by Alexie Aaron
“If they are here, there is no treatment. They are evil, and we must keep them from damaging the world.”
“So no exorcisms,” Marianne assumed.
“These people don’t have demons inside them. They have made themselves demons.”
Father Saul put a reassuring hand on Marianne’s shoulder. “Please be assured that I have brought you here to see who is responsible for your debasement, not to inter you. Marianne, I have consulted my peers and have come to the conclusion that you’re a power of good. One lapse brought on by the influence of evil doesn’t brand you for life.”
The monk opened a door and turned on a light. “Take care, these stairs are steep. Brother David is waiting in the room at the top. Go with God,” he said, holding the door.
They climbed the clean stone stairs and entered a room with austere furnishings. A man of middle years sat at an angled window watching. He waved them over.
“I’m Brother David. My job is to watch, analyze, and anticipate what the man below is doing and going to do. He has fooled us for years. He is a most interesting case.”
Father Saul drew Marianne to the window. “This is the creator of the book that robbed you of your memory,” Father Saul explained. “He is not a demon from Hell sent to punish you. He is but an alchemist seeking power in the most depraved way possible.”
Marianne looked at Brother David for confirmation.
The monk explained, “He is a man who eats, drinks, and defecates like all men. But he has found a way of taking parts of himself to develop a parasitical object, in this case, a book. The pages of the book were first made with the skin he tore from the flesh of his leg. The ink, the corrupted blood from his veins. The leather and spine from a Bible he requested. We thought he was reading for comfort. We didn’t know he was using the container of God’s words in his unholy spell.”
“It explains the book’s origins,” Father Saul said. “But how did he get it out of here?”
“A novice didn’t check the returning food tray properly. We don’t know for sure, but the original book would have been thin enough to be secreted under a bowl or a plate. Because the book robs the possessed of memory, we could only piece the events of the past together by the odd behavior noted by the novice master in his journal. The novice himself would not have remembered taking the book from the tray, secreting it upon his person, and passing it to one of the farmers who trades with us.”
“We are looking down upon his cell. Was he not watched?” Father Saul asked.
“As soon as the Queen of Books notified us of the situation, we moved Horace into this observation chamber. Prior to this, he was housed as humanely as possible in a different wing of the monastery.”
“What have you observed?” Marianne asked.
“That Horace is one with the book. Most of his mind is involved in the animation of the evil object. It takes a lot of energy for him to communicate with the book. Right now, he is the book and the book is him.”
“How is it that this man is still alive when he has killed with his book?” Marianne asked.
“He was brought here for the crimes of controlling others for the amassing of wealth. We didn’t know he had created a life-snatching book until a few days ago. The path of the book is being explored, and Horace will be punished for his actions. We can’t just take hearsay; we need proof. Taking a life isn’t in our charter.”
“What is?” Marianne asked.
“Containing the creatures whose activities fall outside the parameters of society. The paranormal aspect of their crimes makes the prosecution of them impossible in today’s court systems. The men and woman contained within these and the other prisons will live out their lifespans, separated from society and cared for by this order.”
“What if they killed before coming here?”
“Then they would have never been brought here. There are others who are trained to deal with killers. All we can do is imprison, care for, and watch them.”
“How has Horace’s book survived for so many years?” Father Saul asked.
“Right now, we have more questions than answers. Our scholars are searching the archives, looking for precedents.”
“While your scholars are working, what can we do?” Marianne asked.
“Pray for those fighting the book,” Brother David said.
“I’m part of that book,” Marianne said. “Can you use me somehow to aid those in the fight?”
Both Father Saul and the monk looked at Marianne in amazement. This ordinary woman, whose life had been forever changed, was offering herself to help others.
Marianne looked at them and asked, “What if the survivors of the book took back our pages? Would that help?”
“Maybe, but the question is how?” the monk asked himself.
“Father Saul, you mentioned a Queen of Books,” Marianne said. “Consult with her. In the meanwhile, is there a chapel here in which I may pray?”
~
Elma sat in her car in the garage over the Whole Foods on Huron Street and made a grocery list. She needed olives. What was a martini without an olive? She jotted down a few other things. Elma’s aggressive nature made her a natural to navigate the streets of Chicago. Aside from a citation for excessive use of her horn, she never got a traffic ticket. Elma knew when to travel by mass transit and when to travel by car.
She tapped her pen on her notepad. She wished she hadn’t rushed out without checking the refrigerator, but her mind was on putting her life in order as quickly as possible. If it weren’t for Secondhand Clara, things would have been the same as they always were. Wendell would be hanging on her every word. What did that little slut have that Elma didn’t? Clara was a woman with ample woman parts. “She’s fat,” Elma said, tossing her list into her purse and getting out of the car.
Molina walked off Elma’s porch. “She’s not answering. Want me to call for a warrant?”
“For a book? They would laugh us out of the force,” Brenda said from the driveway. She looked at the high windows of the garage and then for something to stand on. “Come here.”
“I’m coming.”
Brenda put her hands together, stooping. “Look in the windows, and see if her car is inside. I’ll give you a boost.”
“It’s your back…” Molina said, stepping into the hand. She looked in the window. “Car’s gone.”
“That’s where she is,” Brenda said, steadying Molina as she jumped down. Ms. Kis has gone to pick up her car. Let’s come back later. I’ll buy you a sandwich.”
“I’ll take you up on that offer,” Molina said. “I’m trying to figure out why Clara, who I saw only had eyes for Nash, was out on a date with Wendell. He’s got to be fifteen years older than her.”
“I don’t know, he’s kind of cute.”
“In a mommy’s boy way,” Molina said. “Did you see Nash Greene?”
“No.”
“He’s tall and gangly, about forty, but he’s got something. Wait, I know what must have happened. She followed my advice.”
“And your advice was what?” Brenda asked.
“Get him to take her to his place and for her to check out his medicine cabinet and drawers. Nash must not have passed muster. Did I ever tell you about the guy I dated who wore women’s silk panties?”
“No.”
Brenda listened to Molina’s tale as she drove out of the neighborhood.
~
Kalaraja watched as Natalie drew the thread through the binding, securing the fragile pages of the old book.
“Bear with me, this helps me think,” Natalie said. “The offer of help from the victims of the book presents a quandary. They are now characters in the book, so it would seem to me that they should be able to progress through the book creating another plotline, a story arc if you will…”
“Isn’t the overall story arc about an alchemist who amasses power while deriving deviant pleasure from the debasement of his victims
?”
“But there is a broken thread. Ron Santiago’s heart was still alive and, in a sense, part of him lives through Nash.”
“Marc Davis was supposed to die, but he lives,” Kalaraja said.
“He also remembered the black book. Marc Davis is our way into the pages of the book, and this time, we’re in control of the narrative.”
~
Kabir walked into the room and gazed upon the face of his friend. The angry red marks on the slack lips, no longer supported by teeth, aged Marc dramatically.
“I feel somehow I’m responsible for this,” Kabir said, sitting down.
Marc moved the SGD closer and typed, “Once again you’re claiming my hard work as your own.”
“If I hadn’t been so driven on getting the better of you, I would have never opened that book.”
“Nor I. Tell me what happened to you.”
Kabir raised a finger, got up, and closed the door to the room. He pulled out a notebook. “I have no memory of doing this, but the police think that, on Sunday, I met up with Monica Voorhees and…”
Marc sat spellbound while Kabir told the story of his darkest desire. “Evidently, after I embalmed Trisha Prue, I screwed Monica in a tub of Trisha’s blood, put on my clothes, and left via the back door. I left my DNA everywhere.”
“Your darkest desire was to be an Egyptian priest. Mine was to take away my ability to discuss a book.”
“If it makes you feel any better, I will be charged with the interference of a dead body. Hell of a thing to include on a resume.”
“Depends on the job.”
“You can joke about this?”
“One of the night nurses is reading me Double Whammy by Carl Hiaasen. Evidently, you can find humor in horrific situations, or at least Hiaasen can.”
“So can King and Koontz,” Kabir pointed out.
The two began adding authors to their list, sometimes arguing over the other’s observations.
Kabir’s phone vibrated. He was expecting it to be his lawyer, but instead, it was Marianne Irving. “It’s Marianne,” Kabir said. “Marianne!”
“Where are you?” she asked.
“Arguing books with Marc in his hospital room.”
“Good. Put me on speaker.”
“Okay, Ms. Bossy Pants,” Kabir said.
“Marc and Kabir, I am so sorry about what’s happened to you. I may have been used to put you in harm’s way. For this, I will always be sorry. Please listen to the tale I’m about to tell you. If you feel in your hearts that it rings true, then there is something I’m going to ask of you.”
“Nice meter, ever think of becoming a poet?”
“What was that?” Marianne asked, confused by the mechanical sound of the voice.
“That’s Marc now. It’s the voice from the machine he speaks through. Get used to it. He hasn’t let having no tongue get in the way of over-discussing a plot hole.”
Marc made a guttural laugh.
“Behave. Honestly, the world could be at the brink of destruction and you two are making jokes.”
“Sorry, Marianne, go ahead. We’re all ears,” Kabir said.
~
Elma took the long way home. She drove to the Baumbachs’ home and pulled into the drive. She got out and walked quickly to the door and rang the bell. No one answered. The Baumbachs must be out. Why would Catherine leave her home? questioned Elma. Elma reached in her purse to leave Catherine a note. She had to be told about Wendell’s gold-digging whore of a girlfriend, but that wasn’t something you left in a note.
Elma returned the pen and paper to her bag and left defeated. Good thing she had bought another bottle of vodka. She was going to need it to calm down.
~
Catherine watched as Wendell relaxed. She appreciated that Clara wasn’t cowed by the intermittent glares Nash was giving her when she teased Wendell or laughed at something he said. Kalaraja was calling out possible ingredients to the apple pie, trying to figure out why it was so good. When he guessed right on an ingredient, Clara countered with, “But how much, and when do you put it in?”
“I didn’t know you liked to cook?” Catherine asked Kalaraja.
“I do like to mix things up a bit,” Kalaraja admitted.
“What is your favorite meal to cook?” Catherine asked Clara.
“Oh, I have a lot of favorites. It depends on the time of day.”
“Suppertime and it’s cold outside,” Catherine led.
“Gumbo.”
“Why?” Wendell asked.
“It’s a dish that depends on a dozen ingredients in balance with each other. When you taste it, you should have flavors that travel across your tongue before the heat takes over. My gumbo has shrimp, chicken thighs, and andouille sausage in it. Three meats prepared differently and then joined at the right time. The vegetables have to have vibrant color, and the rice needs to accept the gravy but not soak it up.”
“Fresh herbs?” Kalaraja asked.
“When possible, but there are a few that can be dried.”
“What makes or breaks the gumbo?” Nash asked.
“The roux.”
“What’s a roux?” Wendell asked.
“Roux is equal weights of flour and fat cooked together beforehand. I fry mine until it’s just the brown side of golden. I use butter as my fat, but you could use anything. I just like how the butter adds something to the gravy at the end. Roux is used to thicken sauces and gravies,” Clara told Wendell.
Nash watched Clara as she talked. Her arms moved as if she were standing at the stove cooking. Her hands were so supple, and when she rubbed her fingers together, he could imagine she was feeling the consistency of chopped herbs as they left her fingers.
“Catherine, what is your favorite meal to make?” Clara asked.
“On a cold day, stew. On a hot one, a big garden salad.”
“She makes it in a bowl that is bigger than the kitchen sink,” Wendell said. “She puts bacon, cheeses, homemade croutons, beets, and three different lettuces.”
“Do you dress it in the bowl or on the side?” Clara asked, interested.
“I dress it in the bowl and then take tongs and serve it on a cold plate.”
Clara nodded.
“Is no one going to ask me?” Kalaraja pouted.
“No,” Nash said.
Clara tapped Nash’s arm before scolding him, “Be nice.” She turned to Kalaraja and asked, “What is your favorite meal to cook?”
“Curry,” Nash answered for him.
Kalaraja raised an eyebrow and answered, “Biryani is not a curry.”
“He’s right. It’s not. I’d love for you to teach me how to make a proper Biryani. Mine always fails.”
“Like your gumbo, it depends on your timing.”
Clara listened while Kalaraja explained the crucial timing and the reason for using certain ingredients.
“Still tastes like curry to me,” Nash said.
Clara knew Nash was pushing Kalaraja’s buttons. It didn’t take long for the landlord to ask Nash, “Which Hungry-Man is your favorite to zap?”
Nash blushed.
Catherine giggled. “Bachelor fare.”
“Did you know, the timing of a TV dinner – that’s what we called them in our house,” Clara explained, “takes years to master. Here you have a meal cooked to a degree. All three or four segments of the meal normally need different temperatures to cook properly.”
“That’s why I flip the brownie out,” Nash said proudly.
“Mother won’t let me have a TV dinner,” Wendell said.
“And have you ever been sick aside from the flu?” Catherine asked.
“No, Mother,” Wendell said.
Clara thought Wendell was cute. Nash thought he was pathetic. Kalaraja looked at sickly Nash and then at the robust Wendell and scrubbed any idea of eating TV dinners.
Nash looked at his watch. His eyebrows rose. “Forg
ive me, I better open up. I’m already a half hour late.”
“I’ll do it, Clara said, launching herself off the couch. “Remember, you don’t know what Elma Kis looks like.”
“Neither do the Richardses. I hope we resolve this before the weekend,” Nash worried.
“I’ll drop Mother off and bring back a group photo of the book club from the Christmas party,” Wendell said.
“That’s my clue to leave. Nash, be a dear and wrap up the last of that pie for me.”
Nash scratched his head. He ended up using the brown paper. “Clara’s going to need to return the pie tin to the restaurant.”
“I’ll have Wendell return it,” Catherine said.
Nash wanted to tell her not to, but he couldn’t speak for Clara.
Kalaraja leaned against the counter watching the door while Clara showed a set of expecting parents to the children’s section.
Clara returned smiling. “I offered them a discount since we were late to open and they had been waiting. I saw Nash do that. I hope I don’t get into trouble. They are the Hendersons, and they are looking for a few books to put in their nursery to read to their baby when it’s born.”
“Most people would buy new,” Kalaraja said. “Shows they’re not germaphobes.”
Wendell walked quickly out of the back. “Thanks for the pie, Clara!” he said as he all but ran through the door.
“He’s got to get the car,” Kalaraja explained.
Next, Catherine walked regally, holding onto Nash’s arm. He was carrying a very unusually shaped package. He smiled at Clara as he walked by.
“Clara, I’ll return the tin,” Catherine said. “Do come by and visit.”
“I will,” Clara stammered.
Kalaraja waited until Nash and Catherine had left the building before speaking. “The ultimate compliment without a word said; she took the rest of your pie home.”
“No. She’s going to bake a superior pie and make me eat it.”
“Maybe. Or it’s another opportunity to put you in the way of Wendell.”