Flesh and Blood

by James Neal Harvey

  The elevator rose without stopping and deposited him on the twenty-second floor, and when he entered the hallway, it was deserted.

  There were four apartment doors up here; he located the one marked B. Using the tools on the lock in that door was out of the question; he knew she’d also have a dead bolt on the inside. Instead, he went to the door leading into the emergency stairway and stepped through onto the landing. Wedging the door open a crack with a matchbook, he kept his eye on the entrance to her apartment.

  As he stood there, he pulled the scarf up over his nose and mouth, to a point just under the dark glasses. His face was now entirely obscured. Then he took a pair of rubber gloves out of his topcoat pocket and drew them on.

  Lastly, he got out the Browning semiautomatic and jacked a shell into the chamber. He put the pistol back into his pocket, keeping his right hand curled around the grip.

  For more than forty minutes, he hardly moved, his gaze fixed on the apartment door. During that time, no one else set foot in the hallway, which was understandable in the middle of the day; most tenants would be in their places of business now—except for a few like the old lady who’d been chatting with the doorman.

  And Jessica Silk.

  The air in the stairwell was warm and sweat was trickling from his armpits and running down his sides. He could feel his nerves tightening, his mouth getting dry. It was always like this; waiting was the hardest part.

  At last, he heard the sound of a bolt being thrown back. Moving quickly, he stepped out of the stairwell and went to the elevators, standing in front of the doors as if waiting for a car to arrive. Behind him, he heard her open her apartment door and close it again, heard her double-lock it before joining him at the elevators. He kept his head down, his hands in his pockets.

  Until she was beside him.

  Suddenly, he whirled toward her. He shoved the pistol into her face, holding the muzzle an inch from her nose.

  For an instant, he thought she might faint. Her knees sagged and she gasped, her eyes popping as she stared into the barrel.

  “You want to see God?” Orcus said.

  Her lips trembled; the color drained from her cheeks. Her voice was a whisper. “No.”

  “Then turn around and keep quiet. Go back to your door and open it. I’ll be right behind you. Make one wrong move and I’ll blow your fucking head off. You understand?”

  She nodded and walked unsteadily back to the door, fumbling in her purse and getting out a key ring.

  There was more fumbling, and Orcus realized her hands were shaking so much, she couldn’t get the key into the lock. He was about to snatch the key away from her when she finally managed to get the lock undone.

  He followed her into the apartment and closed the door behind them, shoving the bolt home. Nudging her ahead of him with the Browning, he moved with her through the foyer and into the living room.

  She turned to face him. Her face was white and her lips continued to tremble. She was wearing a tan cashmere coat that only partly disguised her lush figure, holding on to the purse with both hands. Her hazel eyes were full of fear.

  “What do you want?”

  “You.”

  She began backing away. “No. No—get out.”

  He raised the pistol once more, pointing it at her face.

  “No—please.” She stopped moving. “Oh, Jesus, please don’t.”

  “Do exactly what I tell you, or I’ll kill you.”

  “All right, I will. I’ll do anything you say.”

  “That’s better.” He glanced around the room. The furniture was modern, all done in pale leather, and there was a bar with bottles and decanters standing on it. Across from him, covering the entire east wall, was a bank of windows. The drapes were open, revealing a terrace with a view of Roosevelt Island and the river.

  He indicated a nearby sofa. “Get over there.”

  She went to it, standing beside the sofa and looking back at him apprehensively.

  “Drop your purse on the floor,” he ordered. “And take off your coat. Put that on the floor, too.”

  She complied, again looking at him.

  “Now your shoes and your panty hose.”

  “Listen, couldn’t we—”

  “Do it.”

  She glanced at the pistol and her shoulders slumped. Resignedly, she kicked off her shoes, then turned away from him and began hauling down the panty hose. She had on a simple blue dress, no jewelry. She steadied herself by holding on to the sofa, and when she got the garment off, she dropped it beside her coat and purse.

  Orcus gestured with the pistol. “Lie down.”

  She did, looking up at him from the sofa, her eyes wide.

  He shoved the pistol into his coat pocket, unbuttoned the coat and unzipped his fly, then dropped his pants.

  It was over in seconds. He pulled up her dress and spread her legs, then rammed himself into her, not caring that her passage was dry, that there was no response from her whatever.

  Afterward, he lay atop her for a few moments, breathing hard, before he withdrew and stood up. Silk continued to stare at him as he rearranged his clothing.

  “Get up,” he said. “Put your stuff back on.”

  “Then will you go? I promise I won’t tell anybody, or anything.”

  “Sure.”

  She moved slowly, cautiously, as if hurrying would cause him to change his mind. Retrieving her panty hose from the floor, she sat on the sofa and put them on. Now she avoided his gaze, and he knew that was because she was praying he’d simply get out, that he’d leave her alone.

  He waited until she got her shoes back on and stood up and then he took a half step to the side, which put him behind her.

  As quickly as a darting snake, he slipped his arms under hers and gripped the back of her head with both hands. She tried to cry out, but the sound was little more than a choking gurgle as he heaved downward with all his strength.

  Her neck broke with a sharp crack.

  She collapsed, instantly limp. He let go and stepped back and her body fell to the floor in a heap. Her hands and feet twitched convulsively for a few moments and then were still. She was lying on her belly, with her head at an odd angle, and he could see her right eye open and staring, froth forming on her lips.

  Bending down, he picked up her purse and sat on the sofa. He pulled the scarf down to make breathing easier, then went through the contents of the purse.

  What he found was an assortment of the usual junk women carried: a wallet with a change compartment, lipstick, mirror, eyebrow pencil, a book of stamps, ticket stubs from a movie theater, a package of cigarettes, a silver lighter engraved with the initials JS, a package of Kleenex, a leather-bound address book, a ballpoint.

  There was also what he was looking for: a plain white letter-sized envelope. He opened the envelope and took out a single glossy photograph.

  The photo was in sharp focus, with bright colors and excellent detail—altogether, an admirable piece of work. He wondered how Silk had gotten it. Certainly it was worth the hundred grand she was asking for it. And if the balance of the material was this good, her price was quite reasonable. In the long run, it would bring far more than the million the silly bitch had demanded for the whole works.

  He put the photo back into the envelope, then took Silk’s address book from her purse. Getting to his feet, he stuffed the envelope and the address book into his coat pocket, then began a systematic search of the apartment.

  It didn’t take long—just over an hour. In part, that was because there were only five rooms and in part because Orcus knew his business. He found Silk’s stash within the first few minutes. It was in a black leather attaché case that had been placed behind some pots and pans in one of the lower kitchen cabinets. He took the case into the living room and unlocked it with one of her keys.

  The collection was impressive. Museum quality, Orcus thought, smiling at his humor. There were dozens of photos, all in vivid color. Some were three-by-fives, others
were eight-by-tens—which was curious, and yet at the moment he couldn’t waste time trying to figure it out.

  The important thing was that he had the material. Now what he had to do was to make sure this was all of it and then finish his task and get out of here without being seen.

  He continued his search, poking through dresser drawers, looking under mattresses, exploring shelves, feeling garments, going through cabinets, and found nothing more of importance until he hit what appeared to be Silk’s study.

  There was an IBM PC on the desk. He switched it on, then called up her files. There were dozens of them, ranging from correspondence to Silk’s personal financial data. He checked every one, spending a few seconds with each, until he found the subject. The Cunningham story would print out to more than a hundred pages.

  Next he leafed through a box of diskettes, locating one labeled CC. He put that into the computer and looked at its contents. Satisfied it was a copy, he took it out of the machine and put it aside. Then he erased the original from the hard disc. When that was done, he switched off the machine.

  Her notebooks were lined up in a bookcase beside the desk. Three of them contained notes on Cunningham. He took those with him, along with the diskette.

  Returning to the living room, he put the materials into the attaché case and locked it. Her coat was still lying on the floor. He picked it up and hung it in the front-hall closet.

  He also noticed that a telephone on an end table was hooked up to an answering machine. Opening the machine, he took out the tape and pocketed it.

  Next, he went to the bar and poured himself three fingers of Scotch, knocking it back in one gulp. The whiskey burned like fire until it hit bottom, and then it spread soothing warmth through him.

  Now there was only the body to deal with.

  French doors led onto the terrace. He opened them and stepped outside. There was a lot of noise out here: the rumble of traffic from the FDR Drive, the bleat of horns, other distant sounds rising from the city. Also the wind was stiffer at this height. After drinking the whiskey and spending time in the apartment wearing his hat and coat, the air felt fresh and cool on his face.

  He went to the railing and looked down. There was some sort of low building directly behind the apartment house, abutting the rear wall. Its roof was green, probably corroded copper, about twenty floors below where he was standing.

  Perfect.

  Glancing quickly left and right, he was confident he wouldn’t be seen. He returned to the living room and picked up Silk’s body, heaving it onto his shoulder as if he was carrying a sack of flour. Stepping back out onto the terrace, he dumped the corpse over the railing.

  When he was again inside, he deliberately left the French doors ajar. Then he picked up the attaché case and left the apartment.

  Three minutes later, he stepped into the alley. He paused to strip off the rubber gloves and put them into his pocket, then walked out to the sidewalk and once more crossed Sutton Place. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the doorman standing in the street, waving for a taxi. The doorman paid no attention to him.

  Orcus strode along at his same unhurried pace, going west until he reached Second Avenue, where he stopped at another public phone. Again he called the number and again she answered on the first ring.

  “Done,” Orcus said.

  “You get everything?”

  “Yes.”

  “All smooth, no hitches?”

  There were times when she gave him a pain in the ass. “You think I’m an amateur?”

  “I just wanted to make sure it went all right.”

  “It did. Talk to you later.” He hung up.

  A heavy stream of traffic was moving south. Orcus stepped off the curb and hailed a taxi. He gave the driver an address and settled back on the seat, holding the attaché case on his lap.

  Did he get everything? Damn right he did. Including a little piece of Jessica Silk, which nobody had to know about.

  Oddly, that hadn’t been very satisfying. Not nearly as exciting as breaking her neck. Or throwing her off the terrace, seeing her body whirl down through the air and crash onto the roof far below, bursting red when it hit.

  That was real excitement. Thinking about it, Orcus again produced an erection. And behind the dark glasses, he smiled to himself as he recreated the scene in his mind.

  16

  Peggy Demarest took off her coat and hung it on the back of the door, then gave her sister a perfunctory kiss on the forehead before sitting down beside her.

  This was a gray day, raw and cold, and no one was walking on the paths that wound through the pine trees on the hospital grounds. Looking through the window, all Peggy saw was the leaden sky and the tree limbs bending under the force of the wind gusts. It made the visit seem even more depressing than usual. And Jan’s condition seem more hopeless.

  But she had to try. Dr. Chenoweth had given her his customary pep talk, urging her to keep up an agreeable line of chatter, as if Jan was eager to hear every word. “Some of it is bound to get through to her,” he’d said, “whether it appears to or not. Even if she doesn’t understand the words, conveying warmth and affection is what counts.”

  Still, it felt ridiculous, babbling away about nothing and getting no response—like talking to a statue. Jan looked like one, too, her skin the color of marble, except for the angry red scar on her cheek. As she did each time Peggy visited, Jan simply sat with her hands curled like claws in her lap, her head bent forward slightly, her eyes dull and vacant, giving no sign she was aware of Peggy’s presence or of anything else.

  And yet Peggy was expected to be cheerful? She felt more like crying.

  Nevertheless, she made a brave attempt. “Not so pleasant out there today, Jan. Cold, damp, and dreary. The wind’s out of the northeast, and you know what that means—a storm is coming. Supposed to rain by tonight. Good day to be right here inside, where it’s snug and warm.”

  No reaction. Not that Peggy had expected one.

  She went on: “We’ve been busy in the office. So many patients now, Dr. Friedman is planning to take in a partner. There are a couple of people he’s considering. One of them is a nice young guy who graduated from Tufts in June and wants to move down here. I hope he’s the one who joins us; he’s cute. Not that I’m getting bored with Don, far from it. We have some really good times together. He wants me to marry him, but I’m not so sure.”

  She paused, thinking about it. “Maybe I’m old-fashioned, but I’m a little hesitant, uncomfortable maybe, about the business he’s in. He sells cars. Did I tell you that? At Miller Chevrolet. That isn’t the most secure job in the world right now.”

  She paused again for a moment, seeing her boyfriend in her mind’s eye: carefree, happy-go-lucky Don.

  “That might seem like a terrible attitude,” she continued, “but I can’t help it. Look at all the problems Mom and Dad had—especially after he got laid off. All he did then was sit around and drink, with Mom yelling at him. The more she yelled, the more he drank. No wonder you couldn’t wait to get out of there. I couldn’t, either, but I wasn’t as gutsy as you. Took my kid sister to show the way. And then when Dad finally died, Mom was just about helpless. Married all those years, and look at how it ended. Mom having to sell the house, and living now in that dingy little apartment.”

  God, Peggy thought, what am I doing? This is supposed to be a happy visit, and listen to me. And even if it isn’t really happy, I have to sound as if it is.

  Taking a breath, she tried again. “I’m probably just being overcautious, right? Don’s a great guy and I love him—at least I think I do. He’s kind to me and generous, and just between you and me, he’s terrific in bed. He wants us to move in together, sort of a trial marriage. Maybe I’ll do it. Certainly that’d be better than going through the formalities and then finding out you’ve made an awful mistake. Remember Sally Dawkins? Jed Halaby got her pregnant and married her, and it only lasted a little over a year. Jed was really mean. He’s in som
e kind of trouble with the law now, too.”

  Damn, she thought. There I go again.

  “Speaking of cars, my Toyota’s been giving me fits. First the front end developed a shimmy and then the transmission needed overhauling. Don says that’s what you have to expect from Japanese cars, that they’re all shit. But he’s prejudiced, right? Maybe I should get a new one, especially now that Dr. Friedman’s given me a raise. I don’t want to be foolish, and yet it’s dumb to keep this one if I have to be pouring money into it.”

  Peggy looked at her sister. In all this time, she thought, with me going on like an idiot, she hasn’t given the slightest sign she’s heard a word. I wonder if Dr. Chenoweth is having pipe dreams or if he’s just telling me to do this because it’s something that’ll give me hope. Keep me occupied, believing I’m doing some good. I might just as well recite the alphabet, or say nothing at all.

  Instantly, she felt ashamed. Come on, Peggy, she told herself. If there’s even the slightest chance it might help, you’ve got to give it your best effort. And anyway, in a few more minutes you’ve got to go back to work.

  Another thought occurred to her and she didn’t stop to weigh its negative implications before speaking. “One sad thing that’s happened, Jan. Senator Cunningham died. I know you thought a lot of him—I remember your talking about him when you worked at their place out here. He didn’t die there, though. He was in his house in New York when it happened. His heart gave out. Too bad, but it said on TV he was seventy-two. I didn’t realize he was that old. But still it’s tragic, isn’t it?”

  For an instant, she thought she’d imagined it. Or maybe the light coming through the window had changed slightly. But she could have sworn one of Jan’s eyes twitched—her right one. There seemed to be the merest flicker and then it was gone.

  Peggy leaned forward until her face was no more than a foot away from her sister’s blank counrenance. “Jan? Did you hear me, Jan?”