Carrion

by Gary Brandner

  “So what?” he said to the reflection. “You don’t have to look good; you’re rich. Anyway, a lot richer than you were yesterday.”

  He cocked his head and stared into the eyes of his image. The whites were clear, the irises pale gray, almost silvery. What was it Le Docteur had said? Eyes of a gangan. Whatever that meant. Fain had no objection, since it seemed to be his ticket to the club. He leaned closer. There did seem to be something different about his eyes today. A cold spark in the gray depths that he had not noticed before.

  Fain turned away from the mirror with a little snort. Power of suggestion. The fat old fraud had hypnotized him. No matter, he had gotten what he wanted: a little information and the raw materials to put together a ten-thousand-dollar — no, make that twenty thousand — performance for Elliot Kruger.

  He got into the shower and turned it on steaming hot. Feeling great, he started to sing at the top of his voice, then stopped suddenly. What the hell was that he was singing? Something in a monotonous minor key that he had never heard before. And words he did not understand — nonsense syllables. More of the old houngan ’s doing, he supposed. He finished the shower silently, but the echo of the strange chanting song lingered in his mind.

  He was shaved and brushed and feeling quite healthy and wise when Jillian Pappas arrived.

  “Where the heck were you last night?” she asked, dropping her tote bag at the door. “I tried to call you three times.”

  “I was taking witch-doctor lessons,” he said.

  “Very funny.” Jillian stood looking at the paraphernalia on the end table and the floor beside the recliner. “What’s all this junk?”

  “That junk, my love, is what is going to make you and me a bundle of money.”

  “No kidding.”

  “Absolutely.”

  “How?”

  “Trust me.”

  “Where have I heard that before?” She picked up the book he had left lying there the previous afternoon. “Voodoo Practices of the Caribbean. Oh, no, Mac, you’re not going to try to do this stuff.”

  “No, of course not. But I needed something for a convincer. This sort of thing is not part of my routine.”

  “I thought you were going to fake it.”

  “Well, sure, but I want to look like I might know what I’m doing. I can’t pull coins out of Leanne Kruger’s ear and tell her husband that’s how we bring people back to life.”

  “I wish you wouldn’t do this,” Jillian said. “I don’t feel good about it.”

  Fain skipped into the bedroom and hurried out with the check. “Take a look at this and see if you feel any better.”

  Jillian examined the check and handed it back to him. “Is it good?”

  “People like Elliot Kruger do not write bum checks. And this is only the first installment. After the job there’ll be another just like it.”

  “Jeez, he must really believe you can do it. Bring his wife back to life.”

  “Let’s say he’s betting I can do it. If he wins, he’s got his loving young wife back. If he loses, it’s only money.”

  Jillian put out a hand to slow him down. “Wait a minute; did you say, ‘If he wins’?”

  Fain gave her a disarming grin. “Just psyching myself up, babe. If I don’t act like I believe, nobody else will.”

  “You scare me sometimes.”

  “Why not?” He gave her a wide-eyed stare. “I’ve got the eyes of a gangan.”

  “Don’t do that.”

  “Just practicing.”

  “The eyes of a what, did you say?”

  “Never mind. It’s an old voodoo expression.” Jillian shivered. “Got any coffee?”

  “No, I just got up.”

  “I’ll make some.” She went into the kitchen and started a kettle of water heating while she spooned Hills Bros. into the funnel of a stove-top drip coffee maker. She moved among his kitchen things with easy familiarity.

  “I’ve got some news, too,” she said. “I got a job.”

  “You got the equity-waiver thing?” Mac said, coming into the kitchen.

  “No, that went to Miss Bajoomies, like I figured.”

  “What, then?”

  “It’s more modeling, really, than acting. But it’s three days’ work, and the pay isn’t bad….”

  “Not the RV show out at the Rose Bowl?”

  “Well, yes, as a matter of fact.” She turned to face him. “What’s wrong with that?”

  “It’s wrong because you’ve got too much talent to be spieling Winnebagos to a bunch of shitkickers from Saugus.”

  “I agree with you, but while I’m waiting for Aaron Spelling to call, I can be picking up a few bucks.”

  Fain flourished the check. “Hey, you’ve got a job, remember. My valued associate.”

  “Bolshoi.”

  He put an arm around her and pulled her close. “I’m serious, honey. With twenty thou I can put a down payment on a condo in the Valley or Orange County or somewhere. Put down some roots. We can move in together, and you can work on your classes and hang tough till something good comes along. You won’t have to take these Mickey Mouse gigs with a bunch of yokels grabbing at you.”

  “Wait a minute. You’re not talking marriage, are you?”

  “Lord, no.”

  “For a minute there you really had me scared.”

  “So how about it? Will you tell the Winnebago people to stuff it and come help me with the Kruger business?”

  Jillian relaxed against him and sighed. “I suppose somebody ought to be there to keep those people from drowning you in the pool when you make a big fool of yourself.”

  “That’s my girl. Confidence.”

  “Ha.”

  “Tomorrow we can work out a routine. Tonight we’ll celebrate.”

  Chapter 7

  To make the scene perfect, McAllister Fain thought, there should be a spectacular electrical storm with brilliant slashes of lightning and thunder that boomed like giant kettle drums. Working with him should be a manic hunchback who called him “master.” And they should now be clattering to their laboratory over cobblestones in a closed carriage drawn by a team of angry black horses.

  Reality was hardly ever perfect. Instead of a storm, they had a drizzly February night. In place of the hunchback, a quiet Jillian Pappas sat at his side. And Elliot Kruger’s custom Rolls tooling west on Sunset stood in for the clattering carriage. Close enough, he decided.

  Fain leaned back to study his reflection in the tinted side window. He was wearing a black turtleneck under a conservative gray silk jacket, purchased yesterday at Silverwood’s especially for the occasion. The effect, he thought, was properly mystical.

  Jillian wore a silky gown of midnight blue that was unadorned and modestly cut but did not hide the smooth contours of her body. This, too, had been purchased the day before, chosen by Fain for the dramatic effect.

  As though she sensed his scrutiny, Jillian turned toward him. He gave her a smile that she did not return.

  “Cheer up,” he told her. “You look like you’re going to a funeral.”

  Jillian gave him a long look from under her finely arched brows. “Is that supposed to be funny?”

  “Just making conversation.”

  She turned away from him again. They rode on in silence through the garish lights of the Strip and into the moneyed hush of Beverly Hills.

  Still watching Jillian, Fain reached into an inside pocket and brought out a flat package gift-wrapped in silvery paper. He let it rest gently on Jillian’s silken knee.

  “I was going to save this until afterward,” he said, “but maybe if you open it now it will lighten the mood in here.”

  She studied him for a long moment, then slowly unwrapped the package. Under the paper was a plush black jewelry case. Jillian gave Mac another look, then raised the hinged cover. A slim, elegant bracelet lay inside on a bed of pale satin. Even in the dim light the diamonds seemed to glow with inner fire.

  “My God, Mac, it’s beaut
iful.”

  “It ought to be, considering what it cost.”

  “How much?”

  “Who cares? When you got it, spend it, right?”

  “You know you shouldn’t have done it.”

  “I don’t know any such thing. In three years I haven’t given you much in the way of presents. I’m going to start making up for it.”

  “I don’t care about presents,” she said.

  “Well, I do. It boosts my ego to give things to people I like.”

  “You need an ego boost like Rome needs Catholics.”

  “I’ll ignore that,” he said.

  She leaned over in the seat and gave him a kiss. “It was sweet, Mac, even though it was dumb. Thank you.” She fitted the bracelet around her wrist and closed the clasp. “Look how nicely this dress sets it off.”

  He rubbed the back of his neck. “Uh, you’re not going to wear it tonight, are you?”

  “Why not?”

  “It’s just that it kind of detracts from the effect I wanted from the dress.”

  She let a beat go by before she spoke. “Oh, right, I’m the Mistress of the Occult. Almost forgot.”

  “You know what I mean,” he said.

  “Sure, I know.” She took off the bracelet, returned it to the jeweler’s box, and handed it to Fain. “Take care of it for me.”

  He held the box for a moment, then sighed and slipped it back into his pocket.

  They rode in silence for another five minutes through the rain-wet streets. When Jillian spoke again, she did not turn from the window to look at him. “You know, Mac, I can’t believe you’re going through with this.”

  “Hey, come on …” he began.

  “And even more, I can’t believe I’m helping you.”

  Fain took her hand and held it until she turned toward him. “Jill, we’ve been over and over this. I did not make the man any promises. We are not breaking any laws. It’s just make-believe. Like when you go on a stage and play a part.”

  “When I’m on the stage, the audience knows it’s make-believe.”

  Fain nodded toward the back of the chauffeur’s head, visible behind the glass partition. “We can discuss the ethics later. Remember, there’s another ten thousand when we finish tonight.”

  “Is that supposed to make it all right?”

  “Would you rather be right and hungry or wrong and rich?”

  Jillian sighed and slumped lower in the seat.

  They turned up into the hills and drove through the tall gates and along the wooded drive to Kruger’s house. Every light in the mansion blazed, haloed by the misting rain. The smooth-faced man who had met them before hurried out with an umbrella. Garner, the chauffeur, opened the rear door, and the other man held the umbrella above Fain and Jillian as they walked between the car and the side entrance to the house. Garner retrieved Fain’s satchel of equipment from the trunk and followed them in.

  Elliot Kruger was waiting for them in the same high-ceilinged room where he had received them the first time. He had aged noticeably in three days. A fat log burned in the closet-size fireplace, but the room held a deep chill. Outside the French windows, the lighted pool shimmered blue and cold in the fine rain.

  The old man rose with difficulty from his chair to greet them. His son, Richard, stood against the far wall, arms folded, a disapproving frown on his round face.

  “I don’t suppose there is any reason to delay,” Kruger said when the greetings were out of the way.

  “I don’t suppose so,” Fain agreed. “We might as well get started. He turned toward the French windows that overlooked the lawn and the pool.

  “She’s not there,” Kruger said.

  Fain turned to look at him.

  “Leanne is upstairs,” the old man said. “In our bedroom.”

  “Bedroom,” Fain said, digesting the information.

  “Naturally, I assumed you would want to work with her in a natural state, so I ordered her temperature carefully raised and the blood restored to her veins.”

  “Oh … naturally,” Fain said through a tightening throat.

  Richard moved in and thrust his jowly face close to Fain. “You do understand,” he said heavily, “that the body cannot be refrozen. It will begin to decompose in a matter of hours.”

  “Well, I, uh …”

  “Please, Richard,” Kruger interrupted, “I do not want Mr. Fain to think I am putting added pressure on him. We both accept the fact that this is my last attempt at bringing Leanne back. The cryogenic tank is shut down for good. If we do not succeed tonight, that will be the end of it. I will have her interred in the usual manner.”

  Fain cleared his throat. He deliberately did not look at Jillian, who was pale-faced and staring at him. “Let’s get on with it,” he said. Belatedly, he remembered those were the final words of Gary Gilmore before the Utah firing squad blew him away.

  • • •

  The master bedroom on the second floor was as large as Mac Fain’s entire apartment. The bed alone was the size of his bedroom. When they entered, there were pale gold draperies drawn across the floor-to-ceiling windows.

  The subdued lighting was provided by a crystal chandelier and a table lamp on either side of the bed.

  Fain saw that the others hung back at the doorway, waiting for him to take the lead. Elliot Kruger’s face was skeletal in the deep shadows. Jillian stood rigidly, carrying the satchel. Richard stood apart from the others, watchful.

  Drawing a deep breath, Fain walked slowly over the springy beige carpet and across a cool expanse of parquet floor. When he reached the bedside, Rosalia and the young medical attendant from the pool house stepped aside to make room for him.

  Fain looked down at the huge bed with its satiny chocolate cover, and everything else in the room vanished. Resting there with her head on the gold pillow, chestnut hair brushed to glowing life, arms relaxed at her sides, lay Leanne Kruger. She was dressed chastely to the throat in pale blue silk that clung lovingly to the mounds and hollows of her body. A pair of tubes inserted into the veins of her arms were connected to a softly muttering pump at bedside. The infusion of blood had returned some of the color to the pallid face Fain had seen three days before through the glass plate in the tank.

  But forget the brushed hair, the carefully arranged pose, the false blush of the cheeks. McAllister Fain reminded himself that this woman was unmistakably, undeniably, irretrievably dead.

  He became aware of a heavy silence in the room and realized he had been standing for over a minute gazing down at the dead woman. He turned and looked at the three people who still waited at the door. Along with Rosalia and the young medical attendant, they tacitly acknowledged that he was in charge. Even Richard Kruger, whose skeptical frown was softened by the presence of death, looked to him for the next move.

  Fain gave them a small nod, hoping Jillian would remember her part and not get carried away now with moral questions about what they were doing. To his relief, she seemed to gather herself and slip into character. She brought the satchel across the room and knelt at his side to open it.

  Jillian began laying out the contents of the satchel. She placed the candles in neat rows on the floor and arranged the jars of varicolored powders on the bedside table. She kept her eyes on what she was doing and refused to look at Fain.

  When the satchel was emptied, Fain made his selection from the rows of candles. He chose them in assorted shapes and colors, more for the aesthetic effect than for any special properties each might have. The night before last, Le Docteur had explained at length the different purposes for each type of candle, but now the whole evening in the shed with the houngan was a smoky blur in Fain’s memory.

  As before, the texture of the candles was somehow unpleasant to the touch, but Fain tried not to think about it as he placed them in strategic locations about the huge bedroom. As he lit the candles, he motioned to Jillian, and one by one she snapped off the bedside lamps and doused the chandelier. When he had finished, the scene w
as lit only by the flickering flames of twenty pungent candles.

  He returned then to the bedside and looked down at the dead face of Leanne Kruger. Something cold prodded the region of his groin. In the three heady days since Elliot Kruger had made his outlandish offer, the main thought in the mind of Mac Fain was the money. Now, for the first time, he saw clearly the whole eerie tableau.

  What the hell am I doing here? his mind cried. He had a wild impulse to grab Jillian and run out of that house of death and back to the noisy, tacky, comfortable apartment in Echo Park. But once again the thought of ten thousand dollars, and ten thousand more, pushed him onward. He peeled off the new silk jacket and handed it to Jillian. She folded it carefully over a chair.

  He beckoned Rosalia over and told her by gesture to remove the furry rugs that surrounded the bed. She obeyed, watching him with huge frightened eyes, leaving a bare patch of parquetry all around the bed.

  Fain turned his attention next to the jars of colored sands and powders arranged on the table. Jillian turned to face the window, looking neither at Fain nor at the woman who lay on the bed. He could not blame her.

  The candlelight gave the illusion that muscles fluttered just beneath the smooth dead skin.

  He cupped a handful of glittery blue sand and began spilling it in a curving line as he walked around the bed. He next took a handful of red and retraced his steps. He was interested to see that the two paths of dribbled sand twisted in and out together in the beginnings of some intricate design. It made no sense to Fain; he was making it up as he went along. Still, he was pleased with the way it looked. For the hell of it he threw in a little hand magic and made the powders appear to spill from midair. A little showmanship never hurt.

  He did not even try to remember the complicated patterns the fat houngan had shown him there in the shed. There was a different cryptic pattern to go along with each phase of the voodoo ritual, but Fain had neither copied the designs nor made any effort to memorize them. The effect was all he wanted. He felt a surge of exhilaration now as the sand patterns grew, seemingly of their own volition, under his moving hand. Hell, this was easy.