by Steven Brust
“What is it?” she said.
I stood there, unable to answer. It is one thing to know that I can circumvent the police, quite another to expect Susan to do so; particularly when she didn’t even know they were there.
So, what to do?
I stood there for what seemed like forever, trying to think of a way out of this, while Susan said, “Jonathan? What is it? Are you all right?” I could change my mind about showing her the house. I played that conversation over in my mind and decided against it. I could tell her we had to sneak in, and then explain that … no.
I shook my head and said, “It’s nothing, love. A thought just came to me, but it doesn’t matter.”
When there are no easy ways, you take the hard way, right? Right.
I pulled up the hood of my parka and approached the rust brown ’89 Plymouth from behind, and after telling Susan I had to ask these gentlemen something, I put my head next to the passenger door and rapped on the glass. Two men were in it, both seemed to be in their early thirties. Maybe taxi drivers turn into policemen in their middle years. They looked at me. One was dark and had a fleshy face with a high nose, the other had short, light-colored hair, blue eyes, a fair complexion, and a pointed chin.
He rolled down the window, started to ask what I wanted, then turned his head quickly to glance at the sketch on the clipboard on the seat between them.
That was as far as he got before he fell asleep. His partner actually reached into his coat before slumping forward against the steering wheel, and my knees were shaking.
When I turned around, Susan was standing right behind me, staring at them. “What happened? Should we call an ambulance?”
I looked her in the eye. “Nothing happened.”
“But—”
“Nothing happened. We just walked by this car, not even stopping, and we never looked through the window. Nothing happened.”
“Nothing happened,” she repeated dully.
We took two steps toward the house and I said, “Snap out of it, Susan.”
“Huh, what?”
“You were daydreaming.”
“Oh. Hmmm. Maybe I’m short on sleep.”
“Could be. You can sleep at the house, if you want to.”
“How much farther is it?”
“We’re here.”
“This place?”
“Is something wrong?”
“No, it’s beautiful. When was it built?”
“I don’t know. Late nineteenth century, I think.”
She looked at it, studying as well as she could in the relative dark; the nearest streetlight is half a block away. She said, “I’d like to see it in the daylight. How far around does the porch go?”
“About halfway.”
“Is that window stained—hey, you haven’t shoveled the walk.”
“Sorry.”
“No, I mean, why aren’t there any tracks?”
“I usually leave by the back door, but I wanted you to see the front.”
“Oh. Why is there orange tape across the door?”
“Don’t ask. Go under it.”
I tried the knob and said, “That’s right. It’s locked. Wait here and I’ll let you in. Shan’t be a minute.”
“‘Crime Site’?” she read from the tape.
“Don’t ask,” I repeated.
“All right.”
I slipped inside, turned on the one working light in the living room, and let her in. She stepped into the entryway and said, “Jonathan, this is splendid.”
“Thanks. Rent-free, too.”
“It is?” She stared.
“Well, officially no one lives here.”
“You mean you—”
“Right.”
“Why?”
I shrugged. “Easier this way.”
“Who owns it?”
“A professor at Twain. Carpenter.”
“French Lit?”
“Right.”
“Does he know you’re living here?”
“I keep forgetting to look him up and tell him.”
She shook her head, puzzled, I guess, and looked at the woodwork that was there, the woodwork that had been removed, the stained glass, the floors, the high ceilings. She looked back at me to say something, then frowned. “Jonathan, are you all right?”
“Why do you ask?”
“I don’t know; you look ill.”
“I’m feeling a little shaky, but it’s all right.”
“Are you certain?”
I nodded. About then, Jim came down the stairs, noticed the light, and said, “Won’t the police notice if you leave that on in here?”
I shook my head.
Susan said, “That’s funny.”
“What?”
“I don’t know. I thought for a minute … Jonathan, is this place haunted?”
“Not unpleasantly so. I didn’t know you believed in ghosts.”
“I’m not sure that I do,” she said. “But …” Her voice trailed off into silence.
“Come on, let’s look at the rest of the house.”
“Yes, let’s.”
I showed her the rest of the house. She made several comments to the effect that it didn’t look lived in, and several more about the fixtures (she seemed especially delighted that the old gas lamps were still in place, even though there was no gas coming through the pipes), but most of her discussion was about how she would fix it up. She spoke of Victorian-style furnishings without the Victorian love of clutter; of the painting that would go above the fireplace, of William Morris wallpaper.
She was enchanted with the kitchen, and spoke of cooking some crepes. I smiled noncommittally and mumbled something. She said, “You don’t have a refrigerator.”
“No, but isn’t the stove clean?”
“You don’t cook much, do you?”
“I must admit I’ve never really learned how.”
“I’ll teach you,” she said. “But you’ll have to get a refrigerator.”
She tsked at the shape the basement was in, and spoke of finishing it, while I went over in my mind some of the practical considerations of the two of us traveling together. Funny I hadn’t thought of any of this before. What’s in the trunk, dear? Oh, nothing important. And, Where are you going, darling? Oh, I’ll be gone again until this evening. Looked at that way, the whole thing was absurd.
The answer was simple enough. All I had to do was tell her—let her know. Hand her a silvered mirror and say, “What’s wrong with this picture?”
I wasn’t certain I could do it.
I discovered that I was trembling slightly, and decided that my mood and my thoughts were probably the aftereffects of my condition; dealing with the cops had, as Susan noticed, left me pretty shaken. But there was no good way to solve that just then. I knew I was going to have to before tomorrow midnight, when I intended to perform the ritual to break myself from Kellem, but I had time.
When I showed her the upstairs, she lit on the typewriting machine at once, saying, “Good heavens. Does it work?”
“Yes, I’ve been using it.”
“For what?”
“For writing love poems to you.”
She smiled, her eyes very wide. “Not really.”
I shrugged with my eyebrows and smiled back with my lips.
She said, “May I see them?”
“Maybe. Let me work up the courage, first.”
I showed her the rest of the upstairs. She loved the L-shaped master bedroom and library combination, with its own fireplace, and asked why I didn’t have my bed in there. I said, “I can’t sleep far off the ground.”
She said, “Where do you sleep?”
“In the basement.”
“Really? Isn’t it uncomfortable?”
“Not terribly. I’ll show you later.”
“All right. What’s this?”
“Linen closet.”
“Oh. Why is it empty?”
“Why keep things up here when I sleep in the
basement?”
“That makes sense. You must kiss me now.”
“All right, there.”
“You must always kiss me when we pass the linen closet; it’s an old Roman custom I just invented.”
“And a good one.”
“Why is that wall shaped so funny?”
“The chimney is behind it.”
“But the fireplace is on the other side.”
“The master-bedroom fireplace is, this is the chimney from downstairs.”
“Two chimneys?”
“Well, either they didn’t know how to connect two fireplaces to one chimney, or they just felt like having fireplaces on different sides of the house.”
“Conspicuous consumption.”
“Yes.”
“It’s grand.”
“Here’s the bathroom. It works, and there’s even toilet paper.”
“Good. Excuse me for a moment.”
Left to myself, I discovered that I had worked up the courage. I found my stack of manuscript and pulled out ten or eleven of the poems I’d written. I left two in the stack; one that I didn’t like much and another that I didn’t want her to see because, well, I don’t know. I had the pile of papers hidden again before she came out.
I handed the pages to her, and she said, “All of this? You wrote these for me?” She seemed inordinately pleased; it was almost embarrassing. “Can I read them now?”
“All right. The only comfortable chair is in the living room. I’m afraid it’s stained, but it shouldn’t come off.”
“All right.”
She went tripping down the stairs, my poems in her hand. I stayed in the typing room and took several deep breaths. While I was doing so, Jim came into the room.
I said, “Do you mind the company?”
“Not at all,” he said. “But I’m worried about the police.”
“Don’t. The two down the block are sleeping.”
He looked uncomfortable. “Are you sure there aren’t any more?”
“Well, no. I hope not.”
“Me, too. And what will happen when someone comes to investigate why they haven’t called in?”
“I’ll go turn the light off.”
“Yes,” he said.
I went down, and found that Susan was sitting in the chair, my poems in her lap, and there were tears on her cheeks. I stood over her and kissed her forehead.
She looked at me, her eyes so bright and shimmering with tears, and held up the pages as if she wanted to say something, then set them down, shaking her head slowly. If this is all the critical acclaim I ever get, it is enough. “Sleep now, my love,” I said.
She nodded. I turned off the light, then came back to the typewriting machine. Jim wasn’t in the room, so I have taken the opportunity to set it all down. I’m not certain what to do now. I cannot risk taking Susan out of here, so perhaps it would be best if she slept with me, which, after all, she did ask about once. I will keep her sleeping, because I feel no need to shock her in that way, but it will be pleasant to rest with her in my arms, though she knows it not. Perhaps she will dream of it, and we will share the joy that way.
SIXTEEN
innocent adj. 1. Uncorrupted by evil, malice, or wrongdoing; sinless; untainted; pure: as innocent of evil as a child. 2.a. Not guilty of a specific crime; legally blameless: found innocent of all charges. b. Not responsible for or guilty of something wrong or unethical; not to be accused: innocent of negligence … n. 1. A person who is free or relatively free of evil or sin; one who is pure or uncorrupted. 2. A simple, guileless, inexperienced, or unsophisticated person; one who is vulnerable or credulous.
AMERICAN HERITAGE DICTIONARY
The new moon, as I look out through the slats, is a spot of darkness near the western horizon, and only barely visible even to me. Susan sleeps once more. There is no reason for her to be awake.
Yesterday, while she slept deeply, I carried her downstairs and took her with me while I rested. I had never done that—actually slept with a lover in my arms, and I felt such a tenderness that I thought my heart would break.
We slept undisturbed, and I had no dreams, although perhaps Susan did. We began to wake at almost the same moment. Her eyes fluttered open and she looked into my own. Confusion came over her brow, so I smoothed it by kissing her.
“Where are we?” she said.
“In my bed.”
“But it is so dark. It feels—”
“Hush, my love.”
I kissed her again. The kiss became intense, and at last weakness and urgency conspired against me. She moaned softly and held me close, and it came to me that I was killing her.
I stopped abruptly and looked at her; she was very pale, and seemed to have some trouble breathing. I cursed myself silently, rose, brought her up to the parlor, and set her in the chair. She appeared to be very pale, her breath was coming in ragged gasps.
I am glad I did not kill her; sorry I came so close.
Still, it gave me what I needed; I feel ready for whatever midnight will bring.
Jim was standing next to the chair, watching me. He made no comment.
I said, “Any more police?”
“No.”
“Good.”
“Are you going to do it?”
“Break away from Kellem? Yes. In just about three hours.”
“Do you think it will work?”
“I hope so.”
I returned to my typewriting sanctuary to try to finish memorizing the procedure, which I will be about as soon as I am done
Kellem is either one step ahead of me, or one step behind; soon I will learn which it is. As I was typing merrily away, there were police pulling up outside the house. Jim came and informed me of this.
I slipped outside to see for myself. The police are everywhere. I saw neighbors peering through windows down the street, and others, including Bill and his wife, standing staring at my house.
And there was a van that bore the inscription “WBBM Mobile News.” Apparently the news people still aren’t certain of anything, because, as I watched, the van drove away.
It was tricky, getting close enough to hear what the police were up to, but I did, and I don’t like what I learned. They are waiting for something they called the “Tac Group,” which sounds ominous. And eventually I learned why they are there, and what they are going to do.
Someone told them that, hidden in this very house, lived the man who had killed a certain Philip Hansen. It took me a bit longer to learn that Philip Hansen had been the night editor for the Plainsman.
I have a guess who told them, too.
Laura Kellem, damn you to hell.
The worst of it is that they saw the light on in the typing room, and, as I understand it, someone even got a glimpse of me in the living room, using some sort of modern binoculars, so they know I’m here. Certainly I can slip past them as often as I want, but Susan cannot; and neither can I bring my luggage with me. Traveling without it will be inconvenient at best. I’ve had to do such things before, and I didn’t like it.
I must consider how to get Susan out of here. Hiding in my alcove is all well and good, but if they know I am somewhere in the house, and they search thoroughly, they could certainly find her.
The easiest thing, I guess, will be to explain the situation to her, and have her convince the police that I was holding her against her will. They will still wonder how I could have gotten past them, but that is hardly my problem. Let them wonder.
I am not looking forward to explaining this to Susan.
I found the cop in charge, a fat man with graying hair who I’d have thought was too short to be a policeman. He and his cohorts were trying to decide if they should go in when the “Tac Group” arrived, or wait until morning, when there was less chance of “a negative incident,” which I took to mean a neighbor getting shot. They spoke of evacuating the nearby houses.
I exerted a little influence, and I think they will wait until morning, by which time I will
be gone.
Morning, however, is still many hours away; and the time until midnight is growing short. I must not allow myself to be distracted. First, I will break free of Kellem, then worry about the next step.
I have gathered together everything I will need, including the chefs knife; now I have little to do except record what has happened and wait for midnight.
I still have over an hour to wait, and the time is passing with agonizing slowness. Every few minutes I stop and pick up this paper on which I have scrawled the steps of the spell I am to perform, so that, when the time comes, I will have it firmly in mind, and so that I need not stop to read, but can proceed smoothly from memory. The old woman said that would help.
After all of this, it would be the ultimate irony if I have allowed myself to be fooled by the cigány—if the instructions on this paper are meaningless.
Yet, I think they are not. There is Jill’s example, and what I read corresponds to what I remember.
Speculation is pointless. Soon I will know.
I have run out of things to say; the time for action approaches.
I went down once more to check on all of the items for the ritual and to stretch my legs. Jim was there, looking out the window. He said, “They might try to come in.”
“Not likely,” I said.
“Oh?”
“Trust me.”
He nodded.
Susan was looking maybe a little better. She stirred as I watched her and called my name. I shivered, though I cannot name the emotion that evoked the shiver.
I knelt beside her and said, “I am here, my love.”
Her eyes opened and she smiled, weakly. “I don’t feel—I have had the oddest dreams, Jonathan.” Her voice was very soft, and though she was breathing easier than she had earlier, it still seemed to take some effort.
Still kneeling, I took her hand. It was not as warm as it usually is, and I silently cursed myself for bringing her to this state.
“It’s the house, my love. It brings bad dreams.”
She nodded and brought my hand to her cheek. Then she squinted, staring over my shoulder, and said, “Who is that?”