For Love of Audrey Rose (47 page)

“Show me.”

Bill pulled a fistful of bills from his overcoat pocket. The driver’s eyes widened. Gingerly he helped himself to several notes.

“See? Ten dollars.” He held up the money. “Unless you want to tip me.”

Bill stared at him, frightened. Quickly the driver added two dollars. Bill leaned forward. The driver recoiled, slamming against the steering wheel.

“Do you think my daughter… will recognize me?”

“Sure. Sure, mister. You’re her father, ain’t you?”

Bill nodded, gratified. He stepped from the taxi. Then he went to the front door, leaned in, and said, “God bless you.”

The driver smiled sadly. He recognized the manic look of Bill’s eyes, though few who had that look also had the money to ride in taxis and buy expensive black coats. A flicker of sympathy passed between them.

“God bless you, too, sir.”

The taxi pulled away.

Bill walked into the Allegheny Airlines Terminal, carrying hundreds of dollars in his fist. First he went to a coffee shop, ate five doughnuts and drank two glasses of orange juice. The startled cashier picked the money from his fist. Bill walked away before she could give him change.

He bought a ticket to Pittsburgh. One way. He ran on pure instinct now, as he had since escaping from the sanitarium. Only now the instinct was running down, growing confused. He did not know what would take over when the instinct went haywire.

“If you hurry, sir, there is a three o’clock flight boarding now. Gate seventeen.”

“Where is gate seventeen?”

“Follow the red carpet, sir.”

Bill walked into a narrow corridor, felt the air grow thick and the lights overhead press down upon him.

Ahead of him, two stewardesses waited with clipboards. It seemed like a thousand miles into the airplane. Even when he sat down, it felt unlikely that he would escape New York. Below the window the snow fell, whirled in monstrous eddies by passing vehicles.

There were few passengers. Already some of them slept. Tiny rays of light beamed onto their laps from the overhead luggage racks. Bill sank into his seat. All at once the exhaustion came—like a wave, it ravished his limbs, reduced them to sodden rubbery appendages, and his eyes grew instantly heavy. He thought he was blacking out.

“Not now,” he prayed, mumbling aloud. “Please God, not now.”

But he felt the lights going out inside the plane. The stewardess came to buckle his seat belt. She turned off the overhead beam of light, smiled and left. She did not see the panic on his whitened face.

The roar of the engines, like the demented gongs of a Himalayan temple, stirred his blood with power.

Then he laughed, but the laughter turned harsh and crude. The pain of the last three years flooded into him, a vile, black poison that spilled into his bones, and he choked on his own tears.

Fighting for control, he called on the one-eyed god of Tibet. The whisper of the jets soothed him. He closed his eyes.

Pittsburgh was iced, buried under a foot and a half of snow. Except for the turnpike and a few central roads, there was no traffic. Even from the air, it looked weird and peaceful. No taxis were available. The buses remained at garages. And there were no more flights until the work crews could clear the runways again.

Bill stared disconsolately across the terminal. It was cold, nearly deserted. Only an occasional menial worker strolled by, with brooms, dustpans, rags, and window cleaner.

Before him was a white booth with an Avis logo. There was no one behind the desk. There was no bell to ring. Bill slammed his fist on the desk.

A group of ground crew workers turned. They wore orange slickers and matching trousers, heavy black boots thick with melting snow.

“Hey, Herb! You got a customer!”

“Oh, hell.”

A thin, rat-faced man with a small smile came out from the group, straightened his black knitted tie, and slid easily onto a stool behind the desk.

“Nice time of day to visit Pittsburgh,” he said. “What can I do for you?”

“I need a car.”

The man reached for a triplicate form.

“I’ll have to see your driver’s license, and I’ll need a major credit card.”

Bill stared at him blankly, then pulled out his roll of bills and thrust it at the man.

“No, no. Money’s no good. I’ll need to—”

With an animal grunt, Bill snatched back the money, wheeled brusquely, and stalked across the foyer toward the exit doors.

A blast of frigid air smashed into Bill’s face as the doors opened automatically. Pressing forth into a strong wind, Bill spied a long line of cars parked beneath the Avis canopy. The area was deserted but for an attendant who was gassing a mud-encrusted white Dodge Dart. The attendant slapped his arms vigorously against his body for warmth. His back was to Bill, who watched him furtively from behind a pillar.

His chance came when the attendant cradled the hose, capped the gas tank, then hurried inside the terminal with the meter reading.

Bill approached the Dodge cautiously. With trembling fingers, he opened the door. The car smelled of fresh upholstery. He had trouble finding the key in the ignition switch. Then he had trouble finding the hand brake. Finally, he eased the car onto the main road, swerved, dipped into the snow at the side of the road, and then very carefully, very nervously, following signs, maneuvered toward the city.

There was little traffic. The car felt strange, immensely smooth, quiet, and powerful. After a few moments he began to relax. Then he found the light switch and turned on the headlights. The landscape rolled swiftly past. It was exquisitely cold, exhilarating. Bill drove with the windows wide open.

The signs diverged. A lane went up a long, curved ramp toward Harrisburg. Bill wiped the windshield, continued on toward Pittsburgh. Far away a cluster of lights gleamed over freshly fallen snow. Half a dozen trucks, massive headlights blazing, illumined an Arco station.

He skittered down the off-ramp, turned the wrong way onto a one-way street, circled, and stopped in the midst of the trucks’ lights.

“Closed, mister,” a trucker called. “No gas tonight.”

A group of truckers looked idly in his direction from the gas station door. One of the vans had jackknifed against the wall. The men drank coffee.

“Closed,” the trucker repeated. “Whole town’s shut down. No gas anywhere.”

Bill, blinded by the headlights, the reflection of the snow, glass, and metal, held his hand up in front of his eyes. He turned in all directions. The enormous filaments glared at him in a hideous crossfire. Then a trucker walked slowly to his window.

“You looking for something?” he asked, sipping coffee, his breath billowing into the brilliant cold.

“There’s a children’s clinic. On Tanner Street.”

The trucker shook his head.

“This here is Fitzwilliam Street. Cross street there is Cummins Avenue.”

“My daughter— Please…”

The trucker sighed.

“Just a minute, friend.”

The trucker ambled back to the group. Then two of them went inside the station. They argued over a map taped to the rear of the door. Then a different trucker strolled to the Dodge.

“Go down Fitzwilliam,” he said, “to Ninety-fifth. All the way. To Colman. Should be open. Turn right to Tanner. It’s a real small street. A kind of industrial zone.”

Bill eased the Dodge to Fitzwilliam Street. Snow whirled from the rear wheels, the rear end swung heavily, bumped against a hidden curb, and the car jerked into the middle of the road and stalled. Bill had trouble starting it again. Then it cruised easily along the quiet, snow-softened street.

He did not accelerate, though time was short. Probably the police were alerted. From the sanitarium. From Mario. But he was content to watch the dark alleys drift by, the brilliant pools of light under the streetlamps, a few isolated neon signs, dead-looking trees. It was a malevolent night, soaked in an evil darkness. Yet it was soft and inviting.

“Ekajata!”
Bill mumbled.

The one-eyed deity. One-breasted. One-toothed hag.

“Za!”

Serpent with one thousand eyes.

“Damchen Doje!”

He who rides a goat, carries a blacksmith’s anvil and bellows.

Were they really here? Or just articulations of teeth, tongue, and breath? Had they truly deserted him? Or did they wait, far at the end of the cumbersome roads, perhaps at Tanner Street?

Bill grinned. Colman Street. Down the center was a thin layer of snow. Once plowed, now devoid of traffic. Even the shops were dead. The cold wind ran its fingers through his hair.

“Damchen Doje!”

Odd sound. Here in Pittsburgh. Yet how else had his instincts taken him here? Over every obstacle? Out of every darkness? Jennie, through
their
agency, was Ivy. Ivy called to him through
their
dark powers.

Tanner Street was blocked with snow. Bill jammed on the brakes, the Dodge swerved sideways, slid, and bumped against a telephone pole. The door buckled. He crawled out the other door.

“Ivy?” he whispered.

All the houses were slums. Derelict shacks. Leaning structures, tucked under the walls of a dark factory. Mountains of junk loomed fantastically in backyards. Bill walked quickly up Tanner Street.

A far garage glowed feebly with a pale yellow light behind a window. His feet, still bare within the tight shoes, cramped. Dizzy, he clutched his forehead. A black branch sank under his weight. He looked up. There was a tangled mass of sawdust, broken snow, and pieces of tree trunk. Behind it was a fence. Behind that, a long green building.

Bill grinned. There were no lights. No tracks in the snow. It was the culmination of his journey. A journey three years in the making. Deftly, he climbed the fence and jumped into the yard.

He struggled to a long, dark window and peered in. Cheerful mobiles dangled from yellow strings. It was a dining room. In the farthest shadows was the kitchen. He stepped around to the other side of the clinic, where a fire escape crawled upward to the second floor.

He paused. Nothing moved. A sensation of breeze. Whispering in his ear. Like a soft, trusting voice, he thought.

Gently, he tiptoed up the iron steps, shuffling his way through thick piles of snow. Shivering at the top, he silently peered into the nearest window.

It was a dark room, oddly decorated. Vaguely red curtains. Icons from India. Hoover’s room? An old-fashioned wooden wardrobe, richly carved. On the chair a pillow. Clothes. Bill licked his lips confused, yet eager to begin. He wiped an oval where his breath had condensed on the frosted glass.

Bill grinned a second time. But it was a death’s-head grin. A spasm traveled through his brain. It shook him like a wire doll. Then the chill passed. An awesome vacuum opened before him. He bent forward to look again.

Janice, as she slept, was completely still. Only her breasts moved as she breathed, a soft undulation like a distant sea, silent, a pale memory of the body that he once had shared. Janice stirred. A man’s hand slipped from her naked hip.

Bill ducked. The neighborhood was utterly silent. The trees were cased in ice. Ice covered the metal rails. The sky was livid pink over the city, but black over the clinic. Shivering, he turned again to the window, furiously wiping another hole in the frost.

The rounded torso, the long, slender arms, small but firm breasts, the jutting pelvis, the black, completely black hair that flowed nearly to the shoulders, that had a fragrance of its own. In the gloomy interior her face was barely decipherable. An amalgam of shadows and deeper shadows. By her side, Hoover’s hand stirred familiarly in sleep.

Bill jerked away. In agony he ground tears away with balled fists. He shook all over with a cold he had never experienced before. Long red marks covered his face where his hands dug in. Violently he spun around, found nothing but the frigid night, and pressed his eyes to the window a third time.

The edge of the bed was crumpled with sheets, soft red blankets, a side of a white bedcover. Janice’s ankles were soft, ivory white in the pale glow of a distant streetlamp.

“Ekajata!”
he whispered fervently.
“Za, Damchen Doje!
Help me!”

Had the deities ridden away? Was Pittsburgh the center of a curse? Weeping, Bill backed away, found a door on the landing, and slipped inside the building.

The tears fell hotly down his cheeks.

“Hare Krishna!”
he murmured desperately.

But the Lord of Destruction and Creation had flown beyond all hearing. The clinic was polluted, profaned.

A small blue light nestled in the lower hall. It gave the only light, a glow that extended in an oval over the carpet. He crept to the light and looked in the room.

Jennie stirred. The soft cheek tinged with blue against the sheets. Bill nestled her in his arms, cradled her, and felt the living warmth against his cheek.

“My daughter,” he whispered. “My own.”

No, the deities had not ridden away. They were with him still, and their power was evident, their design clear. They had taken him beyond the crass and mundane realm of earthly deception into the heart of his true and single destiny. Love was no longer Janice. Love moved in his arms, small-limbed, smelling of sleep.

Bill covered her in blankets, listened. There were no movements in the clinic. Holding Jennie close, he edged sideways through the door, onto the fire escape. For a second, the window to Hoover’s bedroom transfixed him. He smiled, then clutched his child tighter and bounded down the slippery steps.

28

E
lliot Hoover had a dream.

He crouched in a cave on the slopes of Mount Everest. Outside, a storm battered the rocks, driving sleet into the cave. He was naked. Suddenly, from the dark interior of the cave came a deity riding a goat. Strings of human skulls bounced against his chest. The goat’s eyes glowed red. Smoke issued upward from the long hair.

For several seconds Hoover did not realize the telephone rang. Then he stirred, shook his head, and went to his desk by the window.

“Yes?” he mumbled thickly. “When? No. No sign. Really? To Pittsburgh? I see. Yes, Dr. Geddes. Thank you.”