Carrion Comfort (18 page)

Harod blinked. He had often read the term “break out in a cold sweat” but had never experienced it before. He did so now.

“Finally, Tony, I must ask. What kind of name is Harod, eh? You say you are from Midwestern Christian stock and you certainly invoke the name of Christus frequently enough, but I think maybe the name Harod has other origins, yes? I think maybe my dear nephew is a Jew. Ah, well, it does not matter now. We can speak of it should we meet again in paradise. Meanwhile, there is more to this tape, Tony. I have added a few excerpts from the news. You might find them enlightening even though you do not usually have time for such things. Good-bye, Tony. Or rather,
Auf Wiedersehn
.” Willi waved at the camera. The tape blanked for a few seconds and then cut to a five-month-old local news report on the capture of the Hollywood Strangler. More news fragments followed, covering a year’s selection of random murders. Twenty-five minutes later the tape ended and Harod turned off the VCR. He sat for a long time holding his head in his hands. Finally he rose, removed the cassette, put it in his jacket pocket, and left.

He drove hard going home, taking the long way, slamming the car up through the gears, entering the Hollywood Freeway at better than 80 miles per hour. No one stopped him. His jogging suit was wet with perspiration when he pulled up his own drive and slid to a stop under the baleful glare of his satyr.

Harod went to the bar near the Jacuzzi and poured a tall glass of vodka. He drank it in four swallows and took the cassette out of his pocket. He tugged the tape loose and unrolled it onto the floor, tearing the ends loose from the plastic reels in the cassette. It took several minutes to burn the entire tape in the old barbecue pit on the terrace beyond his pool. A melted residue remained in the ashes. Harod smashed the empty cassette repeatedly against the stone chimney of the barbecue until the plastic was shattered. He tossed the broken cassette into the Dumpster next to the cabana and went back inside to have another vodka, mixed with Rose’s lime juice this time.

Harod stripped and lay back in the Jacuzzi. He was almost asleep when Maria Chen entered with the day’s mail and his dictation recorder.

“Leave it there,” he said and went back to dozing. Fifteen minutes later he opened his eyes and began sorting through the day’s stack of envelopes, occasionally dictating notes or brief replies into the Sony. Four new scripts had arrived. Tom McGuire had sent a mass of paperwork relating to acquiring Willi’s house, arranging for the auction, and paying taxes. There were three invitations to parties and Harod made a note to consider one of them. Michael May-Dreinan, a cocky young writer, had sent a scribbled note complaining that Schubert Williams, the director, was already rewriting Dreinan’s screenplay and the
goddamn thing wasn’t even
finished
yet
. Would Harod
please
intervene? Otherwise, he, Dreinan, would quit the project. Harod tossed the note aside and dictated no response.

The final letter was in a small, pink envelope postmarked in Pacific Palisades. Harod tore it open. The stationery matched the envelope and was softly perfumed. The handwriting was tight and heavily slanted with childish circles above the “i’s.”

Dear Mr. Harod,

I do not know what came over me last Saturday. I will never understand it. But I do not blame you and I forgive you even if I cannot forgive myself.

Today Loren Sayles, my agent, received a packet of contractual forms relating to your film proposal. I told Loren and my mother that there has been a mistake. I told them that I had spoken to Mr. Borden about the film just prior to his death but that no commitment had been made.

I cannot be associated with such a project at this point in my career, Mr. Harod. I am
sure
you can understand my situation. This does not mean that we may not work together on some other film venture in the future. I trust that you understand this decision and would remove any obstacles— or any embarrassing details— which might damage such a future relationship.

I know that I can depend upon you to do the right thing in this situation, Mr. Harod. You mentioned last Saturday that you are aware that I am a member of the Church of Jesus Christ of the Latter Day Saints. You must also understand that my faith is very strong and that my commitment to the Lord and to His Laws must come before all other considerations.

I pray— and know in my heart— that God will help you see the proper course of action in this situation.

Yours most sincerely,

Shayla Berrington

Harod put the scented stationery back in the envelope.
Shayla Berrington
. He had almost forgotten about her. He picked up the tiny recorder and spoke into the built-in mike on the end. “Maria, letter to Tom McGuire. Dear Tom. I’ll get this legal stuff out of the way as soon as I can. Proceed with the auction as outlined. New paragraph. Very happy to hear that you enjoyed the X-rated outtakes I sent you for Cal’s birthday party. I thought you guys might get a kick out of them. I’m sending you another tape that you might like. Don’t ask me any questions, just enjoy. Feel free to make as many copies as you like. Maybe Marv Sandborne and the fellows at Four Star would also get a laugh or two from it. New paragraph. I’ll get the deed transfer stuff to you as soon as I can. My accountants will be in touch. New paragraph. Give my love to Sarah and the kids. Closing. Best and All! Oh, and Maria, get that to me today to sign, OK? Enclose VHS cassette 165. And Maria— send it special delivery.”

T
he young woman stood very still, arms extended, both hands wrapped around the butt of the pistol that was aimed at Saul Laski’s chest. Saul knew that if he stepped out of the wardrobe she might fire, but no power on earth could have kept him in that dark space with the stink of the Pit in his nostrils. He stumbled out into the gray light of the bedroom.

The woman stepped back and held the pistol level. She did not fire. Saul took deep breaths and noticed that the woman was young and black and that there were drops of moisture on her white raincoat and short Afro hairdo. She might have been attractive, but Saul found it hard to concentrate on anything but the handgun she kept trained on him. It was a small automatic pistol— Saul thought it a .32 caliber— but its smallness did not prevent the dark circle of the muzzle from commanding all of Saul’s attention.

“Put your hands up,” she said. Her voice was smooth, sensuous, with an educated Southern accent. Saul lifted his hands and locked his fingers behind his neck.

“Who are you?” she asked. She continued to brace the automatic with both hands, but she did not seem confident in the weapon’s use. She remained too close to him, within four feet. Saul knew that he would have a better than even chance of deflecting the barrel before she could squeeze the trigger. He made no move to do so. “Who are you?” she repeated.

“My name is Saul Laski.”

“What are you doing here?”

“I could ask the same of you.”

“Answer the question.” She raised the pistol as if that would prompt him. Saul knew now that he was dealing with an amateur with firearms, someone who had been seduced by television into believing that guns were magic wands which could make people do their bidding. He looked at her. She was younger than he had first thought, in her early twenties. She had an attractive, oval face, delicate features, full mouth, and large eyes that appeared all black in the poor light. Her skin was precisely the color of coffee with cream.

“I am looking around,” said Saul. His voice was steady, but he was interested to find that his body was reacting much the way it always did to having a firearm pointed at it; his testicles were trying to rise into his body and he had an irresistible urge to hide behind someone, anyone, even him-self.

“This house was closed off by the police,” she said. Saul noticed that she had said “police” rather than “
po
lice,” the pronunciation he had heard from so many American blacks in New York.

“Yes,” he said, “I know they did.”

“What are you
doing
here?”

Saul hesitated. He looked at her eyes. There was anxiety there, tension, and great intensity. The human emotions reassured him and convinced him to tell her the truth. “I’m a doctor,” he said. “A psychiatrist. I am interested in the murders which occurred here last week.”

“A psychiatrist?” The young woman seemed dubious. The pistol did not waver. The house was quite dark now, the only light coming from a gas lamp in the courtyard. “Why did you break in?” she asked.

Saul shrugged. His arms were getting tired. “May I lower my hands?”

“No.”

Saul nodded. “I was afraid the authorities would not let me see the house. I had hoped there might be something here to help explain the events. I don’t believe there is.”

“I should call the police,” said the woman. “By all means,” agreed Saul. “I did not see a telephone downstairs, but there must be one somewhere. Let us call the police. Call Sheriff Gentry. I will be charged for breaking and entering. I would think that you will be charged with breaking and entering, deadly menacing, and possession of an illegal weapon. I presume it is
not
registered?”

The woman’s head had come up at the mention of Gentry’s name. She ignored his question. “What do you know about last Saturday’s murders?” Her voice almost broke on the last word.

Saul arched his back to relieve the ache in his neck and arms. “I only know what I have read,” he said. “Although I had met one of the women— Nina Drayton. I think that there is more involved here than the police— Sheriff Gentry, the FBI man, Haines— imagine.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that nine people died in this town last Saturday and no one can explain it,” said Saul. “Yet I think there is a common thread which the authorities have missed. My arms ache, Miss. I am going to put them down now, but I will make no other move.” He lowered his hands before she could reply. She stepped back a foot. The old house settled around them. Somewhere on the street a car radio blared for a second and was cut off.

“I think you’re lying,” said the young woman. “You may be a common thief. Or some sort of ghoul hunting for souvenirs. Or you may have had something to do with the killings yourself.”

Saul said nothing. He stared at her in the dark. The small automatic was barely visible in her hands. He could feel her indecision. After a moment he spoke. “Preston,” he said. “Joseph Preston, the photographer. Wife? No, not his wife. Sheriff Gentry said that Mr. Preston had lived in the area for . . . twenty-six years, I believe. His daughter perhaps. Yes, his daughter.”

The woman took another step back. “Your father was killed on the street,” said Saul. “Brutally. Senselessly. The authorities can tell you nothing conclusive and what they do tell you is unsatisfactory. So you wait. You watch. Possibly you have watched this house for days. Then along comes this New York Jew in a tennis hat and climbs the fence. You think,
this will tell me something
. I am right?” The girl remained silent, but the pistol was lowered. Saul could see her shoulders moving slightly and he wondered if she was crying.

“Well,” he said and softly touched her arm, “perhaps I
can
help. Perhaps together we can make some sense of this insanity. Come, let us leave this house. It stinks of death.”

The rain had stopped. The garden smelled of wet leaves and soil. The girl led Saul to the far side of the carriage house where there was a gap cut between the old iron and the new wire. He squeezed through after her. Saul noticed that she had put the pistol in the pocket of her white raincoat. They walked down the alley, their feet crunching softly on cinders. The night was cool.

“How did you know?” she asked. “I did not. I guessed.”

They reached the street and stood a minute in silence. “My car’s around front,” the young woman said at last.

“Oh? Then how did you see me?”

“I noticed you when you drove by. You were looking hard and you almost stopped in front of the house. When you turned around the block I came around to check.”

“Hmmm,” said Saul. “I would make a very poor spy.”

“You’re really a psychiatrist?”

“Yes.”

“Not from here though.”

“No. New York. I sometimes work at the clinic at Columbia University.”

“You’re an American citizen?”

“Yes.”

“Your accent. Is it . . . what, German?”

“No, not German,” said Saul. “I was born in Poland. What is your name?”

“Natalie,” she said. “Natalie Preston. My father was . . . you know all that.”

“No,” said Saul. “I know very little. At this moment I know only one thing for sure.”

“What’s that?” The young woman’s eyes were very intense. “I’m starving,” said Saul. “I have had nothing since breakfast except terrible coffee at the sheriff’s office. If you would join me somewhere for dinner, we could continue our discussion.”

“Yes, on two conditions,” said Natalie Preston. “What is that?”

“First, that you tell me anything you know that might help explain my father’s murder.”

“Yes?”

“And second, that you take that soggy tennis hat off while we eat.”

“Agreed,” said Saul Laski.

The restaurant was called Henry’s and it was only a few blocks away, near the old marketplace. From the outside it did not appear promising. The whitewashed front was windowless and unadorned except for a single illuminated sign over the narrow door. Inside it was old and dark and reminded Saul of an inn near Lodz where his family had eaten occasionally when he was a boy. Tall black men in clean white jackets moved unobtrusively between the tables. The air was thick with the stimulating smell of wine and beer and seafood.

“Excellent,” said Saul. “If the food tastes as good as it smells, it will be a wonderful experience.” It was. Natalie ordered a shrimp salad. Saul had swordfish served shish kabob with broiled vegetables and small, white potatoes. They both drank cold, white wine and spoke of everything but what they had come to speak of. Natalie ascertained that Saul lived alone although he was plagued by a house keeper who was part yenta and part therapist. He assured Natalie that he would never need to avail himself of the professional courtesy of colleagues as long as Tema continued to explain his neuroses to him and search for cures.

“You have no family then?” asked Natalie. “Only a nephew in the States,” said Saul and nodded to the waiter as the man cleared away their plates. “I have a cousin in Israel and many distant relatives there.”

Saul was able to ascertain that Natalie’s mother had died some years before and that Natalie was currently attending graduate school. “You say you’re going to university in the North?” he asked.

“Well, not quite the North. St. Louis. Washington University.”

“Why did you choose such a distant school? There is the College of Charleston. I had a friend who taught briefly at the University of South Carolina in . . . is it Columbia?”

“Yes.”

“And Wofford College. That is in South Carolina, is it not?”

“Sure,” said Natalie. “And Bob Jones University is up in Greenville, but my father wanted me to get as far away from what he called the Redneck Belt as I could. Washington University of St. Louis has an excellent graduate school of education . . . one of the best someone with a fine arts major could get into. Or at least get a scholarship for.”

“You are an artist?”

“Photographer,” said Natalie. “Some filmmaking. A little sketching and oil painting. I had a minor in English. I went to school at Oberlin, in Ohio. Ever hear of it?”

“Yes.”

“Anyway, a friend of mine— good watercolorist named Diana Gold— convinced me last year that teaching would be fun. And why am I telling you all this?”

Saul smiled. The waiter came with the check and Saul insisted on paying. He left a generous tip.

“You’re not going to tell me anything, are you?” asked Natalie. There was an undertone of pain in her voice.

“On the contrary,” said Saul. “I will probably tell you more than I have ever told anyone. The question is . . . why?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean . . . why are we trusting each other? You see a strange man breaking into a house and two hours later we are chatting here after a fine meal. I meet a young woman who immediately points a pistol at me and within a few hours I am willing to share things which have remained un-said for many years. Why is this, Ms. Preston?”

“Miss Preston. Natalie. And I can only speak for myself.”

“Do so, please.”

“You have an honest face, Dr. Laski. Perhaps honest is not the right word. A
caring
face. You’ve known sadness . . .” Natalie stopped.

“We have all known sadness,” Saul said softly.

The black girl nodded. “But some people don’t learn from it. I think you have. It’s . . . it’s in your eyes. I don’t know how else to say it.”

“So that is what we base our judgment and futures on?” asked Saul. “A person’s eyes?”

Natalie looked up at him. “Why not? Do you have a better way?” It was not a challenge but a serious question.

Saul slowly shook his head. “No. There may not be a better way. Not to begin with.”

They drove southwest out of Historic Charleston, Saul following the girl’s green Nova in his rented Toyota. They crossed the Ashley River on Highway 17 and stopped a few minutes later in an area called St. Andrews. The homes there were white frame, the neighborhood neat but working class. Saul parked in the driveway behind Natalie Preston’s car.

Inside, the house was clean and comfortable, a home. A wing chair and heavy sofa took up much of the small living room. The fireplace was ready for a fire; the white mantel was laden with a potted Swedish ivy and numerous family photographs in metal frames. There were more framed photographs on the wall, but these were works of art, not snapshots. Saul moved from picture to picture as Natalie turned on lights and hung up her coat.

“Ansel Adams,” said Saul as he stared at a striking black and white photograph of a small, desert village and cemetery glowing in evening light under a pale moon. “I have heard of him.” In another print a heavy fog-bank was moving in over a city on a hill.

“Minor White,” said Natalie. “Father knew him in the early fifties.” There were prints by Imogen Cunningham, Sebastian Milito, George Tice, André Kertész, and Robert Frank. The Frank picture caused Saul to pause. A man wearing a dark suit and holding a cane was standing on the porch of an ancient house or hotel. A flight of stairs to a second-story porch concealed the man’s face. It made Saul want to take two steps to the left to identify the man. Something about the photograph stirred a deep sadness in him. “I’m sorry I do not know these names,” said Saul. “Are they very well-known photographers?”

“Some are,” said Natalie. “The prints are now worth a hundred times what Father paid for them, but he’ll never sell them.” The girl paused.

Saul picked up a snapshot of a black family on a picnic. The wife had a warm smile and straight, black hair curled up in the style of the early sixties. “Your mother?”

“Yes,” said Natalie. “She died in a freak accident in June of 1968. Two days after Robert Kennedy was killed. I was nine.”

The little girl in the photograph was standing on the picnic table, smiling and squinting up at her father. There was another portrait of Natalie’s father nearby, a portrait of him as an older man, serious and rather handsome. The thin mustache and luminous eyes made Saul think of Martin Luther King without jowls. “This is a fine portrait,” he said.