expressionistic vision, an intercourse of opposites. Yet here she had used those opposites…perfectly.

Yes. This…is…perfect, she realized.

The rush of joy flooded her, exhilaration like soaring heavenward. Perfect denoted the unachievable, yet that’s what she felt she achieved. The background was perfect.

And now it was time to unleash the theme. It was time to paint herself in hand with the burning man.

As she sat back down to work, she felt as though she were being watched from above, or looked upon by gods.

Devils, Jack thought. It was not what the old man had said as much as how he’d said it. It just…bothered him, like a jag of déjà vu. Why the hell should I care, anyway? he reminded himself. He was off the case.

“Shooter, Jack?”

“I’d love one,” Jack admitted, “but I’m through with booze, for good. How many times you heard guys say that?”

“Hundreds,” Craig said. Jack didn’t know if he was joking or serious. The Undercroft was empty in its post-happy-hour lull. Craig stacked glasses in the rack, whistling something by Elvis Costello. At this moment, just the two of them there, the bar felt haunted. Devils, Jack thought again.

“I got suspended today,” he finally said.

“Suspended?” Craig questioned. “Why?”

“Drinking. Fucking up the case.” He shrugged.

“Well, sometimes fucking up is the best thing we can do. When we see how stupid we can get, we keep ourselves in check.”

“Good point. Too bad I still want a drink.”

“Here you go.” Craig set down a shooter. “A virgin Mary. That’s tomato juice and vodka, without the vodka.”

Jack shot it back. “Thanks, I needed that.”

He thumbed through a local magazine called The Critique, one of several TSD had found in Susan Lynn’s bedroom. It contained a poem called “Love-Epitaph,” which seemed grimly fitting. It was the last poem Susan Lynn would ever have published.

“But I’ll tell you, Jack,” Craig continued. “A bar isn’t the place to be if you’re trying to quit.”

“The test of will is man’s ultimate power. It’s true, I read it on the bathroom wall the other night.”

“Try this.” Craig set down a brown bottle. “Drink like a killer, think like a killer.”

It was Patrizier, the nonalcoholic stuff that Susan Lynn’s murderers had ordered. “Not bad,” he said after a sip. “Know what it tastes like?”

“Beer without alcohol.”

“Right.”

Craig went down into the pit to load the reach-ins. Jack turned to the page of the magazine that carried Susan Lynn’s poem.

This bar is my grave and my power. Amid it even my own demons cower to these wan nights which slaver and devour like the strange faceless men who come and pluck me like a flower.

You hit a homer with this one, honey, Jack thought. Had she been writing about the Undercroft? Power. Demons. Faceless. He closed the magazine and slid it away.

“Would you cheer up!” Craig yelled, coming back up. “Every day above ground is a good day. It’s true, I read it on the bathroom wall.”

Jack knew he was putting off the question. Through his pants pocket he could feel the print of his HPCs. “I also read your phone number on the bathroom wall, didn’t I?”

“You must’ve put it there after the last time you fucked me.”

“I’m a cop, I fuck people every day. It’s my job,” Jack said. But it probably won’t be for long, he reminded himself. “Actually I need your advice. I need some more of that barkeeper’s wisdom.”

Craig flipped a Marlboro Light into the air and caught the filter end in his mouth. “Shoot.”

“When does an ethical person know when it’s time to do something unethical?”

“Since when are you ethical?”

“Funny.”

“Are we talking legal or illegal?”

“Let’s just say that my intentions do not fully conform to the parameters of the law.”

“I don’t know if I should hear this, Jack. Isn’t there a little something in the books about accessory foreknowledge? Failure to report the knowledge of a second party’s criminal intent?”

“Are you a bartender or a fucking lawyer? Call it creepery with intent to mope.”

“Is that anything like balling with intent to hold hands?”

Jack laughed. “Now you’ve got it.”

“Here’s the best advice I can give you.” Craig struck a book match one-handed and lit up. “Ready? This is deep.”

“I’m ready.”

“A man’s got to do what he’s got to do.”

The statement’s bald unoriginality felt like a mental impact. To hell with ethics, Jack decided. What have I got to lose except a career that’s probably lost already? “Thanks for the advice,” he said. “See ya around.”

He hopped off his stool and went out of the bar.

What would he get if he got caught? A fine? Probation before judgement? They wouldn’t put a cop in jail, for God’s sake. Not for a first offense illegal entry.

Nevertheless, illegal entry it was, just as shit by any other name was still shit. Jack had never been very good at this. Once he’d picked an apartment utility room to get at the phone box. There’d been this cowboy dealing crack through the Jamakes, so Jack had bugged his ringer and listened in long enough to tag the next pickup time and place. Later the deal went down and the county narcs had been waiting, presto. Breaking the law to bust lawbreakers was only fair. Unethical? Definitely. But so were crack dealers and killers.

He’d given Veronica’s keys back the night they broke up. He remembered the dying lilacs on the bar, and how cold she’d looked as she sat there on the stool waiting for him, how shivery. He remembered how gray her voice had sounded, and how desperate he’d felt to plead with her, to beg her to give the relationship one more chance as he watched it all fall to pieces in front of his face.

Jack remembered everything.

She had a little condo off Forest Drive, quiet neighbors, no skell buzzing around. Look normal, he reminded himself. He approached the door as though it were his own. The dead bolt was tricky; he had to maintain a perfectly even pressure on the tension wrench as he stroked the 18mm keyway with his double-hook. It took several restrokes before the pins gave. The lock opened as swiftly as if he’d had the key.

He thought of a vault opening as he opened the door. Veronica’s only windows faced the woods in back; turning on the lights wouldn’t give him away. The place seemed smaller, less airy, and the silence seemed amplified. At once Jack felt like exactly what he was: a trespasser, a burglar. He could see himself being cuffed and hauled away by city cops.

First he checked the pad she kept beside the kitchen phone. Eggs, it read. Milk, tomato paste, and Call Stewie about Abrams contract. “Shit,” he mumbled. He went into the bedroom.

More memories here. More ghosts. Just leave, he told himself, but he couldn’t now. Here was the bed in which he slept with her, and had made love to her. Here was the shower they’d bathed in together, and the mirror in which he’d dressed himself so quietly in the mornings so he wouldn’t wake her. He would see her sleeping in the reflection as he knotted his tie. How many times had he stood in this selfsame spot? How many times had he told her he loved her in this selfsame room?

His trespassing rubbed his face in loss. It was part of his past that he stood in now, another dead providence. What am I doing? he logically wondered for the first time. This was crazy, pointless, masochistic. He’d come here simply for a clue to Veronica’s whereabouts, and now he felt inundated in the blood of a love relationship that was dead. It’s dead, he thought, staring. Dead, dead, dead. She doesn’t love you anymore. Her love for you is dead.

“Dead,” he muttered.

The memories soon converged to crush him. She had loved him once, he was sure of that. Why had she stopped? What had happened that her feelings had so suddenly changed? It wasn’t fair, because his feelings hadn’t changed, had they? Why can’t you just let go? he didn’t ask as much as plead with himself. Veronica doesn’t love you anymore, so why can’t you forget about it?

The past was indeed a ghost, and so was his love — a cruel specter feeding on him, sucking his blood out.

He forced himself to commence with his search. The bedroom, the kitchen, the spare room in back — none contained anything that might hint as to where she was.

He sat down at the kitchen table, hoping that the images would drain away. He was too confused now to concentrate on anything. Ghosts, he thought. Ghosts in every room. Even here. How many times had he eaten with her at this table? He’d even made love to her on it once, himself standing as Veronica lay back. “The bedroom’s too far away,” she’d said, and dragged him over. “I want you right here, right now.” “On the kitchen table?” he’d exclaimed. “That’s right. The kitchen table.”

Every image scavenged him now; he felt helpless. Get off it! If he didn’t settle himself down, he felt like he might fall apart.

Think.

You came here to—

But, he’d found nothing that might reveal her location. He’d checked everywhere for anything, a note, a phone number, directions. She’d said that Khoronos had invited her to the retreat thing. She must’ve written down something with regard to it.

He thought of Poe’s famous purloined letter. Sometimes the things we search the hardest for are in plain sight.

A stack of letters lay on the kitchen table. An electric bill, a renewal notice for ARTnews, and some junk mail. But right atop the stack was exactly what he’d come in search of.

It looked like a wedding invitation, a fancy white card with a gilt border:

Jack wrote the phone number down. Service number? he wondered. No return address on the envelope, but the postmark was local. There were no directions. She must’ve written the directions down when she’d confirmed by phone.

Jack went to the phone and dialed. Have something ready, he warned himself. I’ll just tell her Stewie needs to talk to her. If she asks how I got the number, I’ll lie. Easy.

“Message center?”

“What?” Jack brilliantly answered.

“Church Circle Message Center,” a woman told him.

A message center? “Oh, I’m sorry.” Message centers transfer calls to specific customer accounts. “Would you please switch me over to Mr. Khoronos’ account?”

“Hold, please.”

Why would Khoronos hire a message center to relay his calls? Maybe he’s a doctor or something. Maybe he travels a lot.

The operator came back on line. “I’m sorry, sir, but Mr. Khoronos’ account was canceled last week.”

“Is the transfer number still in your file?”

“Well, yes, but I’m not allowed to give that out.”

Think! “My name is Peter Hertz,” Jack said. “I’m Mr. Khoronos’ investment broker. His stocks jumped today, and I really need to get ahold of him. It’s very important.”

“You’re his broker but you don’t have his number?”

Shit! Stupid! Think! “I only have his office number, I’m afraid, and he’s left for the night. This really is very important.”

The operator paused. Then: “991-0199.”

“Thank you very much.” Jack hung up and dialed again. There was a strange, distant ticking. Then: “The Bell Atlantic portable cellular phone you have dialed is not in service at this time. Please call again later.”

Jack slowly hung up. This is some bizarre shit. Why would Khoronos relay calls through a message center to a portable phone? There would always be an alternate number for when the phone was turned off. Now Jack was in the same trick bag as the bank. He could contact Bell Atlantic and ask for the customer service address but they’d never give it to him without a warrant or subpoena.

All this hassle for squat, he thought. He’d run out of alternatives.

Or had he?

He checked to make sure everything he’d touched was in its proper place and turned off all the lights. Then he left.

And as he turned onto Forest Drive and drove away, he considered his final alternative.

You’ve already illegally entered one apartment tonight. So why not make it an even two?