Carrion Comfort (15 page)

He froze in mid-step, hands rising involuntarily into fists. There was nothing but the smell of rotting meat. He was ready to move again, ready to ascribe the noise to water in the clogged rain gutters outside, when he heard it once more, more clearly now.

There were footsteps downstairs. Softly but with a deliberate, relentless care, they began to ascend the stairs.

Saul pivoted and took four steps to the large wardrobe. The door made no noise as he opened it and slipped inside between the clinging wool of old lady’s garments. There was a violent thudding in his ears. The warped doors would not close completely and the crack in front of him showed a thin vertical line of gray light bisected by the dark horizontal of the bed.

The footsteps climbed the last of the stairs, hesitated for a long silence, and then entered the room. They were very soft.

Saul held his breath. The wool and mothball smell mixed with the stink of rotted meat in his nostrils and threatened to suffocate him. The heavy dresses and scarves clung to him, reached for his shoulders and throat.

Saul could not tell if the footsteps had receded or not, so loud was the buzzing in his ears. Claustrophobic panic claimed him. He could not focus on the thin slit of light. He remembered the soil falling on upturned faces, the pale white stirrings of an arm against the tumble of black dirt, the white plaster on a stubbled cheek and the negligent weight of leg, gray wool black in the winter light, hanging over the Pit where white limbs pushed like slow maggots up through the black dirt . . .

Saul gasped out a breath. He struggled against the clinging wool and reached to push open the wardrobe door.

His hand never touched it. Before he could move, the door was jerked open roughly from the other side.

T
ony Harod and Maria Chen flew into Washington’s National Airport, rented a car, and drove directly to Georgetown. It was early afternoon. The Potomac looked gray and sluggish as they crossed the Mason Memorial Bridge. Bare trees threw thin shadows on the Mall. Wisconsin Avenue was not crowded.

“Here,” said Harod. Maria turned onto M Street. The expensive town houses seemed to huddle together in the weak winter light. The house they sought was similar to many others on the street. There was a no-parking zone in front of the pale yellow garage door. A couple passed, both swathed in heavy fur, a quivering poodle straining at the leash.

“I’ll wait,” said Maria Chen. “No,” said Harod. “Drive around. Come by here at ten-minute intervals.”

She hesitated a moment when Harod got out and then she drove off, pulling out in front of a chauffeur-driven limousine.

Harod ignored the front door of the town house and approached the garage. A metal panel flipped up to reveal a thin slot and four unmarked plastic buttons. Harod removed an undersized credit card from his wallet and fitted it into the slot. There was a click. He stood close to the wall and pressed the third button four times and then three others. The garage door clanked up. Harod retrieved his card and entered.

When the door lowered behind him it was very dark in the empty space. Harod smelled no hint of oil or gasoline, only cold concrete and the resin scent of two-by-fours. He took three steps to the center of the garage and stood still, making no effort to find a door or a light switch. There was a soft electric whir and Harod knew that the wall-mounted video camera had scanned him and was tracking to make sure that no one else had entered. He assumed that the camera was fitted with infrared or light-enhancing lenses. He really didn’t give a damn.

A door clicked open. Harod moved toward the light and stepped up into an empty room which, judging from the electrical and plumbing outlets, originally had been planned as a laundry room. Another video camera perched over a second door swiveled to lock on him as he entered. Harod unzipped his leather bomber jacket.

“Please remove your dark glasses, Mr. Harod.” The voice came from a standard home intercom panel on the wall.

“Up your ass,” Harod said pleasantly and removed his aviator sunglasses. He was putting them back on when the door opened and two tall men in dark suits entered. One was bald and massive, the stereo typed image of a bouncer or bodyguard. The other was taller, slim, dark, and infinitely more threatening in some indefinable way.

“Would you raise your arms please, sir?” asked the heavy one. “Would you go fuck yourself for a quarter?” asked Harod. He hated being touched by men. He hated the thought of touching
them
. The two waited patiently. Harod lifted his arms. The heavy man patted him down professionally, impersonally, and nodded to the dark man.

“Right this way, Mr. Harod.” The thin man led him through the door, through an unused kitchen, down a bright hallway past several empty, unfurnished rooms, and stopped at the bottom of a staircase. “It’s the first room on the left, Mr. Harod,” he said and pointed upstairs. “They have been waiting for you.”

Harod said nothing and climbed the stairs. The floors were light oak, polished to a high gloss. His boots on the stairs sent echoes through the house. The building smelled of new paint and emptiness.

“Mr. Harod, so glad you could make it.” Five men sat on folding chairs set in a not-quite-closed circle. The room may have been meant as a master bedroom or large study. The floors were bare, the louvred shutters were white, and the fireplace was cold. Harod knew the men— or at least their names. From left to right they were known as Trask, Colben, Sutter, Barent, and Kepler. They wore expensive, conservatively tailored suits and sat in almost identical postures, backs straight, legs crossed, arms folded. Three of them had briefcases set near them. Three wore glasses. All five were white. They ranged in age from the late forties to the early sixties, with Barent being the oldest. Colben was almost bald, but the other four appeared to share the same Capitol Hill barber. Trask had been the one who spoke. “You’re late, Mr. Harod,” he added.

“Yeah,” said Tony Harod and stepped closer. There was no chair set out for him. He took off his leather jacket and held it over his shoulder by one finger. He was wearing a bright red silk shirt, open down the front to show off a shark tooth’s medallion on a gold chain, black corduroy pants set off by a large, gold R2-D2 belt buckle given to him by George Lucas, and heavy chukka boots with massive heels. “The flight was late.”

Trask nodded. Colben cleared his throat as if he were about to speak but contented himself with repositioning his horn-rimmed glasses.

“So what do we know?” asked Harod. Not waiting for an answer he went to the closet, removed a metal folding chair, and set it down backward in the cusp of the circle. He straddled it and laid his jacket across the top. “Is there anything new?” he asked. “Or did I make this fucking trip for nothing?”

“We were about to ask
you,
” said Barent. His voice was refined and well-modulated. There was a hint of both Eastern Shore and En gland in the vowels. Barent was obviously not a man who ever had to raise his voice to be heard. He was being listened to now.

Harod shrugged. “I gave one of the eulogies at Willi’s memorial service,” he said. “Forest Lawn. Very sad. About two hundred of Holly-wood’s famous showed up to pay their respects. Ten or fifteen of ’em had actually
met
Willi.”

“His house,” Barent said patiently. “Did you search his house as requested?”

“Yeah.”

“And?”

“And nothing,” said Harod. His mouth had become a thin line in the pale face. The muscles at the corners of his mouth, so often expressive of sarcasm and cruel humor, were pulled tight with strain. “I only had a couple of hours. I spent half of that chasing out some of Willi’s old lover boys who had keys and who’d come back like vultures to pick at the bones of his estate . . .”

“Had they been Used?” Colben asked. There was anxiety in his voice. “No, I don’t think so. Willi was losing his power, remember. Maybe he used a little conditioning with them. Stroked them a little. I doubt if he even did that though. He didn’t have to, what with his money and his in at the studios.”

“The search,” said Barent. “Yeah. So I had about an hour. Tom McGuire, Willi’s lawyer, is an old friend of mine and let me go through the papers in Willi’s safe and desk. There wasn’t much. Some film and literary properties. A few stocks, but not what you’d call a portfolio. Willi tended to stick to the film industry in his investments. A lot of business letters, but almost nothing personal. His will was read yesterday, you know. I got the house . . . if I pay the fucking taxes. Most of the money was tied up in projects. He left the rest of his bank account to the Hollywood A.S.P.C.A.”

“The A.S.P.C.A.?” repeated Trask. “You bet your ass. Old Willi was an animal freak. He was always complaining about the way they were used in films and lobbying for stricter laws and shop rules protecting horses in stunts and all that crap.”

“Go on,” said Barent. “There were no papers which might indicate Willi’s past?”

“No.”

“And nothing to indicate his Ability?”

“No. Nothing.”

“And no mention of any of us?” asked Sutter.

Harod sat up straight. “Of course not. You know Willi didn’t know anything about the Club.”

Barent nodded and steepled his fingers. “There is no chance of that, Mr. Harod?”

“No chance.”

“Yet he was aware of your Ability?”

“Well, yes, I mean, of course. But you agreed years ago that we’d let him know about that. You said that when you told me to get to know him.”

“Yes.”

“And besides, Willi always thought my Ability was weak and unreliable compared to his. Because I didn’t need to Use anyone all the way like he did and because . . . because of my own preferences . . .”

“Not to Use men,” said Trask. “Because of my own preferences,” said Harod. “What the fuck did Willi know? He looked down at me even when he’d lost everything but the power to keep Reynolds and Luhar, his two stroke-addicts, in line. He wasn’t even successful at that half the time.”

Barent nodded again. “So you do not believe that he was capable of Using people to cancel others any longer?”

“Christ no,” said Harod. “Not really. He might’ve been able to use his two goons or one of his lover boys, but he wasn’t stupid enough to do that.”

“And you let him travel to Charleston for this . . . mmm . . . reunion with the two women?” asked Kepler.

Harod gripped the back of his chair through the leather jacket. “What do you mean, ‘let him’? Hell, yes, I let him. My job was to watch him, not limit his travel. Willi traveled all over the world.”

“And what do you think he did at these reunions?” asked Barent. Harold shrugged. “Talk over old times. Chew the fat with those two other has-beens. For all I know, he was still banging the old crones. How the fuck should I know? He usually only stayed away two or three days. It was never a problem.”

Barent turned to Colben and made a gesture. The bald man unclasped his briefcase and removed a brown, wire-bound booklet that looked like someone’s photo album. He carried it across the circle to Harod.

“What the shit is this?”

“Look at it,” ordered Barent.

Harold flipped through the album, quickly at first, then very slowly. He read several of the news clippings all the way through. When he was finished he took off his dark glasses. No one spoke. A horn blasted somewhere on M Street.

“It’s not Willi’s,” said Harod. “No,” said Barent. “It belonged to Nina Drayton.”

“Incredible. Jesus-fucking-incredible. It can’t be real. The old broad must’ve been senile, delusions of grandeur. Wishing it was like the good old days.”

“No,” said Barent. “It appears that she was present at most of the appropriate times. They quite probably are hers.”

“Holy shit,” said Harod. He put his glasses on and massaged his cheeks. “How’d you get this? Her New York apartment?”

“No,” Colben answered. “We had someone in Charleston last Saturday because of Willi’s plane crash. He was able to retrieve this from Nina Drayton’s belongings at the coroner’s office before the local authorities had an opportunity to see it.”

“You’re sure?” asked Harod. “Yes.”

“The question is,” said Barent, “were the three still playing some variant of their old Vienna Game? And if so, did your friend Willi have any similar documents in his possession?”

Harod shook his head but said nothing.

Colben removed a dossier from his briefcase. “Nothing conclusive has been found in the remains of the aircraft. Of course, few recognizable items have been found at all. More than half of the bodies remain to be recovered. Those which have been pulled out of the swamp are generally too fragmented to be identified quickly. It was a very powerful explosion. The swampy conditions hinder recovery. It is a difficult situation for investigators.”

“Which one of the old bitches was responsible?” asked Harod. “We are not sure,” said Colben. “It doesn’t appear, however, that Willi’s friend Mrs. Fuller survived the weekend. She is the logical candidate.”

“What a shitty way for Willi to die,” Harod said to no one in particular.

“If, indeed, he did die,” said Barent. “What?” Harod leaned back. His legs straightened and his heels made black marks on the oak floor. “You think he didn’t? You think he wasn’t aboard?”

“The ticket agent remembers Willi and his two friends boarding,” said Colben. “They were arguing, Willi and his black colleague.”

“Jensen Luhar,” said Harod. “That brainless asshole.”

Barent said, “But there is no guarantee that they remained on board. The ticket agent was called away from the boarding area for a few minutes prior to the sealing of the aircraft.”

“But there’s nothing to suggest that Willi
wasn’t
aboard,” pressed Harod. Colben put away the dossier. “No. However, until we find Mr. Borden’s body, we cannot safely assume that he has been . . . ah . . . neutralized.”

“Neutralized,” repeated Harod.

Barent stood and went to the window. He pulled aside the tab curtains that hung above the white shutters. His skin looked porcelain-smooth in the indirect light. “Mr. Harod, is there any possibility that Willi von Borchert knew about the Island Club?”

Harod’s head snapped back as if he had been slapped. “No. Absolutely not.”

“You are sure?”

“Positive.”

“You never mentioned it? Not even indirectly?”

“Why the fuck would I do that? No, goddammit, Willi didn’t know a thing about it.”

“You are sure of this?”

“Willi was an old man, Barent. I mean
old
. He was half crazy because he couldn’t Use people anymore. Especially Use them to kill. That’s
kill
, Colben, k-i-l-l, not neutralize or cancel policies or terminate with extreme prejudice or any of your other fucking agency euphemisms. Willi
killed
to stay young and he couldn’t do it anymore and the poor old fart was drying up like a prune left out in the sun. If he’d known about your goddamn Island Club he would’ve crawled here on his knees to beg you to be let in.”

“It’s your Island Club, too, Harod,” said Barent. “Yeah, so I hear. Only I haven’t been there yet so I wouldn’t know.” Barent said, “You will be invited for the second week this summer. The first week is not the . . . ah . . . necessary one, is it?”

“Maybe not. But I guess I’d like to rub elbows with the rich and powerful. Not to mention do a little stroking of my own.”

Barent laughed. Several of the others followed his lead. “My God, Harod,” Sutter said, “don’t you get enough of that out in Tinsel Town?”

“Besides,” said Trask, “wouldn’t you find it a bit difficult? I mean, given our guest list for the first week . . . I mean, in light of your
preferences
.”

Harod turned and looked at the man. Harod’s eyes had become thin slits in a pale mask. He spoke very slowly, each word clicking into place like shotgun shells going into a chamber. “You know what I
meant
. Don’t fuck with me.”