9:52 P.M.
Avery was nodding before the fire in his library, books at his feet, more in his lap, when a slight shift of attitude allowed one of the volumes he was holding to fall to the floor. He woke up with a leaden lifting of his head, yawned until his jaws popped, stared at the flames.
He felt watched. He looked back over one shoulder.
Gillian was standing in the doorway, shirttail hanging frayed, legs bare. She was drinking from a quart container of milk.
“Hello, Gillian.”
“Daddy.” She ambled toward him and flopped on the carpet with her back to the fire, crossed her legs, finished drinking. “Um. Nothing tastes good to me anymore but cold milk. My second quart today.”
“Highly nourishing.”
“But constipating. What are you reading?” Gillian picked up the book that had dropped, losing some of its pages. “Demonic possession? The pages are like dried blades of grass. Must be two hundred years old.”
Avery studied her.
“The facts, such as they are, never seem to change.”
Gillian wrinkled her nose to indicate disinterest and put Demonic Magick and Pacts aside.
“Gillian, I think it’s only fair to tell you that I was in your room late this afternoon.”
She leaned forward, arms crossed on her knees.
“You found a key?”
“I picked the lock.”
“Mother with you?”
“Yes.”
Gillian laughed, but she wasn’t in a particularly rosy humor.
“Her idea, then. Was she very, very sorry?”
“I expect she’ll recover. Katharine has a remarkable resiliency.”
“What did you tell her?”
“The truth of your situation, as I saw it.”
Gillian glanced at the work on demonology.
“The truth isn’t in there, Daddy. It’s a—different sort of thing altogether.”
“Will you explain?”
She was silent for so long Avery thought she intended to ignore him. Then she stretched out at his feet, gazed unwinkingly at the fire. “Something went wrong with me in the hospital,” she said. “The high fever might have caused it. Skipper says some of us Come Through the hard way, after an accident, or a severe shock of some kind. But he didn’t have to Come Through, he could always Visit, he didn’t fall out for a while, like I did. When I was three and a half, four years old, I began to lose my … Visiting privileges, and I lost track of Skipper. Now I have to learn to Visit all over again. It’s like learning to swim in heavy surf. Scary sometimes. There are things—not in this world but just outside it, like shadows on a window, oh God!—but Visiting gets a little easier every time I try it.”
“Who is Skipper?”
“I had a puppet by that name which sort of looked like him; for a while after he was born he hated Robin, he thought it was a dumb girl’s name.”
“Robin, or perhaps—Robbie?”
“Sometimes I called him Robbie.” Gillian was delighted. “Do you remember?”
“It wasn’t so long ago. There was always a place at your tea parties for Robbie. We had to be very careful where we walked so we wouldn’t accidentally step on him. Now Robbie has—come back, has he?”
“I know what you think. I am not nuts! I was one of twins, Dad. The other one died in the womb before delivery, so Robin and I couldn’t be together like we planned. But he is alive, and real, I swear it! And he’s the only one who can help me.” Gillian sat up shaking her head. “I’ll do what he wants,” she said quietly and desperately. “Whatever he wants, if he’ll only tell me how to—control myself. He can do incredible things, turn it on and off at …”
“Gilly, where’s Robin now?”
“In the flesh? I don’t know. He just Visits when he has the time and, feels like it. And sometimes he talks to me, from a long way off. Tells me to meet him in one of the places where we used to play.”
“Like the stables at the Bedford farm?”
“That was one of our favorite places. I waited and waited, but no Robin. It isn’t funny, we’re not playing hide-and-seek any more. He can be mean sometimes! I love him, but he’s really changed. Maybe he can’t help himself. I think something really bad is happening to him. No, he wouldn’t hurt me, but he could do something really stupid, like have me wait for him in a place where I can’t defend myself; I could get in such horrible trouble I might not ever make it back all the way.”
Gillian got up, one hand casually worked into her long hair, and took a meditative turn around the library.
“Why do you need his help?” Avery asked. “What is it you’re so afraid of, Gillian?” A few moments later he said again, softly: “Gillian?”
“Oh, I’m sorry! I thought I heard—”
“Is Robin here?”
Her jaw muscles were knotted. “No.”
Gillian came over and sat on a padded arm of her father’s big chair. She was careful not to touch any part of his body with her own. She made a couple of torturous false starts before she was able to continue in a low, tired voice.
“Have you heard about a woman named McCurdy?”
“I don’t think so.”
“They hushed it up, then. She was on my floor of the hospital. A little hard on the nerves, but she—meant well, actually. She’d had surgery. Something to do with her legs. The night before I was supposed to come home I was desperately bored, almost berserk. Because I didn’t have anything else to do I went down the hall to Mrs. McCurdy’s room. That I remember pretty well; it was stuffy hot in there, she had a vaporizer going. I wanted to turn and walk right out, but she was awake and heard me. She asked me to sit on the bed and keep her company. I must have held her hand; yes, I’m sure I did, it happened while I was holding on to her. Maybe it’s called a ‘vision.’ For me it’s like looking at part of a movie. Now I don’t remember what it was all about, but I still feel how badly hurt she was after so many years. She never forgave her father, never. I hated him too. It poured out of me and into Mrs. McCurdy. The hating. That’s when she began to bleed. To death, to death, to death. God damn me. I killed her.”
Gillian’s hands fumbled helplessly for the solace she couldn’t seek from him; her head was low. Avery wanted to touch the tender exposed nape of her neck, but a powerful instinct weighted his hand.
“Gillian, she could accidentally have torn loose her sutures. I know there has to be a sound medical explanation for what happened to Mrs. McCurdy; and I’ll find out—”
“No. No other explanation. Robin says—it’s us. But he doesn’t think it’s so tragic. He didn’t seem to care when I told him about Mrs. McCurdy.”
“Do you remember what happened to you after you left her room?”
“Yes. No. Part of it, I think. Faces. A priest. He seemed to know what I’d done. Blood all over me. He was kind. He helped me. Told me I should get away from there. I wanted to go with him, but he was in some kind of trouble. Said he’d come to see me. I’d like to talk to him, get it all straight.”
“Gillian, a priest was shot and killed at the hospital, not long before Mrs. Busk found you sitting in the street.”
She looked up, nerves pulled so tight she couldn’t shed a tear. “That’s it, then, why he hasn’t come.”
“But I want so very much to help you. And I don’t know how.”
The water is bloodied. Katharine, are you hurt?
I’m just h-having my p-period.
After two years of menopause?
“Daddy?”
“Yes, Gillian?”
“I’d like to kiss you. A—a kiss couldn’t do any harm.”
Avery smiled gallantly. “I can’t imagine that it would.”
Eyes big with apprehension, she touched her lips precariously to his forehead.
“It’s obvious how worried you are. Now I almost wish I hadn’t told you. But I knew you’d make the effort to understand, you’ve seen some amazing things. That holy man in India who duplicates the
miracles of Christ. Of course Robin can do the same. More. He doesn’t really have a Messiah complex, though.”
“Gillian, if you don’t trust Robin, how can you believe what he tells you? Are you convinced he won’t hurt you?”
“I never said I don’t trust him. Sometimes I’m just a little afraid. He’s always been reckless. He plays hard. He thinks he’ll become more and more powerful, and that nothing can ever go wrong.” She picked glumly at her underlip. “I do trust him,” she said after a few moments. “But then what other choice do I have?”
“Another guide. If we could find one for you. Someone with the wisdom and experience that Robin seems to lack.”
“Okay. Maybe.” Gillian was apprehensive again. “But I wouldn’t want Robin to find out and be mad at me. Oh, that wouldn’t be so good.”
“I’ll have to look up some people who may be difficult to find. We’ll talk more about it in a day or two.”
10:40 P.M.
Gillian shampooed her hair in the wash bowl while warm water filled the tub. The FM radio speaker in the bathroom was playing softly: Judy Collins, then a medley of Kristofferson hits, performed by the non-singing Kris himself. She fluffed her hair with a towel, and avoided looking directly at herself in the mirror. She knew she had a bad color. There were too many bruises, and too many gawky ribs showing. She yearned for the terrace of the family getaway pad high above Acapulco bay, a terrace built to catch the sun all day long, and she had a taste for all those crisp and fattening Mexican specialties that came from Magdalena’s kitchen. She was tired, just hurting tired from trying to please Robin on one plane or another. He had the stamina of a hunted fox and an endless fancy for rough initiation jokes.
When she dropped the towel from around her waist and turned to step into the tub she discovered, at the last possible moment, that the water was now scalding hot.
Gillian wanted to cry, scream, smash something, preferably Robin’s freckled nose. He didn’t show himself; maybe it was just too much trouble. But he was there. She choked down most, but not all of her resentment.
“I don’t like what you did to my cat, either,” she said, then held her head high and waited, gently rubbing a breast that had taken too much abuse lately.
THURSDAY, JANUARY 6 12:16 A.M.
Katharine was sighing and weeping in the dark; Avery heard her before he opened the door to his room. The room was quite cold, she had dropped the thermostat very low. The lamp he turned on shone directly in her face and she flinched as if shot, eyes closing in pain. Katharine was sitting in a padded rocking chair. She’d put on one of his robes; only the tips of her toes showed beneath the hem, and they were lined up in a tight little row.
“What is it?” Avery said, crossing the room to light another lamp.
He glanced at the bed and saw where she’d been sleeping. He stared mindlessly.
“Oh, my dear,” Avery said. “Oh, oh, my dear—”
“It stopped, finally. Used a big towel. Stopped it.”
“Oh, my—”
“Don’t, Avery. God knows couldn’t b-b-b----bad as it looks. Big heartbeat. Slowing down now. I’m weak, that’s all.”
He came back to her.
“Could you dress yourself? Walk?”
“But I won’t. No hospital. Staying here. Gillian—needs me. Don’t call anybody. I won’t go.”
“Gillian’s all right, I talked to her only a couple of hours ago. I was thinking … just as far as Min’s house tonight. Would you spend the night there?”
“Why?”
“At Min’s I don’t think you’ll be in danger of—sudden hemorrhages like this one.”
“And how do you know that?”
“Gillian claims that she can cause such bleeding by proximity. But if you remove yourself, even fifty feet from—”
“What sick nightmare have you dreamed up this time? Do you have my daughter believing she’s a vampire?”
“You’re not thinking clearly, Katharine; you’ve lost a great deal of—move to Min’s, please, for the remainder of the night.”
“No!”
“If you don’t go, and right away, I’ll call Parker Hansel. You know the course of action he will surely take.”
“Where is Gillian now?” Katharine demanded.
“In her room.”
“All of Gilly?” she said, with a dreadful smile.
“I can’t be absolutely certain. The door has been locked again. A little while ago I was certain I heard—voices behind the door. I did talk to her this evening, in the library. There’s so little I can tell you now. Gillian’s problems seem to involve a rather unique case of possession. But the tragedy that is threatening each of us is beyond the scope of any nightmare. We will need all of our wits to survive; our strength. Bear this in mind: Gillian loves us. She means us no harm. May I pack some things for you, Katharine?”
She had begun to rock herself, self-absorbed as a child; her mouth shaped words which she kept to herself. There was a humming sound in her throat, and her eyes were busy, as if they were following the bouncing ball in an old one-reel sing-along, following tenaciously in the dark theatre of her mind, following even to oblivion.
Then, suddenly, her head snapped up: her long throat was taut with terror.
“It’s started again,” Katharine said, and she broke into tears.
2:10 A.M.
In his deep seat in the library Avery faced the ashes of his fire. He was almost too weary to keep his eyes open.
There were several phone numbers scratched on the pad which he held in his lap; he’d been phoning for more than an hour, trying to track down two colleagues he thought might have the information he required. One, on a field trip, was completely out of reach. The other, Richardson, he’d located after awakening a considerable segment of academic London. But Richardson had provided a name, and a number to try in New York.
For several minutes now Avery had been holding the receiver of the phone on his right shoulder, checking occasionally to be sure that the line was still open. He heard nothing but the sounds of his own cabinet clock. Time seemed to pass more quickly late at night when time alone claimed his attention: when he was feeling his years the seconds had a cruel velocity. But Katharine was safe, tucked away in his mother’s bed next door on Sutton Mews. Min’s elderly Scots houseman probably thought they’d had a violent quarrel. It didn’t matter what he thought. As Avery had anticipated, the dangerous bleeding stopped almost as soon as Katharine left her own house. He hoped she was asleep now. Avery had instructed the houseman to look in often, but he was not to bother Katharine unless something seemed wrong.…
“Hello?” A sleepy, possibly irate man, whose help Avery desperately needed.
Avery stirred and took a deep breath and resumed with the telephone.
“I realize it’s a very late hour,” he said. “Thank you for taking my call.”
Then he listened for a long time, making no comment, lines deepening in his forehead, until the man at the other end of the line ran out of breath.
Finally Avery had his chance to speak.
“Yes,” he said, “that is quite a remarkable coincidence, Dr. Roth.”
Fifteen
FRIDAY, JANUARY 6
Hester’s new friends, the Bundys, had decided on Vanilla Creme for the bedroom and a lustier color for the living room, called Fiesta Red, which went well with the heavy Mexican furniture and earthy artifacts they’d collected while living in semiretirement in Cuernavaca. Also, Meg swore, it was the exact shade of the dress she’d worn for the climactic zocalo number in Holiday in Guadalajara, their last film for MGM in 1952. Miles disagreed, provoking a spirited dust-up, which Miles attempted to settle Friday afternoon by borrowing a 16-millimeter print from a collector and screening it on a dirty wall of their new living room.
Hester enjoyed the gaudy and corny movie, which was slightly older than she was. Jane Powell was adorable and Red Skelton had some delicious business, like the taco eating contest with the
little Mex boy who turned out to be triplets. The dancing, by petite Vera-Ellen and the Bundys, was spectacular, although the back-lot sets didn’t look much like the Guadalajara Hester had toured three summers ago.
Meg’s disputed dress was almost, but not quite, the shade she recalled. Meg blamed deterioration of the negative and a bad print. Miles, aglow with gin-fired nostalgia, conceded peaceably, and they all got back to the decorating.
Hester had volunteered to paint the bathroom, not much of a chore for her: she was speedy and efficient. Meg tackled the living room in more leisurely fashion. Miles, for his part, moved furniture, stirred paint, drank more gin and ambled around in jeans and shoddy sneakers while he reminisced in hilarious fashion. Hester dropped her brush more than once in the throes of a giggling fit. The Bundys certainly had had a lot of fun during those last golden years of the old Hollywood, before TV and the bitterness and paranoia generated by the witch hunts all but destroyed the place.
At six o’clock Miles went out for Chinese food. Hester and Meg cleaned up, opened more windows to dilute the paint fumes and sprawled on cushions in the living room.
Meg was, had to be, in her middle fifties, the farmer’s daughter gone silver-gray but still in robust good health and with a damn fine figure; there was just the nicest hint of earth mother about Meg. Miles was as dapper and California recherché as he looked in all the bygone flicks. They’d danced every day together, for the fun of it, they thought, while operating their modest dance-and-drama school in ’Vaca. Neither expected to appear professionally again, in movies or elsewhere. But a recent successful pastiche of glorious moments from the classic MGM musicals had featured them; suddenly they were in demand, sought by those promoters and packagers waxing fat off candyland camp. So the project they’d settled on was a funny-sentimental salute to the postwar film capital, scheduled to go into rehearsals in February. And here they were back in New York after a quarter of a century, loving every minute of their new adventure. Already they’d been to Roseland twice, just kicking up their heels.
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