Incubi - Edward Lee.wps (23 page)

"Which makes Veronica even more vulnerable."

"You got it. This Khoronos guy, he's slick, he's a smooth operator. He knew all the right things to say to impress Vern, and all the right ways to say them. It took him all of five fucking minutes to make her completely oblivious to common sense, and it was almost like he had the whole retreat thing planned in advance. The fact is he's a perfect stranger. Khoronos and his two pretty boys?

They could be nuts, for all we know."

Jack began to foment. Stewie was right. Who knew who these guys were, and what their game was?

"I saw them off, Vern and Ginny. Vern promised to keep in touch on what was going on with the gallery bids. I haven't heard one word from her." Stewie drained another gin. "You've got to take care of this, Jack."

"I don't know where she is," Jack countered. "I don't know anything about any of it."

"Don't you give a shit at all, man?"

"Of course I do, you asshole."

"Then do something about it, shithead."

"What?"

"Come on, Jackie. You're a cop. You can get a line on this Khoronos clown. Just do whatever it is you cops do when you want to know something."

"I could run his last name if he's got a criminal record, but that would take a while. I could try MVA too. If I had his date of birth or his S.S. number, it'd be a lot faster, but we don't have any that shit. You say he bought a painting with cash? Were they big bills, small bills?"

"Big bills, man. C-notes."

"You still have the money?"

"Fuck no, I deposited it the same day."

"Shit," Jack muttered. Banks kept serial number records of large withdrawals. "He give it to you in anything. An envelope?"

"No, he gave it to me in a fucking toolbox. Of course there was an envelope. But there was nothing on it."

"You still have the envelope?"

"I threw it out."

Jack frowned. "All right. You said these two guys picked up the painting Khoronos bought. What kind of vehicle?"

"A step van. White."

"Make, model, year?"

"I don't know, man. Do I look like a car dealer?"

"You see the tag number?"

"No, I had no reason to look."

"Did you notice the state, even the color of the plates?"

"No," Stewie said.

Jack tapped the bar. What else was there? "These two guys? You must've given them a receipt for the painting."

"Yeah, a standard exchange receipt. I have our copy. The smaller guy signed it, but I can't make out shit for the signature."

"I'll need to see it anyway," Jack said. "I'll also need the day you made the deposit, and what bank you use. The bank'll log a cash deposit that big and the serial numbers of the bills if they're consecutive. If they're not consecutive, they'll record sample numbers."

"What good would that do?"

"I might be able to link your deposit to Khoronos' withdrawal. If I can locate his bank, I can locate him. The only problem is bank records are protected information. Unless I have probable cause to convince a magistrate that Khoronos has committed a crime, which I don't, then they won't show me the transaction records."

"Talk to me, Jackie. You guys have ways around that shit."

"I might be able to go under the table, but I doubt it. I'll give it a shot. After that, there's nothing."

Stewie got up, a little stumbly. "There are other things you can do, Jackie, and you know what I'm talking about. Excuse me."

Yeah, there are a few other things, Jack agreed. He was already thinking about them.

While Stewie utilized the men's room, Jack began to feel edgy. Just seeing people drink goaded him, just seeing the bottles lined up on the wall. Craig was shaking up some shooters for a pair of local cuties. A goateed guy and an area writer were drinking a toast: "To darker days and evil women," the goateed guy proposed. Everybody was drinking, having a good time. Just one, Jack considered, but he knew it was a lie. For men like Jack there was no such thing as one drink.

He'd made a promise tonight, and he resolved to keep it. He might break it tomorrow. But... Not tonight, he thought.

"Another soda water, Jack?" Craig asked. He flipped a lit cigarette and caught it in his mouth.

The two cuties applauded.

"I , uh " Jack groaned. Fiddich, rocks, he wanted to say. "I made a promise that I wouldn't drink tonight."

Craig ejected a shaker of ice behind his back into the sink. "My view on promises is thus: A man can only be as good as his promise. When we break our promises, we break ourselves."

"Another soda water, Craig," Jack validated. The wisdom of barkeeps, again, amazed. When we break our promises, we break ourselves. He should have it tattooed on his wrist, a constant reminder. "With lime and lemon this time," he added.

"Where were we?" Stewie retook his stool and ordered another Sapphire. His eyes looked bloodshot.

"Hey, Stewie," Jack began. "How come you're getting tanked?"

"You're lecturing me? That's balls, Jackie. You're the A.A. candidate, not me."

"I'm not lecturing you, I just "

"I told you, I'm worried about her, I'm concerned."

"I used to be in love with her, remember? I'm concerned about her too. More than you."

"Bullshit, Jackie." Stewie swigged, wincing. "You've never been concerned about anyone in your life."

Jack gaped at the insult.

"And if anything bad happens to her," Stewie ranted on, "it'll be your fault."

Jack gaped at that one too. "Since you're drunk, I'll pretend I didn't hear that."

"No, Jackie, since I'm drunk, I'll tell you what I really think. You wanna hear it?"

"Sure, I listen to crap every day. Yours is no different from anyone else's."

"Here's what I think, Jackie boy. I think you were the best thing to ever happen to Veronica."

Jack's mouth fell open. Of all the things he might expect Stewie to say, this was the least imaginable.

"Before she got involved with you, she didn't have anything but her work. She was confused, disillusioned, and unhappy. But you gave her direction "

Jack was confused too, thoroughly. "Stewie, how come all of a sudden you're saying good things about me?"

" and then you failed," Stewie, ran on. "You gave her the promise of something good, and then you let her down."

Jack roused. "How the fuck did I let her down! She dumped me, remember? She ended the relationship, not me!"

Stewie shrugged. "You dangled happiness in front of her face, but you never let her have it. All you did was moan and groan about your own problems without ever considering hers. It broke her heart, Jackie. You never even tried to care about the things that were important to her."

"Oh, yeah? What? What things?"

"The things that make her tick. Her desire to create, her visions and her insights. Her art, Jackie.

Her art."

Jack's mouth felt frozen, an immobile hole.

"She loved you so much, more than you could probably ever know. You led her on, but you never came through. You were too selfish."

Could all this be true? Could Jack have been so blind that he didn't see any of this?

"You left her with no alternative, Jackie."

Jack felt dried up in the aftermath of Stewie's dissertation. His first impulse was to deny it all, to dismiss it, but that would only be evasion. Why would Stewie make up so detailed a condemnation?

"I didn't know," Jack said. "I didn't realize..."

"Yeah, right." Stewie slapped some cash down on the bar, and also the date of the deposit and the name of Veronica's bank. "Are your excuses always so sophisticated? With Veronica, you could have had everything. Look what you get instead."

Jack didn't know what he meant.

"I gotta go now, Jackie. Enjoy the view." Stewie shoved his wallet back in his pants and walked out of the bar.

Enjoy the view, Jack repeated in his mind. He looked up. In the mirrored bar wall, behind rows and rows of bottles, he saw his own face staring back at him.

"Hey, Craig. Dump the soda water and pour me a Fiddich."

"What about your promise?" Craig asked, stacking some pint glasses with Oxford Class emblems on them.

"Fuck the promise. Get me a drink."

"With all due respect, Jack, I don't think that's such a hot idea. Why not just play it cool tonight?"

"I don't need a counseling session, Craig, I need a drink. Just pour me a fucking drink, or I'll find a bar that will."

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"Father of the Earth," spoke the Prelate, "we live to serve your will."

"Hail, Father, hail," responded the Surrogoti.

"We give you flesh through blood, we give you body though spirit."

"Flesh through blood," came the antiphon. "Body through spirit."

The Prelate kissed the dolch. The cloaked Surrogoti stood at opposite points of the Trine. The Prelate turned to face them.

They joined hands. They looked down and they prayed.

"Walk with us, Father."

"Protect us."

"Bless us, Father, and deliver us. Give us strength to do your will in this holy time, we your unworthy servants. Let us walk unseen and speak unheard so that we may give to you again.

Bless us and come among us, Father."

"Flesh through blood."

"Body through spirit."

The Prelate felt risen. He closed his eyes and looked. Show me, he prayed. I beseech thee. He saw black like onyx and endless chasms of flesh and loss. The sky was red beyond the stygian terrascape; lattices of distant fires pulsed slowly throughout the chasms' rough clefts like glowing veins, and the merged black mutterings of chaos deafened the endless gorge. It was beautiful.

The Prelate swept down into the abyss, no longer a man but a great svelte bird. Down and down, into lovely chaos, into the grace of the tumult. Visions soared past, dark blood colors and movements of things barely seen. Each crevice of the vale wound through oozing slabs of rock, escarpments and catacombs, riven earthworks and bottomless pits. Carry me away, thought the Prelate upon gorgeous black wings. The void's screams flooded his bead-black eyes with tears of joy, the fury of truth, its quickness and its infinity. The gorge descended further into tenebrae, leading him to some inverted pinnacle older than history. A mile or a thousand miles off he could see the blessed summit, but below the chasm's gushing black, movement began to reveal itself beneath the sheen of sulphurous smoke. Beaked scavengers picked through piles of twitching bodies; sluglike excrement-dwellers sloughed flesh off bones. Gaping holes in rock disgorged corpses charred to sticks, billowing smoke sooty with human fat. Beautiful, dreamed the Prelate.

Figures less than human emerged from gaseous cracks: faceless, indescribable ushers that pawed at the pitiable human horde, drinking up their screams, inhaling their blood. Naked shapes in swarms struggled throughout slime and shit only to be trod upon by the chuckling attendants of this place. Bodies squirmed with vigor as skulls were cracked apart and plucked of their pink meat. Limbs were torqued out of sockets, spines were yanked out of backs, bodies were slowly and methodically squashed and gazed upon as bones snapped and organs burst. One usher sunk huge genitals into a squirming woman's rectum while another curiously twisted her head around and around till it came off. Other bodies were skillfully flensed by nimble claw-hands, dismantled piece by piece. Faces were shorn off living heads, fingers and toes were nibbled as tidbits. Grotesque genitals rose to plunder any orifice in reach. Inhuman hands pulled open scrotums to expose raw testicles to flames. Needle teeth sunk into glans, bit off nipples and breasts, hands and feet, ears, noses, scalps. The ushers rejoiced in their determined work, peerless in their execution. There was no end to the workings of their beauty. One of the ushers forced a man to eat parts of himself; others directed children to dissect their mothers alive, then themselves. Whole tangles of writhing human bodies were submerged into pits of steaming excrement, held under until they drowned, and huge, misshapen feet plodded systematically upon carpets of pregnant women till their wombs disbirthed. Placentae and fetuses were set aside upon hot rocks, to cook.

Here was recompense. Here was truth.

The Prelate looked for the day when he, too, would join the ushers in their holy onus.

The earthworks led on. The Prelate glided serenely over turning fire and smoldering pits. The screams, like beautiful music, faded behind. Plinths studded the precipice, black cenotaphs and dolmens old as the world. Higher and higher the Prelate sailed, and down and down until soon there was no sound at all, only the serenity of this lightless, ancient place. He could feel the beauty of its presence, he could almost touch it, for it was coming...

Closer, closer...

The Prelate stopped.

He hovered in infinity, staring.

Before him stood the Father's obsidian throne, and in it:

The Father.

The Father of the Earth.

"Aorista!"

«« »»

"To you we give our faith forever," wept the Prelate down into the Trine.

"Flesh through blood," chorused the Surrogoti. "Body through spirit."

The Prelate turned and held up the jarra. "My love, Father. My gift to thee." He held up the dolch.

"And your gift to us."

The Surrrogoti raised their arms.

"Give us grace, O Father, to fulfill your destiny."

"Baalzephon, hail!"

"Aorista!"

The cement floor, around the Trine, grew warm.

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Veronica looked up from her worktable. She heard footsteps. But when she peeked into the hall, the stairwell was empty.

The footsteps had sounded misplaced. They hadn't even sounded like they were coming from the stairs.